14

Southern Continent, PP 15–17

Over the next two Turns, Piemur had reason to recall Lessa’s comment—or had it been a challenge?—to Master Robinton. There were changes of all kinds, but that was only natural, though some were rather spectacular, such as Menolly, Sharra, and Brekke all having sons on the same day. According to Silvina, Menolly gave birth to Robse between one note and the next; Sharra had slightly more difficulty producing Jarrol; and Nemekke arrived, two weeks before he was due, just before midnight, Benden Weyr time. Robinton and Lytol, deciding that they were the spiritual grandfathers of Menolly’s and Sharra’s sons, drank to their health, and that of Brekke’s second boy, with sufficient wine to have drowned all three.

And there were other changes: Piemur’s prediction that Southern hazards would sort out aspiring holders proved correct. As tales from discouraged immigrants circulated north, the wave of northerners venturing south lost its impetus. Piemur knew that Master Robinton had had a hand in that through Master Sebell’s offices. The Southern Continent was having an effect on the Harper, fascinating him, as it had Piemur, with its lush beauty and incredible bounty and the allure of the mystery still locked in the ruins of another time.

During the first Turn, Master Rampesi and Master Idarolan finally sighted each other, halfway around the world from Cave Hold. To mark the historic occasion, the two captains hammered a stout red stake into a hillside above the bay, and the festivities lasted well into the early dawn hours. There was a good deal of friendly banter over which ship had sailed the farthest, but as Dawn Sister was clearly the bigger, faster vessel, Master Rampesi finally gave way to his Craftmaster. Then they continued their explorations of the Southern shores, one heading eastward and the other westward, back to their ports of origin. Both shipmasters’ reports, delivered to the Conclave of Weyrleaders, Lord Holders, and Craftmasters, indicated a varied terrain, including precipitous cliffs and arid desert with sparse and unattractive vegetation but also a reassuringly large portion of inhabitable lands. That information considerably reduced the friction that was developing over titular possession of choice areas. The Weyrleaders were implacable on the point that northern Lord Holders, already well established, should not look to the South for their own benefit.

Piemur was proud of and impressed by Master Robinton’s continued insistence on small holdings. Paradise River Hold, rather than Southern, was constantly cited as the acceptable precedent. The Weyrleaders, besieged by petitioners, finally conceded that point, adding the provision that no one already in possession of a hold could expect to be granted one in the South. With greatly increased supplies of all raw materials available from the South, Craftmasters increased their numbers of apprentices and more walked the tables as journeymen to support broader holder requirements.

With no need any longer to limit mating flights to keep the dragon population down to that which the existing Weyrs could accommodate, there were soon sufficient weyrlings to populate a new Weyr in the thick forest between Landing and Monaco. T’gellan, rider of bronze Monarth, was appointed as Weyrleader to the Eighth Weyr, designated as Eastern until a suitable name could be agreed upon. T’gellan found his new position no sinecure, since he had to deal both with older dragons and riders, unable to fly full Falls, and weyrlings sent to Eighth for a season to perfect their fighting skills before being added to Northern wings.

Southern dragonriders turned out to be useful after all, despite the land’s defenses—in the form of those amazing grubs—against Thread. After a storm of nasty tangles ripped through some of the dense forests, Weyrleader T’gellan increased sweepriders, and even Lord Toric, once he had seen the damage done by a series of tangles, lost his complacence and organized ground crews.

A nearby Weyr, with an old friend as Weyrleader, provided Piemur and his master with any number of willing beasts to help them explore, far more extensively than perhaps Benden might realize. To their delight, they found more ruins along the river that flowed on Mount Garben’s western flank. And Master Robinton knew of suitable folk to move into those old holdings—ostensibly for onsite excavations.

D’ram passed his leadership on to K’van, whose Heth surprised complacent older bronze riders by flying Adrea’s Beljeth in her mating flight. D’ram retired to Cove Hold, where he was well received by Master Robinton and Lytol, the retired Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold.

The fears that another Toric, or worse yet, a second Fax, might emerge began to recede as more and more small holds were established along the coast and rivers. The sheer size of the Southern Continent, and the difficulty of communications—solving that problem was a major priority of the Smithcrafthall—served as inhibiting factors.

There were regular passages back and forth between the continents, both by sail and by dragon. The harbor facilities at Monaco Bay were still functional, though the dwelling at the point had been battered into ruins by storms. The harbor was superb, and several Masterfishermen vied with each other for Master Idarolan’s permission to take hold there. Paradise River Hold was thriving; it had its own seahold, Mastered by Alemi, formerly of Half Circle Seahold, who had command of two small coastal skiffs and one deep-water vessel.

During those Turns, excavations continued at the Plateau, though the work became somewhat slow and desultory during the long stretches during which little or nothing was found. Whenever minor finds were uncovered, interest would be temporarily revived, and Master Robinton would seize that renewal of energy to get other sites dug up, clinging to his belief that somewhere in the ruins would be the answers to his questions about the Dawn Sisters and the origin of their ancestors. The maps had only whetted his appetite.

Meanwhile Master Fandarel had assembled an astounding array of mechanical pieces, including the shell of what he insisted had to be one of the ancients’ small flying ships. The starboard side had been badly dented, the durable material fractured, stained, and mottled with tiny cracks. The stripped hull raised more questions than it answered, but encouraged the hopes of those who thought that a complete vessel might be found abandoned at one of the ancient sites.

To assist in the tagging and cataloging at Cove Hold, Menolly and Brekke sent a variety of young people, serving informal apprenticeships. Piemur suspected his friends of matchmaking, but there was no doubt that the girls were useful—and, Piemur conceded, decorative. They seemed to enjoy D’ram’s occasional teasing and were understanding of Lytol’s quiet introspection. Still, none of them caught Piemur’s fancy, especially since they had a tendency to moon over Master Robinton.

For the additional residents at Cove Hold, small private cots had been constructed, though most evenings everyone met for their meal in the main Hall. A large area adjacent to D’ram’s cot was cleared for Piroth’s weyr. A second guest house was constructed when the facilities in Cove Hall were constantly strained; then an archive hall—Lytol’s domain—was added as repository for the mass of records, sketches, charts, maps, ruin diagrams, and artifact samples. Soon an annex was required to allow space for the craftswomen determined to piece together some of the splinters and shards. Wansor’s large distance-viewer was housed on the eastern point, where he continued his observations of the Dawn Sisters, the baleful Red Star, and those other celestial bodies which, with the help of the ancients’ star maps, he managed to identify.

And still the excavation of Landing continued. Fandarel’s mound, the last of the original choices to be excavated, had added to the frustration. He had been correct that the heat of the volcano had kept the building from being cleared by the ancient refugees, but whatever had been in it had been so badly damaged—or, in some cases, completely destroyed—that it was impossible to identify. A flurry of further digging in that sector proved unenlightening: the buildings thus found seemed to have been used as beastholds.

That raised the questions of how so many beasts could have been accommodated in the Dawn Sisters, how many people had made the voyage, how far they had come, and how long had Landing been inhabited. The fire-lizards’ peculiarly tenacious memory evidently contained only unusual occasions: the initial landing, the volcanic eruption, and the far more recent incident of the retrieval of Ramoth’s stolen egg, when dragons had actually flamed at fire-lizards. It was still not common knowledge that Jaxom and Ruth had stolen back the egg for the North—all most people knew was that the miraculous return of the egg had made it unnecessary for the Northern dragon wings to exact retribution from Southern Oldtimers and prevented the worst catastrophe anyone could imagine: dragon fighting dragon.

There was a certain contentment on both sides of the sea now that the Southern Continent had been opened up, leaving those interested in the ancients free to pursue the puzzles posed by the excavations. One rainy week, the frustration level of those kept holdbound at the cove was particularly high, and even Piemur, racking his brain, could not come up with a diversion.

“It may well be, Robinton,” Lytol suggested, “that we shall never know the answers.”

“Now that I won’t accept!” The Harper propelled himself out of his chair, pausing the tiniest bit as his joints prevented a smooth rising. “Bloody rain always seizes me up.” He straightened his back, stood on one leg to jiggle the other, then repeated the process with his right leg. “What was I going to do?”

“Pace with frustration,” Piemur said, looking up from the object he was studying under an enlarging glass. “I’ll join you. There is no way this—thing—was useful.” He flicked the rectangular board away from him. “Beads and wires and tiny joins!”

“Decorative?” D’ram asked.

“Unlikely. It’s more of the same sort of thing we found in the forward portion of the flying ship.”

“What was I going to do?” Robinton demanded of no one in particular, one hand on his forehead, the other propped at his belt. “And I’ve got enough wine.”

“I was talking about generations,” Lytol patiently cued him. “You wouldn’t accept the delay …”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Robinton went over to the map stand that stood across one window. He leafed through the charts until he found the one he wanted and then pulled it up to hook it to the top of the frame. “Has anyone done anything about these?” He indicated the symbols in red, blue, and green, positioned like miniature flags between the landing strip and the far southern edge of the settlement.

Piemur swiveled in his chair to look. “No, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anything there now.”

“But caves were discovered in that general area, weren’t they?”

“Yes, caves that had obviously been adapted for use as living quarters,” Piemur admitted. “Probably for greens, since the dragon couches were very small.”

“What if—what if the caves here,” Robinton said excitedly, tapping the flags, “had concealed entrances?”

“Master, haven’t we found enough junk?” Piemur’s sweeping gesture took in the entire Cove Hold complex.

“But no answers!” Robinton shook his head. “There have to be some answers, so that we can understand more than what we’ve gleaned from fire-lizards!” Roused from his sleep on the back of Robinton’s chair, Zair chirped in reassurance. “And that’s enough from you, impudence with wings. As I’ve said before, people who could execute the wonders we have seen would have kept records!”

“They did, and they’re the dust in the back corridors of Fort Hold and Benden Weyr,” Piemur broke in. “And we’re none the wiser.”

“They can’t have kept so few copies!” the Harper insisted. “And we have the maps as examples of the durability of their materials—so where are the rest?”

“There were lapses in record-keeping,” Lytol agreed solemnly. “We now know there must have been a terrible fire in one portion of Fort Hold’s lowest level; we are also agreed that plague decimated Hall, Hold, and Weyr on three separate occasions. We may never learn our history.” He seemed as resigned to that possibility as the Harper was resistant to it.

“So, when the rain decides to stop,” Piemur asked on a long-suffering note, “do you want me to take some rodmen and find these caves for you?”

When the next day brought a clearing of the heavy rains, Piemur sent Farli to Eastern Weyr for a dragon to convey himself and the Harper to the Plateau. V’line, a young bronze rider, arrived and duly transported them. Once at the Plateau, the Harper requested V’line and Clarinath to circle over the site. So often an aerial search produced visual clues not apparent on the surface. Carefully scrutinizing the terrain below, neither Piemur nor Robinton noticed the absence of fire-lizards.

But as the wide circling brought them to face north, they could not fail to notice the map building, which had been completely unearthed, visibly tremble and slowly, almost majestically, collapse. Then people were erupting from the Plateau buildings in panic.

“Clarinath says the ground isn’t steady,” V’line exclaimed.

“Earthshake?” Piemur suggested.

“Can we land?” V’line asked.

“I don’t see why not,” the Harper said. “There’s nothing out here to fall on us. Pity about the ‘hill.’ Perhaps we shouldn’t have uncovered it.”

“Perhaps you should have let Master Esselin shore up the weak section,” Piemur replied.

“Shall we land?” V’line was dubious, and Clarinath was swinging his head anxiously, peering down at the unreliable surface. “Is it still rocking?”

“How can we tell up here?” Piemur demanded. “Tell Clarinath the Harper says it’s all right to land.”

“I’m glad you’re so certain about it,” the Harper said, his expression reflecting his qualms. “But I feel we ought to proceed first to Plateau and see if all is well.”

The rest of that day was spent in establishing that there had been little damage, with the exception of the old “hill,” at the Plateau. The earthshake had been more noticeable at Monaco Bay and Eastern Weyr, but had been the merest shiver at Cove Hold, noticed only because of the disappearance of the fire-lizards.

Masters Nicat and Fandarel were sent for—Piemur thought it a waste of their valuable time, since it was his experience that shakes were common in the South—to look into the phenomenon and figure out what precautions could be taken for the future. Earthshakes were exceedingly rare in the North, and no one knew what to expect.

“It’s really rather simple,” Piemur muttered to the girl who was passing around soup and klah. “The next time all the fire-lizards flick off in a storm, you can expect another shake.”

“Are you certain of your facts?” she asked skeptically.

“Yes, on the basis of personal observation,” Piemur replied, not certain if he liked being challenged so quickly. Then he noticed the twinkle in her eye. She was not unattractive, with a mop of very curly black hair, gray eyes, and a fine long nose—he always noticed noses, since he regretted his own snub of a nose. “I’ve been in the South nearly ten Turns and that shock was nothing.”

“I’ve been here ten days, and I found that shock unsettling, journeyman. I don’t recognize your colors,” she added, nodding at his shoulder knots.

He winked at her and assumed an arrogant pose. “Cove Hold!” He was extremely proud to be one of a half dozen entitled to wear those colors.

His reply brought the gratifying reaction he had expected. “Then you’re journeyman to Master Robinton? Piemur? My grandfa mentions you frequently! I’m Jancis, Telgar Smithcrafthall journey woman.”

He made a disparaging sound. “You don’t look like any Smithcrafter I’ve ever seen.”

A dimple flashed in her right cheek when she smiled. “That’s exactly what my grandfa says,” she said, snapping her fingers.

“And who might your grandfa be?” Piemur asked obediently.

Her smile had a touch of mischief as she turned with her tray to serve others. “Fandarel!”

“Hey, Jancis, come back!” Piemur shot to his feet, spilling soup over his hands.

“Ah, Piemur,” the Harper said, appearing before him to catch his arm and thwart his pursuit. “When you’ve finished eating—What’s the matter with you?”

“Fandarel has a granddaughter?”

The Masterharper blinked and then focused a kindly gaze on his journeyman. “He has several that I know of. And four sons.”

“He has a granddaughter here!”

“Ah, I see. Well, when you’ve finished eating … now what was it I wanted you to do?” The Harper placed his fingers on his forehead, frowning in concentration.

“Sorry, Master Robinton.” Piemur was sincerely contrite. He knew that the Harper hated his lapses of memory; Master Oldive had explained that they were a natural part of the aging process, but Piemur found such reminders of his Master’s mortality distinctly unsettling.

“Ah!” the Harper exclaimed, remembering. “I wanted to get back to Cove Hold. Zair has gone off with a multitude of other bronzes, chasing some queen, and I’ve really had quite enough excitement today. Would you, in the light of your new acquaintanceship, care to accompany me?”

Piemur did not, but he went. Two could play a disappearing game, he thought wryly.

The next morning, a fire-lizard brought an urgent message for the Harper from Master Esselin.

“Well, it seems that between the rains and the earthshake, an interesting subsidence has occurred, and it looks as if an entrance to those caves has been revealed,” Robinton said cheerfully. “I think we’d better ask V’line to come as soon as possible.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

A large depression in the ground, along with a substantial fracture of the surface, had been noticed early that morning by the ever observant Breide. Master Esselin had assembled a crew at the site, but no one had been permitted to descend into the cavern until Master Robinton arrived. In preparation, Esselin had tested the safety of the fissure’s edge and found it solid enough. Glows had been collected and a sturdy ladder lowered and settled firmly on the cave floor. When Robinton arrived, he found Breide in a sweat, arguing vehemently with Master Esselin, who was guarding the ladder with his own body.

“I’m in charge of the Plateau,” the Harper said, sweeping both Breide and Esselin out of the way when he realized that the contention was about who should take the “dangerous” step of entering first.

“But I’m more agile than you, Master,” Piemur said. “I go first.” He slipped onto the ladder and was down the rungs so fast that the Harper had no time to argue the point. Someone began lowering glowbaskets on ropes to illuminate his way. Not wasting a moment, Master Robinton eagerly followed him down, then Esselin, and then Breide after him.

“This is amazing!” the Harper exclaimed as Piemur helped him over the broken earth where the ceiling had collapsed. They seemed to be in a narrow aisle. Piemur held a glowbasket above his head and turned slowly around.

Within the circles of light cast by the glowbaskets was an astonishing clutter of crates, boxes, and transparently wrapped items, some heaped haphazardly and some more neatly stacked along the irregular walls of the cavern. The cavern had a vaulted ceiling and seemed to be one of several interconnecting chambers. All four explorers peered around in a daze of wonder.

“All these Turns, they’ve been here, waiting for their rightful owners to reclaim them,” the Harper murmured, almost reverently touching one finger to a crate. He stepped carefully over a box to peer into the shadows beyond the light. “An immense storehouse of artifacts.”

“I’d say they’d been in a hurry,” Breide remarked, “if you compare the relative order of things along the walls to the disorder here. Ah, and this seems to be a doorway.” He gave the door panels a couple of stout blows, but he could not find any latches or handles with which to open it.

“Boots,” Piemur said, picking up a pair and brushing the dirt off the transparent envelope that had protected them. He tried to pinch the film, but it resisted. “Feels like the same stuff that coated the maps.” His low voice was awed. “All sizes of boots! Sturdy ones. They don’t look like leather.”

Master Robinton was on his knees, trying to figure out how to open a crate that seemed to be sealed tight. “What does this say?” he asked, pointing to lines of differing widths and shadings on one corner of the lid.

“I don’t know,” Piemur replied. “But I do know how to open it!” There had been identical crates at Paradise River Hold. He took hold of two metal flaps centered on the short sides, pulled them sharply to fold down, and the lid came free.

“Sheets!” Master Esselin shrieked, the noise echoing through the tunnels beyond them. “Sheets of the ancients’ material! Master Robinton, just look! Sheets of it!”

Master Robinton lifted out a flattish transparent envelope, a handspan wide and two long and two fingers thick. “Shirts?”

“Sure looks like one to me,” Piemur said, briefly shining his glow over it, and moved on to search for something less prosaic.

Later, when they had recovered from the initial excitement, Master Robinton suggested that records be made of the contents of the storehouse, listing at least those objects that were easily identifiable. Nothing must be removed from its protective covering, he said. The Benden Weyrleaders and the Mastersmith would have to be informed … and perhaps the Masterweaver, since clothing was his Craft.

“And Masterharper Sebell,” Piemur added teasingly.

“Yes, yes, of course. And …”

“Lord Holder Toric!” Breide put in, indignant at having to remind them.

“Oh, this is truly amazing,” Master Robinton said. “A major discovery. Untouched for who knows how long …” And then his face fell.

“Well, maybe they stored away duplicate records here, too,” Piemur said encouragingly. He took the Harper’s arm and gently pushed him down to a large green crate. “It’s going to take a long time to sift through this lot.”

“I don’t think we should touch anything more,” Breide said nervously, “until everyone has gathered here.”

“No, no, you’re quite right. They should all see it as we just have,” the Harper agreed, his expression slightly dazed.

Piemur scurried up the ladder, popping his head out of the hole and surprising those trying to peer down. “Jancis?” he called, looking impatiently around. The throng parted as she came up to him. “Get some wine or klah for the Harper, please.”

She nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with someone’s belt flask. Piemur gave her a thankful grin and slid down the ladder to revive the Harper.

“What do you mean? Denol and his kin have taken possession of the island?”

“What I said, Lord Toric,” Master Garm replied unhappily. “He and all his kin have crossed the channel to the island and plan to hold it themselves. Denol says that you’ve got more than enough for one man, and the island can easily be an independent, autonomous hold.”

“Independent? Autonomous?”

Master Garm had had occasion to remark to Master Idarolan that Lord Toric had mellowed over the past few Turns since he had achieved his ambition. Clearly that tempering did not extend deeply enough to accept mutiny calmly.

“That’s the message, Lord Toric. And those left at Great Bay Hold are the most shiftless, indolent lot I’ve ever seen.” Garm did not hide his disgust.

“That is not allowed!” Toric exclaimed heatedly.

“I agree, sir, so I sailed directly back here. No sense leaving good supplies for those lazy lugs. I knew you’d want to take appropriate action.”

“Indeed I do, Master Garm, and you will reprovision your ship immediately for an afternoon sailing.” Toric stalked to the magnificently embellished map of his Holding, which now took up one whole wall of his workroom.

“As you say, sir.” Garm knuckled his brows and exited hastily.

“Dorse! Ramala! Kevelon!” Toric’s roar echoed down the corridor after Master Garm.

Dorse and Kevelon arrived at a run, to find the Lord Holder writing a note, his fury evident in the bold, hurried letters scrawled across the narrow sheet.

“That ingrate, Denol, has mutinied on the Great Bay and is claiming my island as an independent, autonomous holding,” he told them. “This is what comes of assigning lands to any rag, tag, or scum. I am informing the Benden Weyrleaders of the course I intend to take, and I expect their cooperation.”

“Toric,” Kevelon said, “you can’t expect dragonriders to take punitive action against people—”

“No, no, of course not. But this Denol will soon see that he cannot maintain his position on my island!”

Ramala entered the room. “A message just in from Breide at the Plateau, Toric.”

“I don’t have time for him right now, Ramala.”

“I think you’d better, Toric. They’ve discovered storage caves full of ancients’—”

“Ramala,” Toric snapped, frowning irritably at his wife. “I have present concerns. That wretched crop picker from South Boll has occupied my island and intends to make it his. The Weyrleaders …”

“The Weyrleaders will be at the Plateau, Toric. You could combine—”

“In that case, I shall send this message to them there. Ramala—” Toric thumped the table with his fist. “This is far more important than any scraps and shards left behind by the ancients. This is an arrant challenge of my authority as Lord Holder and cannot be permitted to continue.” He turned to Dorse. “I want all the single men aboard the Bay Lady by midday, with suitable supplies of weapons, including those barbed spears we’ve been using against the big felines.” Then, waving Dorse out, he rolled up the two messages, which he handed to Ramala. “Give these to Breide’s fire-lizard and send it back to him. Kevelon, you remain here in Southern to manage things. I can trust you.” Toric gave his brother a warm embrace and then returned to study the map, focusing on the threatened island.

Never had Toric expected to be challenged in his own Hold, and by a jumped-up drudge of a crop picker. He would pick him over, so he would!

“Denol, you say?” the Master Harper exclaimed. “A crop picker from South Boll?”

There was such amusement in his voice that Perschar, who was busily sketching the scene around the collapsed cave roof, looked up in surprise.

Breide gave him a quelling stare. “My remarks were addressed to Master Robinton,” he said haughtily, gesturing with his free hand for the artist to go back to his business. He handed Toric’s message to the Harper.

“Well, that’s a facer for Lord Toric, to be sure,” Perschar went on, ignoring Breide.

The Harper grinned. “I don’t think Lord Toric will be over-faced, however. A man of his infinite resourcefulness will soon put matters right. And the diversion at this particular moment in time is fortuitous.”

“Yes,” Perschar replied, a speculative gleam in his eye. “You may be right at that.” He resumed his deft quick lines, a broad smile on his face.

“But Master Robinton,” Breide went on, mopping the sweat running down his temples. “Lord Toric has to be here.”

“Not when matters of Hold importance come up abruptly.” Robinton turned to Piemur, who had listened with great interest, especially since Breide was so patently distressed. “Ah, here comes Benden,” the Harper added, pointed skyward. “I’ll see that the Weyrleader gets his message from Toric.” He nipped the other roll from Breide’s hand before the man could protest, then walked across the well-trampled field to greet F’lar and Lessa.

More ladders had been lowered and a quantity of glowbaskets placed below to enable the Weyrleaders and Craftmasters to explore easily. A number of people were already doing just that, and the Masterharper and the Weyrleaders joined them.

It was then that Piemur noticed Jancis coming down. “Hi, there,” he said. “We’re not supposed to go off on our own, so how about I go with you?” He helped her down the last step.

“I’m here officially,” she said with a grin. She opened her shoulderbag to show him a board and writing materials. “To measure and diagram the corridors before you get completely lost.” She handed him a folding measuring stick. “You just got seconded to help.”

Piemur did not mind in the least. “The door’s back this way,” he said. “I think that would be a good starting point.” He cupped his hand under her elbow and guided her in the right direction.

While she was diligent about measurements, both took time to peek into crates and examine a variety of the stores.

“Mainly things that they either had plenty of or didn’t immediately need,” Jancis remarked, looking through a large case of encrusted soup ladles and jumping back as one disintegrated in her hand.

“You always need boots!” Piemur replied. “And they’re in an excellent state of preservation. I make this chamber twenty paces by fifteen.” They had moved some distance from the original chamber, through interconnecting caves, some of which showed evidence of having been reshaped and squared off.

“How could they manage to shear through solid rock like a carver through roast wherry?” Jancis asked, running one hand over an archway.

“You’re the smith. You tell me.”

She laughed. “Even Grandfa can’t figure that one out.”

“You haven’t actually worked metal, have you?” Piemur finally blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer. She was not a fragile-looking girl, but neither did she have the bulging muscles of most male smiths he knew.

“Yes, the Crafthall required me to, but not the heavy stuff,” she answered absently, more intent on measuring the archway than on his questions. She gave him the measurements. “There’s a lot more to smithing than working hot metal or glass. I know the principles of my Craft, or I’d not have walked the tables.” She cocked her head at him, the dimple appearing with her grin. “Can you craft every instrument a harper plays?”

“I know the principles,” Piemur said with a laugh and then held up the glowbasket to see into the next chamber. “What have we here?”

“Furniture?” Jancis added her glows to his, and the dark shadows took on form, light shining off smooth metal legs. “Chairs, certainly, tables, all of metal or that other stuff they used so much of.” She was running knowledgeable hands down legs and across surfaces.

“Hey, drawers!” Piemur exclaimed, wrestling with a tier down one side of a desk. “Look!” He held up a handful of thin cylinders with pointed ends. “Writing sticks? And these?” He held up clips and then a transparent stick, a nail thick, a finger wide, and more than a handspan long, both edges covered with fine lines and numerals. “What standards were they measuring by?”

He gave her the stick, and she turned it over and over. “Handy enough, since you can see through it,” she remarked and then put it in her shoulderbag, making a notation on her diagram. “Grandfa will want to see it. What else have you found?”

“More of those useless thin plaques of theirs. If all the drawers are full of th—” He stopped complaining as he opened the deepest drawer and saw the neat arrangement of hanging files. He removed one. “Lists and lists, on that film of theirs. And color-coded—orange, green, blue, red, brown. Numbers and letters that don’t mean a thing to me.” He passed the file to her and picked up another one. “All red and all crossed out. Records my Master wants, and records I can now give him! For all the good it does.”

“Aren’t there these sorts of bandings, numerals, and letters on those crates?” Jancis asked.

Piemur groaned, thinking of the piles of crates and boxes and cartons they had seen. “I have no wish to cross-check. Couldn’t they have left anything in plain language for us?”

“What upsets Grandfa,” Jancis went on, exploring more of the accessible drawers, “is that we’ve lost so much of their knowledge over the hundreds of Turns. He calls that criminal.”

“Not just inefficient?” Piemur grinned, hoping no unexpected summons would interrupt them and that somehow he could get her mind off their main reason for being here.

Jancis had just opened the wide shallow drawer in the center of the desk and removed some very thin loose sheets of the same durable material on which the maps had been printed. She peered at the letters across the top. “E-V-A-C-U-A—funny shape to these letters … Ah, evacuation plan. More numbers.” She folded the top sheet back and gasped. “A plan of the Plateau, with names, and—HOS-PI-TAL, WA-RE-HOUSE, VET, LAB, ADMIN, AIVAS. They have everything named as to function,” She turned to him, her eyes glowing as she passed the sheets to him. “I think this is an important document, Piemur.”

“I think you’re right. But let’s see what else we can find.”

The furniture was packed so carefully that in the end they were able to reach only a few more drawers without unstacking things—and there was no space for that. Not all the drawers were as full as the one Piemur had first opened, but each contained interesting detritus in the form of brief notes, more obscure lists, and the thin rectangular placques that appeared to have no obvious function. Jancis made the final discovery: an oblong of black material with raised buttons, twelve bearing numbers and four arithmetic signs, all flanked and topped by buttons, but they both agreed that her grandfather should see. Most of the furniture was in remarkably good condition as the cave complex was dry and the material impervious to penetration by tunnel snakes, though excretal evidence of those creatures marked the surfaces.

“Poor hungry critters,” Jancis said in mock sympathy. “All this for centuries and not one thing edible!”

“Or long since consumed.” Piemur noticed that their glowbaskets were getting dim. “How long have we been down here?”

“Long enough for me to get hungry,” she replied, her dimple showing.

They had already started on their way back to the entrance when they heard their names echoing down the corridors. When they got back to the entrance, they found Master Esselin halfway down one ladder in an urgent discussion with F’lar, who was a few rungs up another, peering more at the sky than at the man he was talking to.

“Ah, Piemur, there’s a squall bearing down on us,” Master Robinton said. His eyes twinkled as he acknowledged Jancis’s presence. “Esselin is certain we’ll all drown along with our treasures.”

“Well, we won’t,” Lessa said, chuckling. “Dragons have many unlikely uses.”

A little baffled, Jancis looked sideways at Piemur.

“Ramoth and Mnementh both?” the journeyman asked the Weyrwoman, craning his neck to look up the fissure. He could not see any stormclouds from that limited range.

“Their combined wings will overlap quite nicely,” Lessa said. “It’s Esselin who thinks it’s beneath Benden’s dignity. Just as well he wasn’t there to see Ramoth and Mnementh digging out the mounds that day. Esselin, do send us down something to eat while we wait out the squall,” she added, raising her voice as the Masterminer disappeared up the ladder.

The light dimmed abruptly as two great dragon pinions spread over the hole. F’lar, Lessa, and Robinton looked smugly satisfied.

“I’ve never appreciated dragon wings quite so much before,” Jancis remarked softly to Piemur. “No, I mean it. Look at the delicate veining. So fine a membrane and yet so incredibly strong. A rather magnificent design, you know.”

Lessa took the few steps across the aisle that separated them and smiled at Jancis. “According to Master Robinton, some of the very old Records suggest that the dragons were indeed designed,” she remarked, settling herself on the crate beside the younger woman.

“Not cousins to the fire-lizards?” Jancis asked.

“Oh, they admit that,” Lessa said with a shrug. “Though how they know,” she added, her expression fondly doting, “is beyond me.”

“About something to eat, Lessa,” Piemur said. “I think we’d better not wait on Master Esselin’s assistance. If Ramoth and Mnementh can shelter us, then Farli and Zair can feed us.” He gave Lessa a sideways grin that bordered on a challenge. He held up his hand, and Farli abruptly appeared, squeaking with surprise at finding herself so close to the Weyrwoman and nearly dropping the basket she carried in her talons. “If you’ll pardon the impudence, Weyrwoman.” He rose, relieved Farli of her burden, and with a gesture sent her off again. “Well, it’s something to start with at any rate,” he said after he had examined the contents. “She’s coming back with more.”

“You are irrepressible!” Lessa exclaimed, but her laugh was gay, and she was quite willing to share the sandwiches that the fire-lizard had brought.

With Zair supplying the Harper and F’lar, the group stranded in the cavern was able to make quite a satisfactory meal while rain pelted in a torrential downpour on shielding dragon wings.

“Well, and what did you discover on your search, Jancis, Piemur?” Robinton asked.

“Famine or feast, Master Robinton,” Piemur replied. He held out the file, flipping the pages until he came to the one with the map. “This seems to indicate which buildings were used for what.”

Master Robinton took the file, bending closer to the nearest glowbasket to read it. “This is marvelous, Piemur. Marvelous! Just look, Lessa. Each square is named! And HOS-PI-TAL—that was an old name for a Healer’s Hall. ADMIN?—administration, no doubt. Ah, and that one hasn’t been excavated yet. Marvelous. What else, Piemur?” The Master’s expression was eager.

“Not until you tell me what you found!” Piemur replied.

“Gloves!” F’lar said, holding up three wrapped pairs. “Different weights for different jobs, evidently. I think they’d be cold to fly in, but we’ll let the experts decide.”

“We could clothe the weyrfolk in what I found,” Lessa added.

“She even found boots her size,” F’lar said, grinning at his diminutive weyrmate.

“I can’t imagine why they left such necessities as clothing behind,” Lessa commented.

“And I,” Master Robinton said, still clutching the file, “found pots and pans of immense size; and more spoons, forks, and knives than you’d need at a Gather. I also found immense wheels, small wheels, medium wheels, and crates and crates of tools. Master Fandarel has already absconded with a selection of their implements. Some were well smeared with a protective oil or grease. He’s fearful that sudden exposure to the air might cause them to become friable and dissolve, or something.” He winked at Jancis.

The rain was still pounding down.

“If we could locate the original entry,” F’lar remarked, glancing up at the shielding dragon wings, “it would be wise to cover that hole over completely. Fine thing it would be to have all this mystifying and unusual stuff survive earthshake, eruption, and the centuries only to ignominiously drown.”

“That certainly can’t be allowed to happen,” Master Robinton agreed.

“It wouldn’t be efficient,” Jancis murmured in Piemur’s ear.

“And you’re incorrigible,” Lessa said, her keen hearing having picked up the soft remark. “Your grandfather has probably already solved that minor problem. He’s eager to use some of the building materials Master Esselin discovered. You weren’t here when they hauled some of the slabs up to the surface. I think every Mastersmith on Pern will be congregating here. And, by any chance, do you have some spare sheets I might use, Jancis?” she went on, briskly rubbing crumbs from her fingers and jerkin. The girl nodded. “Excellent, because I feel that a strict list should be made of things removed from here—though what we found were certainly not one of a kind. The quantities of things all of a kind are amazing.”

“Amazing what they left behind here,” F’lar said wonderingly. “They must have intended to return …” A thoughtful silence followed his remark.

“They have,” the Master Robinton said gently. “They have returned in us, their descendants.”