11
Southern Continent, PP 15.08.28–15.10.15
Saneter had never felt so ineffective, though since coming to Southern, Toric had given him a good deal of practice. The old harper fervently wished that Piemur was not somewhere tramping through the eastern wilds; that Sharra, who was always clever at diverting her older brother, was not who-knew-where nursing Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold. Only the previous day her bronze had arrived with a message reporting that she could not yet leave her patient. Toric had irritably demanded to know how long it took to recover from the disease.
The current catastrophe added insult to Toric’s list of aggravations. T’kul on Salth and B’zon on Ranilth were both missing from the Southern Weyr. The remaining dragons, despite their frailty, were creating the most dreadful din, making everyone uneasy and certainly exacerbating the volatile Southern holder. Furthermore, every fire-lizard in the hold had streaked off, just when Toric urgently needed one.
“How,” Toric demanded, kicking at the furniture in his workroom, “can I get word to Benden Weyr when there isn’t a fire-lizard to send?”
“They never fly off like that for very long,” Saneter suggested hopefully.
“Well, they’re gone now, and now is when I need to inform Benden of this development. It may be critical. Surely you realize that.” With a savage scowl, Toric kicked a chair out of his way. He whirled on the elderly harper, pointing a thick forefinger at him. “You must bear me witness in this! I had no means to send an urgent message, and that wretched journeyman is gone when I need him most! My hold may depend on informing Benden! How, Saneter? How?” Toric bellowed.
For one horrified second, Saneter heard an echo of that shout. Only it was not precisely an echo of Toric’s bellow. It was the sort of noise that lifted the hair on the back of the neck, the keening that Saneter was all too familiar with: dragons announcing the death of one of their kind.
“Who?” Toric demanded of the walls at the top of his voice. He wheeled to Saneter, then obviously remembered that the old harper was unable to run any errands and charged from the chamber in search of an answer.
Toric was halfway down the path between hold and Weyr when a bronze dragon, giving a consoling bugle, swooped in over his head to land before the Weyrhall. Toric did not recognize the rider when he stripped off helmet and flying gear and stood looking around him. The keening of the resident dragons, however, had dropped to a bearable moan, and the unfamiliar bronze changed his tone to something that sounded, even to Toric, like encouragement.
“Dragonrider, I’m Toric of Southern. Which dragon died?” The Southerner strode across the clearing, taking the measure of the older man. Despite his fury and frustration, Toric found some reassurance in the confident manner in which the dragonrider awaited him.
“D’ram, rider of Tiroth, formerly Weyrleader of Ista. F’lar has asked me to assume the leadership of Southern. Other young riders have volunteered to help and will arrive shortly.”
“Who died?” Toric demanded again, impatience getting the better of courtesy.
“Salth. Ranilth is badly spent but may recover. He and B’zon remain at Ista.” D’ram spoke with such deep sorrow that Toric felt the tacit rebuke.
“What happened?” he asked more politely. “We knew the bronzes were missing, but so,” he added through clenched teeth, “was every fire-lizard we could have sent to warn Benden.”
D’ram nodded acknowledgement of Toric’s quandary. “T’kul and B’zon brought their bronzes to Caylith’s mating flight, which had been thrown open to decide the new Istan Weyrleader. Salth burst his heart trying to fly the queen …” D’ram paused, terribly distraught, then sighed heavily and continued without meeting Toric’s eyes. “Having nothing to lose by it, T’kul challenged F’lar.”
“F’lar is dead?” Toric was appalled, seeing all he had worked so hard to obtain lost through more of T’kul’s stupidity.
“No, the Benden Weyrleader was the stronger. He mourns T’kul’s death as all dragonriders do.” D’ram gave Toric such a challenging look that Toric nodded in a gesture that was close to apology.
“I can’t say I’m sorry T’kul is dead,” Toric replied, though he was careful to speak with no heat, “or Salth. They’ve both run mad and uncontrolled ever since T’ron—and Fidranth—died.” Toric had struggled to recall T’ron’s dragon’s name. But he was rapidly realizing, and hoping, that F’lar’s appointment of a new Weyrleader heralded the changes he had so long sought: open commerce with the North, allowing his hold to expand as he had always planned.
Just then Mardra appeared, sobbing hysterically in a maudlin show of grief that disgusted Toric, who knew very well how often she had quarrelled with T’kul. He excused himself, telling D’ram that the Weyrleader had only to ask what he could do to assist him.
“There will be other dragonriders joining me here, both Oldtimers and those of this Pass. You will see the Weyr restored,” D’ram said with quiet confidence before he went to comfort Mardra.
Toric walked slowly back to his Hold, deep in thought about the implications of such a promise. Anything would be an improvement—just so long as it was not a hindrance. How was he to retrieve Sharra? How was he to contact Piemur? He needed the quick wit and solid Northern associations of that devious young man more than he had remotely appreciated. It was then that he noticed the return of the Hold’s fire-lizard population. But when his little queen tried to settle on his shoulder, chittering agitatedly about something, he was in no mood to heed her.
The cove that Piemur had heard so much about from Menolly and Master Robinton was every bit as beautiful as they had said. A perfect deep half-circle, with wide sandy beaches sloping slightly upward to meet the lush forests, trees and shrubs a riot of colorful blossom and leaf. Ripe fruit was evident on a half dozen trees. And he had seen no snakes, their absence due, no doubt, to the presence of Ruth, Jaxom’s dragon. A rough building was set well back in the shade, a well-trodden path leading to it from the shore. The water, ranging from a pale green to the deeper blue of greater depths, was deceptively pellucid, and the gentlest of waves rolled over the sand.
“So Sharra,” he said after the three had exchanged joyful greetings. “What is it that Meer, Talla, and Farli are trying to tell me? And where’s Ruth?”
“You’d better sit down, Piemur,” Sharra said gently.
Piemur stood stolidly on both feet, his expression belligerent. “I can hear it just as well standing!”
Sharra and Jaxom exchanged looks that spoke too loudly to Piemur of a well-developed understanding—and of something he was not going to like to hear.
“T’kul and B’zon tried to fly the Istan queen Caylith this morning,” Jaxom began. “Salth burst his heart, T’kul attacked F’lar—are you all right?” Piemur had sat down, very hard, his face ashen under the dark tan.
“F’lar’s alive, unhurt,” Sharra cried, going to Piemur’s side and slipping an arm about his shoulders. “B’zon and Ranilth will stay at Ista awhile.”
“D’ram is now Southern Weyrleader,” Jaxom added.
“Really?” Piemur’s color returned, and mischief glittered briefly in his eyes. “Toric’s going to love that. Another Oldtimer to deal with.”
“D’ram’s different,” Jaxom said encouragingly. “You’ll see.”
“Well, that’s not so bad. A change in the wind always helps.” Piemur glanced at Sharra to see if she had considered what the new development might mean to Toric’s ambitions, but the distress on her face had not lessened. He turned back to Jaxom. “And?”
“Master Robinton has had a heart attack!”
“That arrogant, addlepated, insufferably egotistical, altruistic know-it-all!” Piemur shouted, springing to his feet. “He thinks Pern won’t manage without his meddling, without him knowing everything that happens in every Hold and Hall on the entire planet, North and South! He won’t eat properly, he doesn’t rest enough, and he won’t let us help him even though we could probably do the same job even better than he can because we have more sense in our left toenails than he does.” He knew that Sharra and Jaxom were staring at him, but he could not stop. “He’s wasteful of his strength, he never listens to anyone, even when we try to get him to see sense, and he’s got this wild idea that only he, the Masterharper of Pern, has any idea of the destiny of Weyr, Hold, and Hall. Well, this serves him right. Maybe now he’ll listen. Maybe now …”
Tears came to Piemur’s eyes, and he stared from one to the other, begging them to say that it was all some kind of hideous joke. Sharra embraced him again, and Jaxom awkwardly patted his shoulder. Above him the fire-lizards chirruped in far too happy a tone. Piemur had not wanted to understand Farli. He had not let himself understand her.
“He’s all right,” Sharra was saying over and over, and he could feel her tears on his cheek. “He’ll be fine. Master Oldive’s with him and Lessa. Brekke’s just gone. Ruth insisted on taking her. And you know that Master Robinton will have to recover if both the Masterhealer and Brekke are attending him.”
Piemur felt Jaxom’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “The dragons, Piemur—the dragons wouldn’t let Master Robinton die!” Jaxom spaced his words out so that their sense would penetrate the young harper’s shock and fear. “The dragons wouldn’t let him die! He’s going to live. He’ll be fine. Really, Piemur, can’t you hear how happy the fire-lizards are?”
Piemur only believed in Master Robinton’s eventual recovery when the white dragon, Ruth, burst back into the clearing, his clarion bugle sending Stupid careening into the safety of the forest. Ruth was so eager to hearten Piemur that he ventured to nudge him gently with his white muzzle, a gesture of extreme affection, while the facets of his beautiful eyes whirled slowly with their reassuring green and blue.
“You know that Ruth can’t lie, Piemur,” Jaxom said earnestly. “He says Master Robinton’s resting easily, and he tells you that Brekke told him herself that he will recover. Mainly he needs rest.” Jaxom attempted a one-sided grin. “With every dragon on Pern watching him, he won’t get away with any of his usual tricks.”
Piemur had to concede that point. Gradually he began to relax and answer his friends’ questions about his travels. He did not mention Jayge and Ara, though with Master Robinton ill, he would have to confide in someone else. Sebell was the one most likely to assume the Mastery of the Harper Hall—he had long been trained to that onerous position. He would know all Master Robinton knew, and Piemur would have no hesitation about informing his Craftmaster friend—once everything had settled down again. For the time being, the secret of Jayge and Ara’s Paradise River Hold was safe enough.
In answer to Piemur’s questions, Jaxom explained how he had found the cove. The young dragonrider had first been to the cove when searching for D’ram who had stepped down from Weyrleadership of Ista after the death of his long-time weyrmate, Fanna, and disappeared. Later, delirious with the fire-head fever he had contracted on his first visit, Jaxom had directed Ruth to bring him back to the cove.
“It’s a beautiful enough spot,” Piemur agreed. “But you were out of your shell to come here to die!”
“I didn’t know I was. In fact, neither Brekke nor Sharra here told me just how sick I’d been until I was much better.” He gave his healer an intense look that held more than simple gratitude.
“And Toric just let you come?” Piemur demanded of Sharra.
“As a favor to the Benden Weyrleaders and Master Oldive, I think.” She gave the journeyman harper a wink, then sat up straighter and stuck her nose in the air. “I do have an exceptional record of nursing fire-head victims through fever and blindness, you know.”
Piemur knew that, but he just did not like the idea of Sharra and Jaxom together. Perhaps Toric saw it another way. An alliance with the Ruathan Bloodline, and a kinship with the Benden Weyrwoman, Lessa, might prove invaluable to him.
And there was something else niggling about in the back of Piemur’s mind, especially as he noticed how many fire-lizards, mainly wild ones with no hall or hold neck markings, engulfed Ruth wherever he went. And he could not ignore the brief flashes he was getting from Farli now that she was back in the white dragon’s presence. The more the young harper twisted the matter around in his head, the more certain he became about how that stolen queen egg had gotten back to Benden Weyr Hatching Ground. But it was not something that he, for all his intimacy with Jaxom, could come right out and ask.
By the time they had settled down to eat grilled fish and fruit on the beach that night, they had caught up on the main exchange of adventures and news. Piemur was unhappily sure of Jaxom’s feelings toward Sharra. And, knowing her as well as he did, he was dismally convinced that the attraction was mutual. Even if neither of them knew it yet. Or maybe they did. But Piemur did not intend to make it easy for them. He would have to think of distractions.
The next morning Piemur told Jaxom that Stupid had eaten every nonpoisonous blade he could find near the shelter and that the runner flatly refused to emerge from the denser undergrowth when Ruth was around. “He’s a bit puny from all the traveling we’ve done, Jaxom,” Piemur said. “He needs feeding up.”
So Jaxom offered to fly him on Ruth to the nearest meadow to collect fodder for Stupid. Piemur always enjoyed riding a-dragonback; riding Ruth, who was so much smaller than the full-sized fighting dragons, added a more immediate dimension to the experience, slightly scary, though he had every faith in the amazing white beast. If he had a dragon, he thought, he would have had a much easier time exploring … or would he, having trod the ground and learned much that he had not appreciated of the shrubs, trees, and brilliant flowering plants? Flying straight on a dragon gave one other perceptions of vast and beautiful terrain.
Ruth landed them neatly in the center of an expanse of waving grasses dotted with wildflowers and, rolling carefully over, stretched out wing and limb to bask in the sun. But when Jaxom asked him to help harvest the grasses, he willingly set to with gusto.
Jaxom burst out laughing. “No, we are not feeding him up for you to eat.” Affectionately he lobbed a dirt ball at the lounging dragon. Later, as they watched Stupid munching happily away, they gazed at the giant mountain visible in the distance and discussed the possibility of trekking to the peak while Jaxom waited out his convalescence. The trip would take four or five days on foot—Ruth could not carry all three, and Jaxom could not risk flying between so soon after his bout with fire-head—but that did not daunt Piemur, nor did he mind the fact that it would keep him close by Sharra and Jaxom for a time longer.
Sharra was amazed that Piemur had traveled so far with a runt of a runnerbeast and one fire-lizard as his only companions. Over a midday meal, Piemur told them at some length how he utilized Farli’s wings and Stupid’s sturdiness to make them a team. That led into a discussion of how to interpret a fire-lizard’s sometimes incoherent imagery, and to theories about the wild fire-lizards’ adoration of Ruth. Until Jaxom had fully recuperated from fire-head, the three of them might be forced to remain in the cove, but they were by no means out of touch. Ruth kept them current with news of the Masterharper’s recovery. And Sharra had another, more impatient, note from her brother, which she showed to Piemur but did not mention to Jaxom.
“If he really needed you, Sharra, it’d be one thing,” Piemur told her. “Fire-head season’s over. Tell him you’re helping me with the mapping. Besides, if it is urgent, his new Weyrleader’s one of the few who knows exactly where the cove is.” In an absurd way, he was enjoying being a third wheel. “Of course, maybe Toric doesn’t want to ask that sort of a favor of D’ram. And it’s not long now, is it?”
Mindful of his own duty to Toric, he enlisted Jaxom’s aid in translating his travel notes into maps. Sharra bleached wherhide skins into usable form and concocted a good ink from local plants. They fished, they swam, they got to know the cove and the little streams feeding into it, and they explored the eastern horn of the cove until they came to a less passable rockstrewn region. At mealtimes, Piemur regaled them in his best harper fashion with tales of hazards and unusual things he had seen.
“Those big spotted felines, by the way,” he told Sharra, “are not local to Southern. I saw them all along my way.” He tapped his elongated map. “Farli always warned me soon enough to avoid a direct encounter, and I’ve also seen some huge canines no cook would ever want to use as a spit turner.”
As a further diversion, the three of them hiked westward to collect a queen fire-lizard’s clutch that Piemur had noticed on his way to the cove. The eggs of a queen fire-lizard were much prized in the north, and both Jaxom and Sharra had been trying to find a clutch. So they carefully packed the eggs they found in baskets filled with hot sand and struck off, Piemur whacking a way through the underbrush. But heat and unaccustomed exercise took their toll on Jaxom’s returning health. He was exhausted by the time they reached the cove, and Piemur was soberly repentant. He really had not meant to jeopardize the Ruathan’s recovery. Magnanimously he went so far as to admit that the trip had tired him, too, and he was going to go to bed as soon as it was dark. The maps could wait—and, clearly, so could the planned trip to the mountain.
They were all awakened the next morning by Ruth’s bugling announcement of the imminent arrival of Canth and F’nor from Benden Weyr, along with some dragons and riders. Immediately Ruth’s adoring circle of wild fire-lizards disappeared; only Meer, Talla, and Farli remained to greet their immense cousins.
When F’nor told them why he and the other riders had come, Piemur had mixed reactions. He was delighted by the plans to build the Masterharper a convalescent home right there in the cove that he had found so beautiful and restful. But he did not like the idea of the incredible place becoming too well known—at least not until he had had the chance to discuss Paradise River with someone. He could just imagine Toric’s reaction to the wonderful surprise for the Masterharper. Sharra seemed unperturbed, but then, she was far more involved with Jaxom than with her brother’s aspirations.
Up until the day of the Masterharper’s arrival in the newly named Cove Hold, there was little peace there. Sharra, disabusing F’nor of the suitability of the plans he had brought, promptly drew new ones, designed for living in Southern, where it was more important to encourage breezes and mitigate the summer heat than to keep out cold or Thread.
Then Mastercraftsmen in every Hall got wind of the project, and dragons arrived with men and material in such quantity that Piemur was overwhelmed. As he sought privacy in the dense forest, he knew that it might seem that he was deserting his friends. But there were more than enough hands to complete Master Robinton’s new hold, and besides, so many dragons frightened Stupid into a quivering wreck. No one, it turned out, expected either Sebell or T’gellan at Cove Hold, and Piemur had counted on one of them to appear.
He debated sending a message by Farli to Sebell. But if Sebell had been named Masterharper, he would have more than enough problems to sort out. Also, Piemur would have to know exactly where Sebell was, or wear out poor Farli with betweening. In any case, he was reluctant to mention Jayge and Ara in writing. Sebell, in his quiet and understated way, was as astute and clear-eyed as his Master and had been in Southern often enough to have Toric’s measure. And if F’lar had replaced D’ram as Southern Weyrleader, maybe everything in the South had altered. Maybe that was why Toric had been ordering Sharra to return. It looked as if for the time being the secret of Jayge and Ara would have to keep.
Having listened to F’nor talking rather proprietarily of that part of the South, it occurred to Piemur that the dragonriders might have thoughts of taking hold there in the next Interval, where they would not be dependent on the generosity of Holds. Piemur knew how that dependence had vexed Lessa and F’lar before the current Pass had begun.
Well, he was only the explorer, not the dispenser of the land. He and Jaxom had made several copies of his journey map, one for himself, one for Toric, and a third to occupy the Masterharper on his long sea voyage to Cove Hold. He could no longer delay dispatching Toric’s copy by Farli, and he would have to add some details. Admittedly, Toric had sent him no message to report back, nor a spare dragonrider to convey him, but he had come as far as he had at Toric’s request, and until he had been officially recalled to the Harper Hall by Sebell, he was still an official member of Toric’s hold.
Piemur decided not to mention to Toric Sharra’s fondness—who was he kidding? Sharra’s love—for Jaxom, so obviously reciprocated. He would certainly omit any details of the beautiful Paradise River, but he thought he ought to mention the existence of ancient ruins to someone, and get that extraordinary Record to the Mastersmith.
He wandered as far as the meadow where he and Jaxom had cut grass and gazed long and hard at the distant mountain peak, so serenely symmetrical. And he slept surprisingly well those nights, with no repeats of the erupting volcano dream that had plagued him earlier. Farli no longer chittered excitedly at him about men and big objects in the sky. He had understood finally that she had not meant dragons. She also conveyed some vivid images of erupting volcanoes, and Piemur wondered who was dreaming whose dreams. Finally, on the fifth day, she interrupted his ruminations with an ecstatic message that the ship was very near the cove.
He returned to find the new Hall at Cove Hold completed, all the craftsmen and women already conveyed back to the north. Sharra and Jaxom were delighted to see him again and showed him all that had been accomplished in his absence.
“Shards, but this is magnificent,” he said, wishing that he had not taken off like a scared wherry as he stared around at the spacious main hall where Master Robinton could entertain half a Hold, if he chose. He loved the Harper, and he knew that almost everyone on Pern did for one reason or another, but to have so many skilled people express their respect and admiration in such a way brought a lump to Piemur’s throat. “This is just magnificent,” he repeated and noticed the amused grins. He wandered about the hall, touching the carved chairs and the fine chests and tables.
He said the same thing when Sharra brought him into the corner study, with its incredible view of the sea and the eastern headland, the clever storage racks for Records and musical instruments, and the impressive supply of Master Bendarek’s leaves to write on. He admired the guest rooms, large enough to be comfortable but small enough not to encourage too long a visit, and complimented Sharra on the kitchen she had spent so much time organizing, with the special cupboards to store the Benden wines that the Mastervintner had sent in extraordinary quantities. Yes, Piemur thought, brushing irritably at his brimming eyes, the Master would find everything to his taste and convenience at Cove Hold. And live long and happily, safe there from all strife.
The day that Master Robinton was expected, Piemur volunteered to oversee the roasting of the fresh wherry in the firepit constructed in a convenient rock pile on the right-hand side of the cove’s semicircle. Piemur had become obsessed by the idea that the Harper might have dwindled the way T’ron had, becoming aged and bowed overnight by his illness. He would hate to see his proud, vital Master in such a state. But he had to see him with his own eyes.
He had the best view of the westward reach of the cove while he tended the roast, and he was the first to see the three masts of Master Idarolan’s finest ship, the Dawn Sister, with all sails set, keel showing as she raced along the clear green waters. He watched as she altered her course, sailors climbing her yardarms to furl sails, and as she smoothly slid in to dock at the fine pier that had been constructed to receive her and her special passenger. He watched as Lessa, Brekke, Master Fandarel, and Jaxom assisted the Harper down the bobbing gangplank, and he was relieved to see Master Robinton stride down the plank with his customary vitality. Watching Menolly follow him off the ship, Piemur felt oddly removed from all those old friends of his. He told himself that too many people could be stressful. He could wait. So he continued to baste the succulent wherry.
“Piemur!” The familiar baritone sounded as firmly supported as ever, and that voice, ringing and clear, did much to restore him.
“Master?” he called out in reply, startled by the familiar summons.
“Report, Piemur!”
D’ram, Sebell, and N’ton, the young Fort Weyrleader, came to the Southern hold, asking to speak to Toric.
Recently there had been much coming and going of dragonriders bringing supplies and people and generally working on D’ram’s promised restoration of the Southern Weyr. The newly augmented wings had begun to fly regular practice flights. The Weyrhall had been scrubbed and painted by the younger riders, and encroaching forest growth had been trimmed from individual weyrs. D’ram had been exceedingly circumspect, but took entirely too much notice, Toric thought, of what went on in the Hold. Far too much.
To show united Bloodkin, he had sent his fire-lizards to Hamian at the mines, Kevelon in Central Hold, and Murda and her husband at Big Lagoon, telling them to return immediately. He had also sent a note to Sharra, insisting on her return. Surely she could talk some dragonrider into conveying her back. Uncharacteristically, she had sent no reply, though the message had been removed from his little queen’s leg.
“We’d like to help you, Holder Toric,” D’ram said when Ramala and Murda had offered them all klah or the cool fruit drink that was particularly refreshing in Southern.
“Oh?” Toric cast his eyes quickly over each of the three men. Sebell, who had always been discreet and had helped him out on several occasions, was now Masterharper of Pern and might very well hold views different from Robinton’s. The Harper’s expression at the moment was pleasantly attentive. N’ton had the same sort of energetic, inquiring look about him that Piemur had, and to Toric, that could mean that the young dragonrider would be troublesome. What was a Fort Weyrleader doing there anyway?
D’ram cleared his throat, obviously finding it difficult to continue.
“Help me in what way?” Toric asked testily.
“Now that Masterharper Sebell has brought me up to date on the many abuses and incivilities you have suffered from the Southern Oldtimers, and their rather conspicuous demands over and above the lawful tithe, I think there should be some changes.”
Toric merely nodded, aware that the Fort Weyrleader and Sebell were watching him closely.
“I—we—in this bountiful place,” D’ram went on, “feel that the Weyr should substantially reduce its requirements of you, especially in the matter of feeding our dragons. They actually prefer to hunt, and once we know where your livestock is pastured, we will avoid the area. We expect to have five wings, as well as—” D’ram paused “—those no longer able for active service.”
Toric accepted with a nod what D’ram was implying, though he did not quite like the suggestion that dragonriders would soon be overflying the land. Just how much did dragonriders notice when they flew? They might not have seen much when they had searched for Ramoth’s egg—but while hunting wild game? He found himself mulling over that problem as D’ram continued.
“We have brought with us sufficient weyrfolk to handle all domestic duties, so those holders whom you have been good enough to attach to the Weyr can return to their normal duties.”
Toric cleared his throat. He could appreciate D’ram not wanting those slatternly drudges about a freshened Weyr. He did not want them about Southern, either. But there was an easy solution for that.
Then Sebell held out a long cylinder, encased in a finely tooled leather sheath. “Mastersmith Fandarel wishes you to have this,” he said with a slight smile.
When Toric unwrapped it, he could not suppress his delight at being given a distance-viewer of his own. Master Rampesi had managed to acquire a small one but nothing so fine as this. He turned it over in his hands, putting it to his eye and reacting with a startled cry at the magnification of what he knew were minute fissures in the wall.
“You should be able to see the length and breadth of Southern Hold with that,” Sebell said.
That got Toric’s complete attention. “Master Fandarel doesn’t waste his efforts,” he said obliquely. Length and breadth of Southern Hold, indeed!
“Yes, I also bear a message from Master Fandarel,” Sebell went on smoothly. “Metal is, as you know, in short supply in the North. You have been supplying the Smithcrafthall with much needed zinc, copper, and other ores, for which that is a token of gratitude.”
“We’ve shipped what we could,” Toric said carefully. It was one thing for the dragonriders to hunt for meat in the hold. How much else were they expecting to find for themselves?
“I think arrangements can now be made for more regular commerce,” D’ram said, “as compensation for what you’ve endured.”
Toric eyed him warily.
“A regular trade would be extremely beneficial for both North and South,” Sebell continued, betraying no hint of his knowledge of Toric’s already steady activities in that area. “And Mastersmith Fandarel is certainly eager to have as much ore as you can ship to him. You, and quite likely your Smithmaster brother, will have to advise him as to how much you can manage to supply. To this point, I think N’ton has something to say.”
“Please understand, Holder Toric,” N’ton began in a slightly rueful tone, “that I was not at the time concerned with anything other than finding Ramoth’s egg, but I noticed some mounds along that great inland lake that cannot be natural. I heard, from someone,” he said, jiggling his hand to indicate a faulty memory that Toric did not believe for an instant, “that the new zinc and copper deposits you’ve been working might have been worked a long time ago.”
No, it was not compensation he was getting, Toric reflected. No matter how smoothly their ideas were presented, his full cooperation was expected. Those bloody Oldtimers and that wretched queen egg had done him more damage than he had supposed! But he could make certain not to lose so much as a fingerlength of land he already held, or the riches above and below the soil. He also knew the place N’ton must have seen. Sharra had reported it to him the previous Turn. He had marked the huge lake and the three rivers that flowed from it on his private map. He must be very careful. He must seem to cooperate while sending reliable men and women to hold what ought to be his.
“There’s always been that rumor,” he said skeptically.
“More than a rumor,” Sebell said in that quiet unemphasized voice of his. “There are some ambiguous Fragments among the Harper Hall Records that indicate that the Northern Continent is the more recent settlement.”
“Recent?” Toric let out an incredulous guffaw.
“I believe you established a prosperous hold in ancient ruins on the western bank of Island River,” Sebell said.
“I wouldn’t call such old stonework ‘recent.’ ”
“May I make it plain, Toric?” Sebell said, leaning forward, his manner earnest and subtly ingratiating. “No one contests your holding. But we would very much like to extend our knowledge about our ancestors. It becomes a matter of intense Craft pride, you know. We’re supposed to keep the Records of Pern.” He gestured again to the distance-viewer Toric was fondling possessively. “We can learn a lot from the past that will assist us in our future.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Master Harper,” Toric replied as earnestly as he could when he saw how little option he had.
“Naturally, I’d be glad to convey you to that place I have in mind, Holder Toric,” N’ton said with a boyish eagerness that Toric found puzzling.
But he accepted the offer graciously. With so much to plan and to manage, he had been forced to let his kin do the explorations. Hurried trips to Big Lagoon or Central Hold, and one sail down the Island River, had given him only a shallow glimpse of what he held. If he got on good terms with N’ton, who knew what else he might see? Dragonriders had an unfair advantage over any holder: quick, sure movement from place to place.
What was it that rascally journeyman had quoted to him before he left? “A dragon can’t go between to a place he’s never seen. Likewise a man can’t hold what he hasn’t beheld.” He caressed the distance-viewer again.
He rose then, pretending a geniality he did not feel. “I’ve a fair map of the area we’ve managed, over the Turns, to investigate afoot. It really is a relief to me to have a proper Weyr and good relations with my Northern neighbors.”
The morning after his arrival, Master Robinton was up early, to the disgust of his young friends who had enjoyed the evening’s festivities. Despite the restrictions imposed on him by Brekke, Menolly, and Sharra, he was determined to extend their knowledge of the south in all directions. For that purpose, he convened a meeting of Jaxom, Piemur, Sharra, and Menolly.
The Harper’s particular interest was in finding further evidence of the original inhabitants of the Southern Continent. He mentioned not only the ancient iron mine that Toric had found, but some unnatural formation that he himself had spotted with N’ton. Piemur grinned, betting with himself that Toric did not know about that. Had it happened when Master Robinton had voyaged with Menolly to Southern for personal talks with Toric? The Southern holder had gone to Benden Weyr shortly after, and returned very pleased with himself. Thinking of the houses at Paradise River, Piemur vowed that he would speak to the Master Harper on that point as soon as he could get him alone.
Master Robinton’s plans called for a dual attack, both ground and aerial. He was adamant and enthusiastic as he ordered them to begin, once Jaxom had been pronounced fit by Master Oldive, who was due to arrive that afternoon. Piemur, because of his experience, would be in nominal charge, an arrangement to which Jaxom had no objections. Jaxom would fly Ruth ahead each day to settle a new camp and do an aerial survey, while the girls and Piemur followed on foot for more detailed examinations.
The young people were quite content to fall in with his scheme, happy to do anything that would keep Master Robinton pleasantly occupied while his strength returned. Master Oldive, after examining the Harper, lectured them on how to help Robinton in his recuperation. Despite his enthusiasm, the Masterharper was still weak and vulnerable to another attack, so they promised to do all they could to protect him from himself. Jaxom, however, was declared fully recovered.
Despite the good intentions of his nurses, Master Robinton was full of projects, all of which he fully expected to see carried out. He was especially excited when Mastersmith Fandarel and Master Wansor arrived from the Telgar Smithcrafthall with Wansor’s new distance-viewer, the most recent product of the Starsmith’s experimentation. It was a tube as long as Fandarel’s arm and thick enough so that he needed two hands to surround it; carefully encased in leather, it had a curious eye-piece set not on its end, where Piemur thought it ought to be, but on its side.
Wansor, in an explanation that explained very little to his rapt audience, told them that the distance-viewer was designed somewhat along the same principles as the ancient instrument, found in one of the unused rooms of Benden Weyr, that made small things appear larger.
That very night a viewing took place, the instrument mounted on a frame erected on a high point of the stony eastern tip of the cove. And what they learned in their first clear view of the Dawn Sisters made, in Piemur’s eyes, the discovery of Paradise River insignificant. For those stars were no stars at all! They were man-made objects—and very likely they were artifacts of those mysterious Southern ancestors. Perhaps they were even the actual vehicles that had brought those ancestors to Pern in the beginning. And when Piemur got his turn to gaze through the device, he felt his heart leap at the splendor he glimpsed.