Piemur drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of that day and most of the next, immeasurably reassured and comforted by the presence of Rocky or Lazy and Mimic who spelled the bronze fire lizard.
If Menolly's fire lizards were with him, he reasoned, during the moments he drifted into consciousness, then Master Robinton couldn't be annoyed that he'd been stupid enough to fall and hurt himself just when the Harper needed him. For that was how Piemur construed the Harper's urgent query about his injury. He fretted, too, about what Clell and the others might do with his possessions until he saw his press against the wall beside his bed.
The first time Silvina appeared with a tray of food, he didn't feel like eating.
“You're not likely to be sick again,” she told him in a low but firm voice, settling on his bed to spoon the rich broth into him. “That was due to the crack you gave your head. You need the nourishment of this broth, so open your mouth. Too bad we can't numbweed the inside of your head, but we can't. Never thought to see the day you weren't ready to eat. Now, there's the lad. You'll feel right as ever in a day or two more. Don't mind if you seem to want to sleep. That's only natural. And here's Rocky to keep you company again.”
“Who's been feeding him?”
“Don't sit up!” Silvina's hand pressed him back into the half-reclining position. “You'll spill the broth. I suspect Sebell gave Menolly a hand. Not to worry. You'll be back at that chore soon enough!”
Piemur caught at her skirt as she made a move. “There was grease on those steps, wasn't there, Silvina?” Piemur had to ask the question, because he couldn't really trust what he thought he'd heard.
“Indeed and there was!” Silvlna frowned, pursing her lips in an angry line. Then she patted his hand. “Those little sneaks saw you fall, scampered down and washed the grease off the steps and handrail... but,” she added in a sharper tone, “they forgot there'd be grease on your boot as well!” Another pat on his arm. “You might say, they slipped up there!”
For a moment, Piemur couldn't believe that Silvina was joshing him, and then he had to giggle.
“There! That's more like you, Piemur. Now, rest! That'll set you right quicker than you realize. And likely to be the last good rest you'll get for a while.”
She wouldn't say more, encouraging him to go back to sleep, and slipping out of the room without giving him any hint to the plans for his future. If his things were here, he didn't think he'd be going back to the drumheights. Where else could he be placed at the Hall? He tried to examine this problem, but his mind wouldn't work. Probably Silvina had laced that broth with something. Wouldn't surprise him if she had.
Complacent fire lizard chirpings roused him. Beauty was conferring with Lazy and Mimic, who were perched on the end of the bed. No one else was in the room, and then Beauty disappeared. Shortly, while he was fretting that no one seemed to be bothering about him, Menolly quietly pushed the door open, carrying a tray in her free hand. He could hear the normal sounds of shouting and calling, and he could smell baked fish.
“If that's more sloppy stuff...” he began petulantly.
“'Tisn't. Baked fish, some tubers, and a special bubbly pie that Abuna insisted would improve your appetite.”
“Improve it? I'm starving.”
Menolly grinned at his vehemence and positioned the tray on his lap, then seated herself at the end of the bed. He was immensely relieved that Menolly had no intention of feeding him like a babe. It had been embarrassing enough with Silvina.
“Master Oldive checked you over last night when he returned. Said you undoubtedly have the hardest head in the Hall. And you're not going back to the drumheights.” Her expression was as grim as Silvina's had been. “No,” she added when she saw him glance at his press, “no more pranks. I checked. And I checked with Silvina to be sure all your things are accounted for.” She grinned, then, her eyes twinkling. “Clell and the other dimglows are on water rations, and they won't get to the Gather!”
Piemur groaned.
“And why not? They deserve restriction. Pranks are one thing, but deliberately conspiring to injure, and you could have been killed by their mischief, is an entirely different matter. Only...” and Menolly shook her head in perplexity, “I can't think what you did to rile them so.”
“I didn't do anything,” Piemur said so emphatically that he slopped the water glass on his tray.
Rocky chirped anxiously, and Beauty took up the note in her trill.
“I believe you, Piemur.” She squeezed his toes where they poked up the sleeping furs. “I do! And, would you also believe, that that's why you had trouble? They kept expecting you to do some typical Piemur tricks, and you were so busy behaving for the first time since you apprenticed here, no one could credit it. Least of all Dirzan, who knew all too much about you and your ways!” She gave his toes another affectionate tweak. “And you, bursting your guts with discretion to the point where you didn't tell me or Sebell what you bloody ought to have. We didn't mean for you to stop talking altogether, you know.”
“I thought you were testing me.”
“Not that hard, Piemur. When I found out what Dirzan... no, eat all your tubers,” and she snatched from his grasp the plate with the still bubbling pie.
“You know I only like 'em hot!”
“Eat all your dinner first. You'll need your strength, and wits. You're to go with Sebell to Nabol Hold for Meron's Gather. That'll get you away from here during Tilgin's singing, though he has improved tremendously, and no one at Nabol will be expecting any extra harpers. Not that they've all that much to sing about in Nabol Hold anyhow.”
“Lord Meron's still alive?”
“Yes.” Menolly sighed with distaste, then cocked her head slightly. “You know, your bruises might just come in very handy. They're just purpling beautifully now, so they won't have faded...”
“You mean,” and Piemur affected a tremulous whine in his voice, “I'm the poor apprentice lad whose master beats up on him?”
Menolly chuckled. “You're on the mend.”
Late that evening, a dust-grayed, raggedly dressed man peered around the door and shuffled slowly into the room, never taking his eyes from Piemur's face. At first, Piemur thought that the man might be a cotholder, looking for Master Oldive's quarters on the Hall's social level; but the fellow, though initially hesitant and almost fearful in his attitude, altered perceptibly in manner and stance as he came closer to the bed.
“Sebell?” There was something about the man that made Piemur suspicious. “Sebell, is that you?”
The dusty figure straightened and strode across the floor, laughing.
“Now I'm sure I can gain a discreet arrival at the Nabol Hold Gather! I fooled Silvina, too. She says you still have some rags that will be appropriate to the status of a rather stupid herder's boy!”
“Herder's boy?”
“Why not? Kum in handy, like, tha' knowin' the way from tha' bluid, like.” As Sebell affected the speech mannerisms of the up-range herders, he became completely the nondescript person who had first entered the infirmary.
Despite his chagrin at being told to resume a role he'd hoped never to play again, Piemur was enchanted by the journeyman's dissembling. If Sebell would do it, so would he.
“Master Robinton's not angry with me, is he?”
“Not a mite.” Sebell shook his head violently for emphasis. Kimi swooped in, scolding because Sebell had made her wait outside. Then his expression became serious, and he waggled a finger at Piemur. “However, you will have to watch your step with Master Oldive. We've sworn blue to him that this isn't going to be an energetic adventure for you. Even heads as hard as yours must be treated with caution after such a fall. So, instead of hiking you in from Ruatha Hold as I'd planned,” and Sebell gave a mock scowl at Piemur's burst of laughter, “N'ton will drop you off at dawn in the valley before Nabol Hold. Then we'll proceed at a proper pace with beasts suitable for sale at the Nabol Gather.”
“Why?” asked Piemur bluntly. Discretion had got him nothing but misery, confusion and unwarranted accusations. This time he would know what he was about.
“Two things,” Sebell said without so much as a pause for consideration. “If it's true that there are more fire lizards in Nabol Hold than there should be, “
“Is that what they meant?”
“Is that what who meant?”
“Lord Oterel. At the Hatching. I overheard him talking to someone... didn't know the man... and he said, 'Meron gets more than he ought and we have to do without.' Didn't make sense then, but it would if Lord Oterel was talking about fire lizards. Was he?”
“He very likely was, and I wish you'd mentioned that snip of talk before.”
“I didn't know you'd want to know, and it made no sense to me then.” Piemur ended on a plaintive note, seeing Sebell's frown of irritation.
The journeyman smiled a quick reassurance. “No, you couldn't've known. Now you do. We know that Lord Meron had his first fire lizards from Kylara nearly four Turns ago, so they could have clutched at least once, possibly twice. And he'd've made certain he had control of the distribution of those new eggs. Nonetheless, he has distributed more in Nabol than we can account for. What is equally important is the amount of other supplies that are being brought into the Hold and... disappearing.”
“Meron's trading with the Oldtimers?”
“Lord Meron, lad you don't forget the title even in your thoughts... and yes, that's the possibility.”
“And he's getting whole clutches of fire lizard eggs for trading for 'em? As well as the eggs of his original pairs?” Piemur was assailed by a variety of emotions. Anger that Lord Meron of Nabol Hold was getting more than a fair share of the fire lizard eggs when other, more worthy persons, Piemur included himself, ought to have a chance to Impress the precious creatures; a righteous indignation that Lord Meron (and he slurred the title into an insult in his thoughts) was deliberately flouting Benden Weyr by trafficking in any way with the Oldtimers; and an intense excitement at the possibility that he, Piemur, might help discredit further this infamous Lord Holder.
“Those are two of the main things to listen for. The third, which is the most important in some ways, is which of Lord Meron's male heirs would be most acceptable to craft and cot.”
“He is dying then?” He'd been sure that the message to Master Oldive was spurious.
“Oh, yes, a wasting disease.” Sebell's grin was malicious, and there was an unpleasant gleam in his eyes as he met Piemur's astonished gaze. “You might say, a very proper disease to fit Lord Meron's... peculiar ways!”
Piemur would have liked to have particulars, but Sebell rose.
“I must be away now, Piemur. You're to rest, without getting into any mischief.”
“Rest? I've been resting.”
“Bored? Well, I'll ask Rokayas to give you drum measures to learn. That ought to ease your boredom without taxing your strength.” Sebell laughed at Piemur's snort of dismay.
“As long as it's Rokayas.”
“It will be. He's of the mind that you learned a great deal more than Dirzan believes.”
Piemur grinned at the subtle question in Sebell's words, but before he could retort, the door was closing behind the journeyman and Kimi, who fluttered above him. Piemur hugged his knees to his chest, rocking slowly on his tail bones as he thought over all that Sebell had confided to him. And tried to figure out what it was Sebell hadn't told him.
One thing Sebell hadn't mentioned was how cold and how dark it would be when N'ton collected him before dawn. Menolly with Beauty and Rocky had roused him from a fitful sleep, for he'd been afraid he'd oversleep and consequently spent a restless night. He could sense Menolly's amusement as the two of them, guided by the encouraging chirrups of the fire lizards, stumbled across the dark courtyard toward the Gather meadow. Then Lioth turned his brilliant jewel-faceted eyes in their direction, and they moved more confidently forward.
Menolly giggled as she boosted Piemur up to catch the fighting straps, and then he felt N'ton's downstretched hand and was aided into position. He heard her softly wish him luck, then she blended into the shadows, her actual position discernible only by four points of light that were fire lizard eyes.
“D'you want the fighting strap about you, Piemur? Night flying unnerves a lot of people.”
Piemur wanted to say yes, but instead took a good hold on the leathers that encircled Lioth's neck. He replied that since this was only a short trip, he wouldn't need them. Then clutched convulsively as Lioth sprang upward. They were above the rim of Fort Hold's fireheights before Piemur caught his breath. N'ton gave the bronze dragon the audible command to Nabol, and Piemur knew he screamed into the nothingness of between. He choked off the noise as he felt the change from intense cold and blackness to frosty chill and the faint lightening in what must be the eastern sky.
Two whirling points of light danced above N'ton's left shoulder, and a fire lizard's complacent chirp informed Piemur that N'ton's bronze, Tris, had turned to look at him. Then Lioth swerved and Piemur's fingers became numb as he increased the pressure on the straps, unconsciously leaning backward against the angle of descent into darkness. Tris chirruped encouragingly, as if he were completely aware of Piemur's internal confusion. Piemur prayed fervently that Tris wouldn't inform N'ton of how scared he was. Abruptly the bronze dragon backwinged and settled with the lightest of bumps in black shadow.
“Lioth says there are people not far down the road, Piemur,” said N'ton in a low voice. “Give me your flying gear.”
“Isn't it Sebell?” asked Piemur, shedding helmet and jacket and thrusting them blindly toward N'ton.
“Lioth says no, but Sebell is not far behind. He hears Kimi.”
“Kimi?” Piemur's surprise made him speak louder than he intended, and he winced at N'ton's warning.
“You forget,” whispered N'ton, “Sebell can bring Kimi because fire lizards are so common here in Nabol. Or so we're led to understand.” Displeasure colored the Fort Weyrleader's amendment. Then Piemur felt the strong gloved hand curl about his wrist, and he obediently threw his right leg back over Lioth's neckridge, sliding down the massive shoulder, aware as he slipped beyond N'ton's guiding hand, that the dragon had cocked his leg to allow an easier slope of descent. He let his knees take the shock of his landing and patted Lioth's shoulder, wondering as he did so if that were bold of him.
“Good luck, Piemur!” N'ton's muted voice just reached his ears.
He stepped back, turning his head against the shower of dust and sand as the huge bronze launched himself skyward.
Once his eyes were accustomed to the variations of black and dark gray, Piemur located the winding road and whistled softly as be realized how accurately the dragon had landed in the one flat area big enough to accommodate him. Piemur's respect for draconic abilities rose to new heights.
He heard now the occasional sound of voices and saw the erratic wavering of light from the glowbaskets of the leading file. A creaking of wheeled carts and the familiar sluff-sluff of plate-footed burden beasts reached his ears. He looked about him for a place to hide. He had a choice of boulders and ledges, and found a shielded spot that faced the track but gave him a clear view of the dimly seen exit. He curled up small, hugging knees to chest, secure in the belief that he couldn't be seen.
A chirrup disabused him of that notion and, startled, he glanced up and saw three pairs of fire lizard eyes gleaming at him.
“Go away, you silly creatures. I'm not even here!” To prove this, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the awful nothingness of between.
The fire lizards responded with an agitated chorus.
“What's the matter with them?” a gruff male voice called over the creaking of cartwheels and the shuffling sound of the burden beasts.
“Who knows? Who cares? We're most to Nabol now!” Piemur redoubled his efforts to think of nothing, and heard the faint flutter of fire lizards taking flight. To think of nothing took more effort than to concentrate on something. A great many carts, too, Piemur thought, for a Nabol Gather when there was another, better one at Fort Hold. He opened his eyes now and saw the flicker of winging fire lizards in the gathering daylight, and the point-lights of their eyes in gloom. And these were carters? Small holders? The anger that injustice roused warmed Piemur long after the caravan and the comfort of their glowbaskets passed from his angle of vision.
The cold dawn wind rose, and Piemur wished that Sebell would put in his promised appearance. He ought to have asked N'ton if Lioth had seen Sebell as he glided to his landing. Then Piemur chided himself that this was scarcely the first time he'd waited on his lonesome in the dark of dawn. He'd done his watches with his father's herds. Of course, there'd usually been someone sleeping in the cot within voice range during those long, slow hours. What if something had happened to Sebell? Or he was delayed? Should Piemur go on to Nabol by himself? And how was he to return to the Harper Hall? He'd forgotten to ask N'ton that, presuming it was the Port Weyrleader who'd collect him. Or was he to be collected? Did Sebell plan to sell those suitable beasts of his during the Gather? Or would they have to herd them back whence they'd come? There was a great deal that Sebell hadn't told him in spite of the journeyman's candid explanation about their surreptitious appearance at Nabol Hold.
Piemur relieved his anxieties by remembering that he wasn't going to have to attend the Fort Hold festivities, or listen to Tilgin sing music that Domick had written for him. He sighed, depressed that he wasn't going to be singing the role of Lessa, that he wasn't still comfortably in his bed in the senior apprentices' dormitory, waking to anticipate the applause of Lord Groghe's guests, the accolades of his friends and Domick. And quite likely Lessa's approval, since the Weyrwoman was Lord Groghe's special guest today.
Here he was, cold, miserable, and uncomfortably aware that he hadn't had so much as a cold cup of klah before he was bundled onto a dragon's back and dumped here to await a man who might not arrive for hours if he was walking a herd of beasts in from Ruatha Hold all by himself!
And when they found out what they'd come to discover and returned to the Harper Hall, what would Piemur do tomorrow?
He grinned, hugging his knees in smug satisfaction, remembering Rokayas' surprise the day before when he had perfectly dead-sticked the complicated message Rokayas had thought up to test his knowledge of the drum language. Piemur was almost sorry he wouldn't be,
He groped on the ground beside him and found a rock, gave it an experimental whack against the boulder that sheltered him. The resultant sound echoed about the small valley. Piemur found another rock and, rising, went to the now visible track. He beat the rocks together in the monotone code for 'harper', adding the best for 'where', grinning as the sharp staccato sounds reverberated. He repeated the two measures, then waited. He beat his measures again to give Sebell time to find his own rocks. Then in the pause he heard distantly a muffled reply, 'journeyman comes'.
Immeasurably relieved, Piemur was wondering whether to proceed down the track and intercept Sebell when he heard a 'stay' as the message was repeated. He was a bit daunted by the 'stay' and restlessly scuffed at the loose gravel on the track. Surely Sebell wasn't far away. What did it matter if Piemur did go to meet him? But the message had been clear, 'stay' and Piemur decided that Sebell must have a reason, other than obedience to Master Oldive's instruction about Piemur's dented head.
Sullenly, Piemur resumed his position behind the boulder. And none too soon. He heard then the sharp clatter of hooves against stone, the jangle of metal against metal, and a rumble of encouraging shouts. A fair of fire lizards arrowed out of the graying southern skies, heading straight up the track. Piemur thought of cold between's nothingness, as the fire lizards, intent on keeping ahead of the swiftly pacing riders, swept on. The ground beneath Piemur's rump trembled with the runners' passage.
There was so much dust raised that Piemur couldn't be sure how many rode by, but he estimated a dozen or more. A dozen riders with a full fair of fire lizards escorting them?
Again anger consumed Piemur. He knew that he wouldn't have resented this latest concentration of fire lizards, obviously companioning holders prosperous enough to own fast pacers, if the earlier caravan hadn't been just as well favoured with the creatures. It wasn't fair. He agreed wholeheartedly with Lord Oterel! There were many, too many fire lizards abroad in Nabol.
He was so incensed over such inequity, since the caravaners obviously hadn't appreciated the capabilities of the little creatures, that at first he didn't hear the shiwff-shiwff of the approaching herd.
Kimi's quizzical cheep nearly frightened him out of his wits. She cheeped again, apologetically, and her eyes whirled a little faster as she peered at him from the top of the boulder.
“Well?” asked Sebell, appearing around one side. “You took me too literally.”
“They all have fire lizards,” cried Piemur, too indignant to make polite greeting.
“Yes, I had noticed.”
“I don't mean that lot,” and Piemur jerked his thumb in the direction of the riders. “There was a caravan that had two or three full fairs, “
“Did they see you?” asked Sebell, suddenly wary.
“The fire lizards did, but no human paid any attention to their alert!” Then Piemur caught sight of the beasts that Sebell had herded and whistled.
“So? They meet with your approval?”
The leader had ambled past, eyes half-closed against the dust, and the rest, nose to the tail in front, with eyes fully closed, followed. Piemur counted five. All were well fleshed, with good, thick, furry hides, moving steadily without a stumble, which meant their feet were sound.
“You'll sell them all right,” said Piemur.
“Happen Ah will!” said Sebell in proper accent and, passing his arm about Piemur's shoulders, urged him ahead of the herd. “Here,” and Sebell passed Piemur a padded flask. “It should still be hot. I only broke camp when Kimi told me Lioth had flashed by.”
Piemur mumbled his gratitude for the klah, which was hot enough to warm his belly. Then Sebell handed Piemur a dried meat roll of the sort that was standard journey rations, and Piemur began to view the imminent day in a much improved frame of mind.
As soon as he'd finished eating, he voluntarily dropped back to the apprentice's uncomfortable position at the end of the single file. He'd be properly coated with dust by the time they arrived at Nabol Hold.
The first thing Piemur did when they got to the Gather meadow was head toward the nearest watering trough, fighting against his thirsty charges for a space at the edge. He also remembered exactly where to pinch their noses to make them turn from him.
“Ar, lad, let th'beasts drink deep farst!” Sebell unceremoniously hauled him away, his voice angry, though his eyes twinkled as he warned Piemur to play the proper part.
“Ar, sor, tongue that dry can't move.”
Two young boys were approaching the trough with pails, but they waited, as custom dictated, until the beasts had drunk their fill and the cold mountain water flowed clear again. Piemur and Sebell then herded their charges toward the area of the meadow set aside for animal sales. The Hold Steward, a pinch-faced man with a runny nose, all but pounced on them, demanding the Gather fee. Sebell immediately protested the amount, and the two set to haggling. Sebell brought the fee down a full mark before he surrendered his token, but he didn't protest when the Steward waved them contemptuously toward the smallest enclosure at the end of the rank. Piemur was about to object when Sebell's hand closed warningly on his shoulder. Looking at the journeyman in surprise, Piemur saw the imperceptible jerk of his head over his shoulder. Piemur waited a few discreet seconds and then casually glanced about him. Three men had started to follow them toward their allotted space. A thrill of fear made Piemur catch his breath until he recognized the unmistakable herder gait and knew these were prospective buyers.
“Tol'ya Ah'd suitable beasts, di' Ah no?” drawled Sebell under his breath.
“Ar, an yull drink th' profit again, like as not,” replied Piemur in a sullen tone, but his shoulders shook with the effort to control his amusement. He hadn't a single doubt in his mind that Sebell would also play the happy drunken herdsman to perfection. And manage to say without offense what would be impossible for a sober man anyplace.
They got the beasts enclosed, and Piemur was sent with a worn mark of the Herdsman's Crafthall to haggle for fodder. He managed to save an eighth on the dealing, which he pocketed as any apprentice would. Sebell was already deep in bargain with one of the men while the others were examining the beasts with pinch and prod. Piemur wondered where under the sun Sebell had managed to acquire such proper mountain-bred creatures, with rockworn hooves and shaggy coats. He could no more account for the good flesh on them after this long winter than the prospective buyers, so he hunkered down and listened to Sebell's explanation.
Trust a harper to weave words well, and Piemur's respect for the journeyman increased proportionately to the elaborations of the tale he told. Sebell would have his audience believe that he merely used an old trick handed down from grandsire to grandson: a combination of herbs and grasses sweetened with just the right amount of berries and well-moistened dried fruits. He also said that he and his did without sometimes to improve their beasts, and Piemur promptly sucked in his cheeks to look suitably haggard. He saw the eyes of the men linger on his bruises, showing yellow on his chin and cheek, while Sebell rambled on about his holders scrambling up and down the southern face of his hold hill to find the sweet new grasses that produced such spectacular results.
The earnest knot of listeners attracted more who stood respectfully back but close enough to hear. What Piemur couldn't figure out was that, while the beasts had very old marks of Ruathan breeding, the secondary marks were also well-worn. Then he was annoyed with himself. Sebell must have pulled this sort of stunt before. Undoubtedly somewhere in Ruatha was a cotholder who kept a few special beasts for the Harper Hall's convenience. He began to relax and enjoy Sebell's tale-spinning thoroughly.
The sun was well over the mountains by the time Sebell had struck hands on the bargains, for there were three. One man bought three of the beasts, and the others one apiece, at what Piemur knew was a bloody good price. He wondered if that had covered their original purchases and their keep. Appropriately sober-faced during the bargaining, Sebell permitted pleasure to glow on his dirt-smeared face as he carefully stowed the mark pieces in his belt pouch while the beasts were prodded away by their new owners.
“Didn't think I'd make that much, but the trick always works!” said Sebell in a low mutter to Piemur.
“Trick?”
“Sure,” said Sebell softly as he patted dust from his clothing. “Arrive dusty, early, with the well-fleshed beasts, and they're on to you fast, hoping you're tired enough to be stupid.”
“Where did you get 'em?”
Sebell flashed Piemur a grin. “Craft secret. Get along with you now,” and he gave Piemur a wink and a rough shove. “See t'Gather!” he added in a louder tone. “Ah find thee when Ah wish to go.”
This wasn't much of a Gather, Piemur decided when he'd done one round of the small nestle of stalls. They didn't even have bubbly pies at the baker's, and the Crafthalls had obviously sent very junior men to represent them. Still, a Gather was a day to be enjoyed, and not many were held at Nabol even when restdays were Thread-clear, so the Nabolese were making as much of the occasion as they could.
The wineman was doing a brisk trade by the time Piemur returned that way. He squatted at the corner of the stand, munching slowly away at another meatroll, listening to comments and noticing with deep chagrin and a growing wrath how many fire lizards flitted about, resting for a moment on the stall tops, wheeling up in fairs to dance in the air a bit before settling on their friends' shoulders or on a new position where they could overlook. At first Piemur tried to convince himself that he was only seeing the same group again and again. He did notice that most were greens with a sprinkling of brown and blues, the lesser fire lizards. When he saw bronzes, they were always on the shoulder or arm of the more prosperously dressed. Yet no matter how Piemur argued the matter in his mind, it was clear that Nabol Hold boasted more fire lizards than he had seen even at Benden Weyr during the Impression.
Suddenly a phrase stood out from the murmurous conversation about the winestand.
“There'll be a few more happy holidays today, I hear!”
Piemur turned to scratch his shoulder fiercely and located the man who had spoken from his knowing smirk, a smith from his clothing. His companion, a miner by his shoulder badge, was nodding in comprehension.
“Nabol don't take proper care of 'em, he don't. Three never shelled. My master was fair upset about that. Means to have three more today or his name's not Kaljan.”
“Is that so?” The smith bobbed his head up and down to show regret. “We'd one that didn't hatch, too, but no joy did we get above! Eggs we was promised and eggs we was given. Up to us to care for 'em proper enough to make 'em hatch. That one,” and his head jerked toward the Hold cliff to indicate Lord Meron, “enjoys putting a snake among the wherries!” He snorted derisively. “Happen it's his only pleasure now.”
Both men guffawed with malicious delight.
“Happen we'll not need to worry about him much longer, I hear tell.” The smith winked broadly at the miner.
“Couldn't be soon enough for me. Well, see you at the dancing?”
“Going so soon?”
“Had my glass. Must get back.”
The disappointment in the miner's face made Piemur think that the smith's departure was precipitous. Going to tell his master about the eggs that were up at the Hold, was he? Piemur decided to tag along.
Eggs handed out in quantities, eggs that had been badly handled and wouldn't hatch. Unless... and Piemur reflected over something that Menolly had said about fire lizard eggs. Green fire lizards laid eggs as well, having been fertilized by a mating flight with a blue or brown, sometimes even a bronze. But green fire lizards were stupid. They'd lay a clutch, ten at the most, Menolly said, and leave them with such a shallow covering of beach sand that they were easy prey to wild wherries or sand snakes. Very few green-laid clutches survived to Hatch. Which, as Menolly had succinctly stated, was just as well or Pern would be up to the eyeballs in little green fire lizards.
Piemur wondered if anyone in Nabol realized that a deception was being practiced on them, and green fire lizard eggs were what were dispersed so lavishly. Then he realized that he'd lost sight of the smith and, cursing his inattentiveness, began to retrace his steps, turning with assumed idleness to peer between the stalls. He spotted the smith, urgently speaking to a man with a smithmaster's badge and, as the man reacted to his journeyman's excited words, his master's chain sparkled. Piemur managed to duck away as both men suddenly turned toward him. When they had passed him on their way to the Hold, Piemur followed, restlessly scanning faces in the hopes that he might see Sebell and tell him what he'd overheard. Sebell might wish to investigate.
As the two smiths turned from the Gather area toward the Hold, Piemur had to pause or be noticeable. The smiths strode purposefully up the ramp toward the main Hold gates. They were challenged by the guard and, after some moments of arguing, the guard summoned another from the gatehouse and sent him to the Hold with the smithmaster's message.
While the messenger was gone, two men emerged from the Hold, well wrapped in their cloaks, though the air had lost its chill. Something about the way they walked, carefully; the way they carried their heads, proudly; the way they nodded and smiled at the guards, smugly; and most of all the way they pointedly avoided contact, struck Piemur as significant. He continued to watch them as they turned toward the Gather meadow. As they approached him he caught sight of their figures in profile and realized that each man carried something hidden in his cloak, held tight against his side. It couldn't have been a large object. But, thought Piemur, putting expression, manner and profile together, an egg pot wouldn't be large. He wanted to follow the men to see if his suspicion was correct, but he also didn't want to leave the Hold until the message from the smithmaster had been answered.
A new party, holders by the look of them, now made themselves known to the guards and were admitted, to the angry chagrin of the smithmaster. Then three carts, heavily laden to judge by the straining of the burden beasts struggling up the ramp, forced the smithmaster to one side. The guard waved the carts toward the kitchen courtyard. The last cart jammed a wheel against the ramp parapet, the driver thudding his stick against the burden beast's rump.
“Wheel be jammed,” yelled Piemur, not liking to see any animal beaten for what was not its fault.
He jumped forward to help guide the carter. The man now backed his stolid beast, swinging its head left. Piemur, setting his shoulder to the tailgate, gave a push in the proper direction. He also tried to peek under the covering to see what on earth was being delivered to the Hold on a Gather day when most business was done in the Gather meadow. Before he could get a good look, the cart had picked up speed as it reached more level ground.
He was past the guards, arguing with the smith and paying no more attention to the procession of carts. Ducking quickly to the side of the cart away from the carter, Piemur gained access to the Hold proper.
As the carts rumbled on into the kitchen court, Piemur rapidly wondered how he could turn this opportunity to advantage and remain in the Hold after the carters had unloaded and left. Certainly if he was actually in the Hold, he might find out more than he could possibly learn wandering about the Gather. If nothing else he could discover what the carter had delivered.
Then he spied a line of coveralls bleaching in the spring sun. He darted over and removed one, ignoring the slight dampness as he slipped it over his head. Kitchen drudges were never noted for cleanliness, and once the beast dirt and stains on his tunic were covered, the dust on his boots and trousers would be unremarkable.
“Hey, you!” Piemur tried to ignore the call, but it was repeated and could only be directed to him. He turned toward the speaker, affecting a stupid expression. “I mean you, with the empty arms!”
Obediently he trudged back to the carter, who slung a heavy sack across his back. At that point, the kitchen steward bustled out to supervise, and Piemur, bent double under the sack, passed him without a glance. The steward alternated between chivvying his drudges out to help unload, and the carter for his ill-timed arrival. The carter replied with equal heat that he had heavy carts and slow beasts and had had to give way and eat dust from those hurrying to this bloody Gather. Meron ought to be pleased he'd got here within the day allotted, much less at an earlier hour.
The steward hushed him and began shouting orders, ordering Piemur on to the back storerooms. Piemur got inside the kitchen, not knowing where the stores rooms were, so, making a business of wiping his face and easing his shoulders, he waited until someone brushed past him and turned down the proper corridor.
“Don't know where Ah'm t' put more as is plenty here a'ready,” muttered the drudge as Piemur followed him.
“A-top them others?” suggested Piemur helpfully.
In the dim light of waning glows, the Nabolese peered at Piemur. “Never saw you afore.”
“Nor you haven't,” Piemur agreed amiably. “Sent from t'Hold to help in kitchen for t'Gather.”
“Oh!” And the sly gleam in the man's eyes suggested to Piemur that he had just let himself in for the worst and dirtiest of the chores about a Hold on a Gather day when the Lord was feasting guests.
Haste appeared the vital factor in unloading the carts, so Piemur didn't see many of the seals on the sacks, barrels and boxes he humped out of sight. But he saw enough to realize that the delivery came from a variety of sources,tanner, weaver, smithcraft for the heaviest boxes, wine from many of the yards, but none, he was pleased to note, from Benden. When the last bundle was stowed in the now bulging stores rooms, Piemur's sigh of relief was echoed by Besel, the sly drudge, who had managed to stay close to him during the unloading. Piemur had no sooner lowered himself to a sack to rest than the man snatched him to his feet.
“C'mon, we've no time to rest t'day.”
Nor did Piemur, who was set first to scrape out ashes from the secondary hearths and then to gutting beasts and wild fowl, thankful that he'd watched Camo often enough at that task to know the tricks. He scoured extra plates, encrusted with the dirt and grime of Turns, until his fingers shriveled. When he'd done that, and peeled a dragonload of tubers, he was allowed a breather so long as he kept one of the five spits turning.
Chaos broke loose when the Hold Steward arrived to inform the kitchen that Lord Meron chose to eat in his own quarters and these were to be prepared while he walked the Gather.
The kitchen steward obsequiously took the change of order, having only that hour completed the feast arrangements in the Great Hall. The moment the heavy door had swung shut on the Hold Steward's back, however, he burst into obscenities that won him Piemur's astounded approval.
If Piemur had thought he'd worked hard already, he was soon disabused of that notion by the rate at which he was sent flying about the kitchen to collect cleaning and polishing tools and preparations. Then he was sent on ahead with Besel and a woman to start cleaning the Lord's rooms. Already weary from an early rising and more hard labor than he'd known since he'd left his native cothold, Piemur tried to cheer himself by imagining Master Oldive's reaction to his 'quiet day' at Nabol Gather.
“Who'd a thought he'd walk t'Gather?” the woman was saying as they trudged up the steep steps from the main hall to Meron's apartment.
“Had to. Didncha hear what they be saying at Gather? Meron dead a'ready and none know his heir. Some as want to turn Gather Day into Duel Day.”
That remark set both Nabolese into cackles of laughter, and Piemur wondered if he could be ignorant enough of Hold problems to ask why they were so amused.
“Ah saw 'em comin' in. Ah did,” said Besel, again with that sly, knowing expression on his face. “Ev'ry one of 'em was with 'im sometime t'day, they was. Outsides with him now, shouldn't wonder.”
“He'll have his li'l game wi'em, he will, each thinking he's been named,” said the woman and dug her elbow into Besel's ribs which sent them both off into malicious laughter again.
“Hope it's not just us as has to do all the cleaning here,” Besel said, putting his hand on the door handle. “Hasn't been done in... faugh!” He turned his head away, coughing against the stench that wafted out to them from the opened door.
As the smell reached Piemur's nostrils, sweet, cloying, sickening, he felt his stomach turn in protest and tried not to inhale. He hung back, hoping the fresher air of the corridor would cleanse the room of its stink.
“Here, you get in and open shutters. You're used to stinking messes, guttingman.” Besel grabbed Piemur roughly by the arm and propelled him violently into the room.
How Piemur managed not to vomit from the odor of the room before he reached the shutters and flung them open, he didn't know. He half-threw his body up the deep sill, gasping in fresh, cool air.
“Other windows, too, boy,” ordered Besel from the doorway,
Piemur filled his lungs and opened the other windows, staying by the last until the chill air dissipated the odors of decay and illness. And Lord Meron's heirs had had to attend him in this funking atmosphere? Piemur spared them a moment of sympathy.
Then Besel shouted for him to go into the other rooms and open them up to air properly. “Else no one'd eat his food, like as not, and we'm to clean up their messes.”
The foul odor hung heaviest in the last of the four large rooms that comprised the Lord Holder's private apartments in Nabol. It was then that Piemur blessed the happenstance that had sent him in here ahead of the others. Reposing on the health were nine pots of exactly the size in which fire lizard eggs were placed to keep warm and harden. Mastering his urge to gag, Piemur ducked across the room to investigate. One pot was set slightly apart from the others and, lifting the lid, Piemur scraped enough sand away to see the mottled shell before he covered it carefully over. He took a quick look at the contents of the first pot in the other group. Yes, the egg was smaller and of a different hue. He'd wager every mark he owned that the separate pot contained a fire lizard queen egg.
Quickly he switched pots. Shielding his actions with his body in case Besel ventured this far to check on him, he dumped the sand with deft speed into the cinder shovel, removed the egg and shoved it up under his coverall and into his shirt above his belt. Poking among the cinders, he selected one that had a slightly rounded end and neatly inserted it into the egg pot, replaced sand and lid and stood the rifled pot back in line, straightening up just as the woman crossed the threshold.
“That's the lad, tend the fire first. And you'll need to bring up more blackrock from the yard. He likes his warmth, he does.” She cackled again as she roughly pushed carven chairs out of her way to sweep under the worktable. “To be sure, he'll feel the cold soon enough, he will.”
Besel joined in her laughter.
The fire was hot as Piemur shook the grate free of ashes, and his face burned by the time he had cleared the debris. The heat also warmed the egg, lying against his ribs.
“Hurry it up, you guttingman,” said Besel when Piemur began to lug the heavy ash bucket out. “No slouching, or I'll take me hand to you.” He raised a big fist and Piemur ducked away, feeling the egg pinch his skin and worried he might crack it prematurely.
As he strained with the heavy bucket down the long steps, he wondered how ever was he going to keep the egg safe. Certainly not on his person. And he'd have to keep it warm, too. As well as in someplace to which, in his guise as a lowly guttingman, he'd have easy access.
The solution came to him just as he was about to dump the ashes. He checked the swing of the bucket and glanced about the ashpit. Then very carefully, he emptied the ashes in a pile just to the left of the ashpit opening. Anyone emptying ashbuckets tended to fling the contents to the back wall where the cinders spread downward from the top of the accumulated pile. The molding on either side of the opening kept ashes from tumbling back into the courtyard until the pit was full. Its capacity was by no means reached at this moment. With his booted toe, Piemur made a small depression in the warm ashes, quickly inserted the egg, covering it first with warm ashes, then with a coating of cold cinders to insulate it. Glancing at the sun as he filled his bucket with fresh blackstone from the dump next to the ashpit, Piemur saw that the sun was lowering. Which was a mercy he thought, lugging the blackstone back into the Hold, because he wondered if he'd manage to last through the most arduous day of his life.
They'd have the Feast soon; more than likely as soon as Lord Meron returned to his freshened quarters. What caused that noxious stink? Certainly not Master Oldive's medicines, for the healer believed in fresh air and freshening herbs, which at their worst were pungent but could not cause the odor in Lord Meron's rooms. No matter. Once the Lord and his guests were served, the drudges would get what remained on the serving platters and that would mean everyone could relax for a while. He could, perhaps, sneak away then, before Sebell got anxious. And did he have a lot to tell Sebell!
Half the workers in the Hold were now running up and down the steps, pursued by the strident voice of the Hold Steward who had arrived to direct the freshening. Piemur was promptly given another ashbucket to empty and fill with blackrock. On his way back through the kitchen this time, he sneaked a breadroll, which heartened him considerably.
By some miracle, they were just about finished when a messenger arrived from the guard to say that Lord Meron and his guests were returning. The Steward shoved and pushed everyone out, even to the point of collecting abandoned cleaning tools. As the last of the drudges scurried back into the kitchen, the laughter of the returning Gatherers was heard at the Hold doors.
Piemur had to assist the cook turn the roast for carving, and nearly had his fingers sliced thinner when the cook caught him taking bits that dropped to the table. Then he had to mash endless kettles of tubers. As fast as a dish was served up and garnished, it was dispatched above. At one point, Piemur thought he might be sent, but it was decided he was much too dirty to carry food. Instead he was sent to the bowels of the Hold for more glowbaskets as Lord Meron complained that he couldn't see to eat. Piemur had to make three trips to satisfy the need. By that time, the platters were coming back to the kitchen. The drudges and lesser stewards stripped food off as it passed them by. The kitchen began to quiet as mouths were stuffed too full to permit speech. Piemur managed to secure a meat-rimmed bone and, grabbing a handful of the sliced breads, he retired to the darkest comer of the huge room to eat.
He applied himself ravenously to his food, having decided to leave as quickly as possible now. The sun had set during the furor of serving the feast, so he had the cover of darkness to retrieve his egg. And he'd have the excuse for the guards, if they stopped him, that he was finished with his duties. Lord Groghe always gave his drudges time to attend the Gather dancing. Piemur was looking forward to encountering Sebell again. He might not have heard much to the point of which heir the Hold staff preferred, but he had proof that Lord Meron was getting far more fire lizard eggs than a small Hold like Nabol ought to receive; that his stores rooms were full of more supplies than he and his could ever use in a full pass much less a Turn.
Hungry though he was, Piemur couldn't finish all the meat on the bone. He was too tired to eat, he thought, and before he did collapse from exhaustion, he'd better retrieve the egg and slip out to meet Sebell. How he longed for his bed at the Harper Hall.
The regular kitchen drudges were too busy grumbling about the poor selection left for them to eat and how much those blinking guests were eating and drinking to notice Piemur's deft exit.
He took possession of the precious egg, warm to the touch, and wrapping it carefully in a wad of rags, thrust the bundle once again under his tunic. He jauntily approached the main gates, whistling deliberately off key.
“And where do you think you're going?”
“T'Gather,” Piemur replied as if this was all too obvious.
He was as surprised by the man's guffaw as he was by being swung around and roughly propelled back the way he had come.
“Don't try that one on me again, guttingman!” called the guard as the force of his push sent Piemur stumbling across the cobbles, trying not to fall and damage the egg. He stopped in the darkest shadow of the wall and stood fuming over this unexpected check to his escape. It was ridiculous! He couldn't think of any other Hold in all Pern where the drudges were denied the privilege of going to the Hold's own Gather.
“G'wan back to the ashes, guttingman!”
It was then that Piemur realized his coverall, none too clean in the light, was still visible in the shadows, so he slunk past the opening into the kitchen court. Out of sight, he stripped off the betraying coverall and flung it into a corner. So he wasn't allowed to leave, was he?
Well, the guests would have to be passed. He would simply bide his time and slip out of Nabol Hold the same way he'd gotten in.
Taking heart in that notion, he looked about him for a suitable place to wait. He should remain in the courtyards, where he would hear the commotion of leave-taking. He'd better not return to the kitchens, or he'd be put to work again. His roving eye caught the blackness that was the ash and blackstone pits, and that solved his problem. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way to this least likely of all hiding spots and settled on the spongy surface at the right hand side of the opening to the ashpit. Not the most comfortable place to wait, he thought, removing a large cinder shell from under his tail bone before he achieved some measure of comfort. The night wind had picked up a bit, and he felt the chill when he poked his nose over the coping. Ah well, he shouldn't have long to wait. He doubted anyone would tolerate Lord Meron's smell longer than absolutely necessary.
He was awakened from a fitful doze by the sound of shouting and much running about in the main courtyard, and then a nearer, more frightening clamor in the kitchen itself. Above the shouts and slammings, he heard a pathetic wail.
“Ah dunno 'im. Ah tell yuz. First time today Ah saw 'im. Said he was here to help t'Gather, and we needed help.”
Trust Besel to clear himself of any blame, thought Piemur.
“Sir, gate guard says a boy answering his description tried to pass out to the Gather awhile back. He couldn't say if the drudge carried anything about him. Wasn't looking for stolen items.”
“Then he didn't leave?” The voice was a snarl of fury.
Lord Meron? wondered Piemur. And then realized that the unexpected had happened. The substitute in the egg pot had been discovered. There'd be no way he could creep out of this Hold in the shadow of departing guests. With the way men were dashing about lighting up every crook and corner of the courtyards, he'd be lucky to remain undiscovered. Some eager soul would certainly think to prod a spear through the ashpit just on the off-chance... especially if Besel remembered that he'd emptied ash buckets and might have hidden the egg there.
Frantic now, Piemur glanced up at the walls about him. Carved from the cliff itself, they were, and he could never climb straight up unseen. He caught sight of a rectangular darkness just above his head to the left of the ashpit. A window? To what? This side of the kitchen was devoted to stores rooms, but what window.... The stores rooms were backed from the corridor side. No searcher would believe him able to open locked doors without a key. Which the kitchen steward kept on a chain about his waist at all times. He couldn't ask for a safer hiding place. And if he closed the window behind him...
He had to wait until the kitchen courtyard had been thoroughly searched... except for the garbage and ashpits. The shout went up that the thief must be hiding in the Hold. The searchers swarmed back inside, and he leaped to the top of the ashpit wall. His fingers just reached the ledge of the window. Taking a deep breath, Piemur gave a wriggling jump and succeeded in planting both hands over the sill. It took every sinew in his body to secure that awkward and painful grip. He felt as if he'd scraped the skin from all his fingers as he clung and worked his body up until his elbows had purchase on the sill. With another mighty wriggle and kick, he managed to propel himself up and over, falling on his head on the topmost sack. Groaning at the pain of that contact, he twisted about, and reaching up, drew the shutter tightly but quietly across, barring the window. Then he felt the egg to be sure his fall had done it no harm.
He tried to imagine this room from the perspective of the door side, but all the stores rooms had seemed the same. He crouched in terror as he heard shouting in the corridor. Someone rattled the bolts of the door.
“Locked right, and the steward has the keys. He can't be here.”
They might just take a look, thought Piemur, when they didn't find him anywhere else. He crawled cautiously over the stacked bundles until he found one with enough slack at the top to admit him. He opened the thong, and just as he was crawling in, wondered how under the sun he was going to tie it up again, the stitching at the side began to give in his hands. Smiling happily at such a solution, he rapidly undid the stitching down the side. Crawling out, he retied the knot about the mouth of the sack, then slid through the undone seam, which, once inside, he could do up, slowly but enough to pass a cursory inspection. It was hard to do, feeding the thick thread through the original holes from the inside, and his hands and fingers were cramped when he finally accomplished the feat.
He was in a sack of cloth bales and, despite the cramped confines, he was able to wiggle down between bolts so that he was standing on the bottom of the sack and both he and the egg were cushioned on all sides by the material.
Between fatigue and the scant supply of air in the sack, he found his eyes drooping, and surrendering to the combination of exhaustion and safety, he fell fast asleep.
He was roused briefly when the door was unlocked and thrown open. But the inspection was cursory, since the Hold Steward kept insisting that the doors had been locked since the morning and he wouldn't let them poke any spears lest they harm the contents of the bales.
“He could have hid in the glow room. He was sent there several times.”
The door was duly shut and locked.
Piemur was conscious of more activity, but his sleep was so deep that he wasn't certain later whether he dreamed the noise or not. He wasn't even conscious of being moved or of the cold of between. What woke him was a strange difficulty with breathing, a sense of heat and the terror of suffocating in his own sweat.
Gasping, he tore at the thread he had reworked, hard to undo with moist trembling hands that had no strength, and with sight impeded by perspiration pouring down his forehead.
Even when he had forced a small hole in the sack, he still couldn't seem to breathe. Weeping in terror, even to the point of forgetting the egg that had brought him to this extremity, he squirmed out of the sack to discover himself in a small space among other sacks. The heat was unbearable, but caution returned and he listened for any sounds. Instead of noise, his senses reported sun-heated material and hides, sun-warmed metal, and the sour sweat of hot wine.
He tried to shove the nearest sack away from him and couldn't shift it. Feeling the contents, he realized that it was metal. Twisting around, he tested the sack above him and gave an experimental heave. It moved, and a whoosh of slightly cooler air rewarded his efforts. Dragging breath into his lungs, he waited until his heart stopped its frantic pounding. And then, belatedly remembering the egg, he felt the rags about the precious burden. It seemed to be whole, but he didn't have sufficient space to get it out and look. He gave another shove at the upper bale with no success. Angling so that his shoulders were against the unyielding metal, he levered his feet and pushed as hard as he could. It moved farther, and he saw a crack of sky so brilliantly blue that he gasped at the color.
It was then that he realized he wasn't in Nabol Hold any longer. That the heat was not due to the unventilated stores room beyond Lord Meron's kitchen, but the sun pouring down from southern skies.
Once he was able to breathe easily, Piemur became aware of other discomforts, parched mouth and throat, a stomach gnawing with emptiness, and a head that banged with a distressingly keen ache.
He repositioned himself and shoved the sack a little further to one side. Then he had to rest, panting with the exertion as sweat trickled down inside his clothes. He had made enough space to take a look at the egg, and he fumbled under his tunic for it with trembling hands. It was warm to his touch, almost hot, and he worried that an egg could be overheated. What had Menolly said about the temperature required by hatching eggs? Surely beach sands under the sun were hotter than his body. He could see no fracture marks on the shell and fancied he felt a faint throbbing. Probably his own blood. He squinted at the blue sky, which meant freedom, and decided not to put the egg back in his tunic. If he held it in front of him, then it didn't matter how he twisted and squeezed his body past the sacks and bales, the egg would take no harm and there was no way it could fall far.
When he was breathing more easily, he gathered his body, egg-holding hand above his head, and began to squirm upward. Just as he thought he was free, the sack behind him settled agonizingly on his left foot, and he had to put the egg down to free himself.
Bruised, torn in muscle, skin and nerve, Piemur slowly dragged himself out of the carelessly piled goods. He lay stretched flat, mindful that he might be visible. The unshielded sun baked his dehydrated and exhausted body as he listened beyond the pounding of his heart and the thudding of blood through his veins. But he heard only the distant sound of voices raised in laughing conversation. He could smell salt in the air and the odd aroma of something sweet, and perhaps, overripe.
His tired mind could not recall much of what he'd heard of the Southern Weyr. Vague flashes of people saying you could pick fresh fruit right off the trees reassured him. A breeze fanned his face, bringing with it the smell of baking meats. Hunger asserted itself. He licked his dried, cracking lips and winced as the salt of his sweat settled painfully in the cuts.
Cautiously he raised his head and realized that he was at the top of a considerable mound that was braced against the stone walls of a structure of some height. To one side there was open space, to the other the crushed green of leaves and fronds, half-trapped by the bales. He inched himself cautiously toward the foliage, the egg considered at each movement. But even with caution his heart all but stopped when his motion caused one of the bundles to settle abruptly with what seemed to him a lot of unnecessary noise.
He listened intently for a long moment before continuing his crawl toward the foliage. Now, if he could climb up that tree... One look at the horny bark decided him against that. His hands were sore, scratched and bleeding from past efforts. He was about to crawl down the mound instead when something orangey caught his eye. A round fruit slowly swayed just above his head. He licked his dry lips and swallowed painfully against the parched tissue of mouth and throat. It looked ripe. He reached out, scarcely believing his luck, and the fruit rind dented softly at his touch.
Piemur did not remember picking the fruit: he did remember the incredibly delicious, wet, tangy taste of the orange-yellow meat as he tore juicy segments out of the rind and crammed them into his moisture-starved mouth. The juice stung his cracked lips, but it seemed to revive the rest of him.
It was while he was licking his fingers clean of the last of the fruit that he noticed the change in the laughing and talking. The noise was coming nearer, and he could hear individual phrases.
“If we don't get some of that stuff under cover, it'll be rained,” said a tenor voice.
“I can smell the wine, in fact, and that better be taken out of the sun or it will be undrinkable,” said a second male voice with some urgency.
“And if Meron's ignored my order for fabric this time...” The woman's sharp alto left the threat unspoken.
“I made it a condition of that last shipment of fire lizard eggs, Mardra, so don't worry.”
“Oh, I won't worry, but Meron will.”
“Here, this one bears a weaver's seal.”
“At the very bottom, too. Who piled this so carelessly?”
Piemur, scurrying down the other side as fast as he could, felt the shiver as someone began tugging at the sacks in the front. Then he was sliding and grabbed the egg more tightly, exclaiming as he hit the ground with a thud.
Immediately three fire lizards, a bronze and two browns, appeared in the air about him.
“I'm not here,” he told them in a soundless whisper, gesturing urgently for them to go away. “You haven't seen me. I'm not here!” He took to his heels, his knees wobbling uncertainly, but as he lurched down a faintly outlined path leading away from the voices and the goods, he thought so fiercely of the black nothingness of between that the fire lizards gave a shriek and disappeared.
“Who's not here? What are you talking about?” The strident tones of the woman's voice followed Piemur as he careered away.
When he could run no more for the stitch in his side and the lack of breath, he dared no more than pause until he'd gotten his wind. He did stop longer when he came to a stream, rinsed his mouth out with the tepid water and then splashed it about his heated face and head.
A noise, to his apprehensive mind like the querying note of a fire lizard, set him off again, after nearly falling into the stream. He plunged on, tripped twice, curling his body each time as he fell to protect the egg; but the third time he fell, he had reached the end of his resources. He crawled out of the line of the faint path to a place well under the broad leaves of a flowering bush and probably slept even before his labored breathing quietened.