Since it was not at all unusual for dragonriders to be found poring over the volumes in the extensive Aivas archives, F'lessan, rider of bronze Golanth, was not surprised to see a girl wearing the shoulder knots of a green rider from Monaco Bay deeply engrossed in study. What did strike him as odd was that anyone at all was here in the main archive reading room during Turnover. Tonight the planet, north and south continents, would officially celebrate the beginning of the thirty-second Turn of the present and, hopefully, final Pass of Threadfall. Even through the thick walls of the building, he could hear drums and occasionally the sound of the brass instruments from Landing's Gather Square.
Why wasn't the girl, especially a green rider, out dancing? Why wasn't he? He grimaced. He was still trying to overcome the carelessly lustful reputation that he had earned early in this Pass. Not that he was any different from many bronze and brown riders. "Just more noticeable," Mirrim had told him in her candid fashion. Mirrim had astonished everyone, including herself, when she had Impressed green Path at a Benden Weyr Hatching. Being T'gellan's weyrmate had mellowed her natural assertiveness, but she never spared him her blunt opinions.
The girl was engrossed in her study of a foldout page depicting Rukbat's planetary system, spread across the tilted reading desk. Not everyone's reading choice certainly, F'lessan thought.
Many of the younger riders, who would see the end of this Pass in sixteen Turns, were studying to become proficient in another craft. In that way they would be able to support themselves once the traditional tithe to the Weyrs ceased. While Thread still fell, Hold and Hall would continue to support the dragonriders, in exchange for aerial protection against the voracious organism that could destroy anything but metal and stone. But when Thread ceased, so would that support. Those riders whose families owned holds or halls might simply be reabsorbed, but weyrbred dragonriders like F'lessan had to find another way. Fortunately for F'lessan, he had discovered Honshu, in the foothills of the great Southern mountain range, and since the Weyrs had wrung out of the council that loosely governed the planet the concession that dragonriders might claim holdings on the Southern continent, F'lessan had claimed Honshu as his. He had based most of his argument on the fact that he intended to restore and preserve the Ancient habitation and its splendors for everyone to enjoy. He had used every ounce of his considerable charm and every jot of guile with other Weyrleaders, Craftmasters, and Lord Holders in order to secure that title to himself. And once the formidable intelligence of the Artificial Intelligence Voice Address System-Aivas-and the combined might of all the Weyrs of Pern had diverted the orbit of the menacing Red Star, he had begun to spend all the time he could spare from his duties as a Benden Wing-leader in refurbishing Honshu.
F'lessan had never been a studious youngster-his interests as well as his concentration span had been limited to escaping lessons whenever he could and having the greatest amount of fun. Impressing bronze Golanth had imposed discipline at last, because there was no way he would neglect his dragon. He had learned a determination and focus that had resulted in his becoming one of the most adept riders, held up as a fine example-at least of riding-by weyrlingmasters.
Honshu had become another passion. The Ancient holding, with the splendid murals in its main hall, had exerted a strange compulsion on him from the start: to preserve the ancient treasures found there and to discover as much as possible about its founders and residents. With the boyish impudence that was his most ingenuous characteristic, he had appointed himself Honshu's guardian and caretaker. He had worked harder than anyone else in clearing out the muck and mold and restoring the fabric of the place. Tonight he had a puzzle he wanted to solve. He had specifically chosen this time to come to the Aivas facility, hoping to be its sole visitor. He preferred not to share his research-his fascination with Honshu was at odds with his reputation.
You protect Honshu. I like being there very much, said his dragon, Golanth, from where he had settled himself in the hot noontime sun among the dragons who had brought their riders to Landing's Turnover festivities. Good sunning places, clear water, and many fat herdbeasts.
Still paused quietly on the threshold of the reading room, F'lessan grinned. You found it. We'll keep it.
Yes, Golanth agreed amiably.
F'lessan stuffed his riding gloves into the Turnover gift of a fine carisak, giving the wide cuffs a good push; the new wher-hide leather was stiff, despite the good oiling he had given it yesterday evening. The carisak had been presented to him by Lessa and F'lar. He rarely thought of them as "mother" or "father": they were his Weyrleaders, and that was more relevant. His birthing day, his Impression Day-the day marking the advent of Golanth into his life-and Turnover were, however, always recognized by some gift from them. F'lessan didn't know if this was occasioned by their need to remind him of his parents, or themselves of their son. Fostering was the rule in a weyr, so no child was without several people, not necessarily the birth parents, who took special interest in him or her. As F'lessan grew up and saw how easygoing life was in a weyr, and the conformity required of children in the holds, he was as glad he'd been weyrbred.
He gave the gloves one more shove to store them completely, but still he hesitated to enter the room. He didn't want to disturb the single reader who was so engrossed in her study that she was unaware of him standing there.
No one has ever disliked your company, said his dragon.
I don't like to break into such concentration, F'lessan replied. How do we know she isn't studying an alternative occupation for After?
Dragons will always be needed on Pern, Golanth said stoutly.
Golanth was fond of making that observation. Almost as if Golanth, too, needed to reassure himself. Maybe it was just the mind-set of a bronze dragon-or more likely Mnementh's in particular, since F'lar's great bronze took a keen interest in the subtle tuition of any bronzes hatched on Benden's sands. However, succeeding F'lar as Weyrleader of Benden was most certainly not in F'lessan's future plans. F'lessan earnestly hoped that F'lar would lead the Weyr out of this Pass: a triumph in itself, over and above what F'lar had done at its beginning with the slender force he'd had available then. Being Wingleader suited F'lessan's blithe personality, especially now that he had claimed Honshu as his special domain. Now, if the Weyrleaders-or rather F'lar-would just come out and say that he and Lessa would retire there, no one would dare contest his claim.
Unlike the position of Lord Holders, the Weyrleadership was not hereditary. A good example was the recent stepping down of R'mart and Bedella of Telgar. To establish the new leadership, the challenge had been for the best bronze in the Weyr to fly the first junior queen ready to mate. J'fery, rider of bronze Willerth, was now Telgar's Weyrleader, and Palla, golden Talmanth's rider, was Weyrwoman. F'lessan knew them both well, and knew they would lead Telgar Weyr well under Threadfree skies.
If we don't make the arrogant mistakes that the Oldtimers did, F'lessan added to himself, and expect to continue receiving the perquisites due the Weyrs during a Pass, once there is no more Thread.
A movement brought him back to the present. The girl's boots scraped over the stone floor as she recrossed her ankles. She was hunched forward over the reading desk and now leaned her elbows on the table. Her profile was well lit by the softly disseminated light, and she had thinned her lips over whatever it was she was reading. She frowned, then sighed over the wide page. F'lessan saw the well-defined arch of a black eyebrow as her frown relaxed. She had a long and very delicately formed nose, he observed with mild approval. Her hair, a midbrown sparking with red as she moved, was clipped short on top to reduce sweating under her helmet. Left long at the nape of her neck, the wavy mass reached halfway down her back, where it was neatly cut off in a straight line.
She turned her head abruptly, suddenly aware of his scrutiny.
"Sorry. Thought I'd have the place to myself," F'lessan said genially, striding forward, his dress shoes making very little sound on the stone floor.
Her startlement suggested to him that she, too, had thought she could study in solitary quiet. She was in the act of pushing back her chair when he held out a hand to prevent her from rising. Most riders knew who he was: he made a habit of flying Thread with the two southern Weyrs and usually attended every Impression. The latter was sheer indulgence on his part, for at each Impression, he and Golanth reaffirmed their lifelong commitment to each other. Now that he could see her full face, he recognized her. "You're Tai, aren't you? Zaranth's rider?" he asked, hoping he remembered rightly.
You always do, Golanth murmured. She'd Impressed, unexpectedly, nearly five Turns ago at Monaco Bay. She'd come south, though he couldn't remember from where. There had been so many people flooding through Landing since Aivas was discovered in 2538. While she couldn't be much older than her mid twenties, he wondered if she'd been part of the workforce during those astonishing five Turns of Aivas. After all, Aivas had demonstrated a distinct bias for green dragons and their riders.
F'lessan stepped forward, extending his hand to her. She looked embarrassed, dropping her eyes as soon as their hands had clasped politely. Her handshake was firm, if brisk almost to the point of rudeness, and he could feel some odd ridges, scars, on the back of her hand and on her forefinger. She wasn't pretty; she didn't act sensual, the way some green riders did, and she was only half a head shorter than he was. She wasn't too thin, but the lack of flesh on her bones gave her a slightly boyish appearance.
"I'm F'lessan, Golanth's rider, of Benden."
"Yes," she said, shooting him a sharp look. Her eyes were set at an unusual upward slant, but she looked away so quickly he couldn't see what color they were. Oddly enough, she flushed. "I know." She seemed to gather breath to continue. "Zaranth just told me that Golanth had apologized for disturbing her nap on the ledge." She flicked him another almost contrite glance, awkwardly clasping her left wrist with her right hand so that the knuckles turned white.
F'lessan grinned in his most ingratiating fashion. "By nature, Golanth is very considerate." He gave a little bow and gestured toward the volume open on the reading desk. "Don't let me disturb your studies. I'll be over there." He pointed to the far right.
He could just as easily work in the alcove as in the main room and not intrude on her solitude. In no time at all he had collected three of the records he thought most likely to contain the information he sought, and brought them to the smaller reading desk in the alcove. A narrow window gave him a view of the eastern hills and the barest sparkle of the sea. He seated himself, placed the piece of paper that he had brought with him on the table, and started riffling through the thinly coated plastic pages of the COM Tower records. He was looking for one name: Stev Kimmer, listed in the colony records as Stakeholder on Bitkim Island, now called Ista Hold. He needed to find any connection between Kimmer and Kenjo Fusaiyuki, who had been the original Honshu Stakeholder.
In his careful clearing of debris in the ancient dwelling place, he had found the initials SK carved or etched on several surfaces: on the metal worktop in the garage of the ancient sled and on several drawers. No other inhabitant had defaced or initialed anything. The only SK not listed as going north in the Second Crossing-when the Thread-beleaguered colonists had resettled at Fort-was Stev Kimmer. Previous research revealed that the man had disappeared with a sled after Ted Tubberman's illegal launch of an appeal for help from old Earth. Kimmer had not been seen again. The loss of a functional sled had been officially regretted; Kimmer's absence had not.
The interesting point in F'lessan's earlier search was that Ita Fusaiyuki had continued to hold at Honshu and resisted every invitation to move north with her children. Other colonists, like those at Terne Island and some of the smaller holds in Dorado, had hung on in the south as long as they could. Eventually all, save perhaps those at Honshu, had immigrated. There had been no reference to Honshu or the Fusaiyukis in the early records at Fort Hold.
The initials, S and K, were distinctively carved. F'lessan needed to find any other samples of Stev Kimmer's handwriting to be sure of his identification. Not that it mattered, except to him. With atypical zeal, F'lessan yearned to complete the history of Honshu itself as accurately as possible: who had lived there, when they had left, where they had gone, and why.
Honshu was also an excellent example of colonial self-sufficiency. Clearly it had been occupied by quite a few people and designed for many more: a whole floor of bedrooms had never been furnished. Then, all at once and in some hurry, considering details like drawers left pulled out in a workshop that had otherwise been meticulously kept, everyone had left. Twelve of them at least. To judge by strands of moldering material, even garments had been left behind, folded on the shelves, in drawers, or hanging in closets. The fact that all the utensils were still stored and hung about the capacious kitchen argued that, wherever the inhabitants had gone, they hadn't needed to bring along household equipment. Storage canisters filled with desiccated remnants indicated that few, if any, staples had been taken. There were homely artifacts like rusted needles, pins, and scissors. There had been no human bones to suggest a sudden annihilation from attack or disease.
Although all the other entrances to the interior of Honshu had been shut, the heavy doors to the beasthold had been propped open, suggesting that the Ancients had released their livestock but had left the creatures access to a refuge.
He turned page after page of the daily comings and goings from Landing, neatly recorded by the Tower duty officers. He saw again the reference to Kimmer's defection with a much-needed operational sled.
S.K. involved in the Tubberman launching. Observed on a northwestern course. Suspect that's the last we'll see of him and the sled. ZO.
F'lessan had already tried to find any notes in Kimmer's handwriting from his time as Stakeholder at Bitkim. There had been none from either him or Avril Bitra about their mining operations, though the Minercrafthall still excavated the occasional fine gemstones from the clay at their original site.
He closed the final volume with a frustrated soft whoosh, and then glanced apologetically over his shoulder for disturbing the quiet. He noticed that the surface of Tai's work-table was covered with bound volumes. Idly he wondered if she was having any more luck with her research than he was. Craning his neck he could read the spine on the book facing in his direction: Volume 35-YOKO 13.20-28/. The last four digits, which would be the relevant Turn, had been overwritten in red marker to read 2520. The correction had been made in the precise numerals only Master Esselin could produce.
Stuffing the note with the replica of the initials back into his belt pocket, he rose with quiet agility, trying not to scrape the chair on the stone floor. Collecting the volumes he had been consulting, he returned them to the proper shelf. He stood for a moment, fists jammed into his belt, glaring at the rows of records that would not produce the answer to his puzzle. Was there a reason why he had to identify SK? Who would care? He did, for some obscure reason he didn't understand. He made sure the books were properly aligned on the shelf. Master Esselin was very particular about how his precious volumes were returned.
Hearing Tai get to her feet and push back her chair, F'lessan swiveled around to see her picking up the outsized book she had been studying. She hefted it up, pirouetting gracefully on tiptoe to return it to the special shelf in the case behind her.
"I hope you had better luck," he said with a rueful grin.
Startled, she lost her grip on the awkward, heavy tome. One edge was wedged against the lower shelf. She struggled to get it up again and into its assigned place, but her hand slipped. Knowing how difficult Master Esselin could be about damage to any artifact in his custody, F'lessan leaped across to catch the volume, just managing to keep one corner from impacting on the stone floor.
"Not a bad save, if I say so myself," he said, grinning up at her. Why was she regarding him as if he were dangerous? Or shifty? "I've got it. Allow me?" With what he sincerely hoped was a cheerful smile, he took the volume from her nerveless fingers and shoved it safely into place.
That was when he saw the raw scrapes on the back of her left hand.
"That looks nasty. Seen a healer?" he asked. He reached out to examine the injury, at the same time fumbling in his belt pouch for numbweed.
She tried to pull free of his grasp.
"Tai, did I hurt you?" he asked, instantly releasing her fingers. He quickly displayed the distinctive green glass jar used for numbweed.
"It's nothing."
"Don't try that on me," he said, mock stern. "I'll get Golanth to make Zaranth tell on you."
She blinked rapidly in surprise. "It's just a scrape."
"This is Southern, Tai, and you should know by now that even well-tended wounds can develop some peculiar infections." He cocked his head at her, wondering if he should try a coaxing smile. He had the jar open and passed it under her nose. "Smell? Just reliable old numbweed. Fresh made this spring. My own private supply." He used the tone that had been effective with his sons when they were tots. He held out his hand again, palm up, wriggling his fingers to overcome her reluctance. "Someone might grab that hand later when you're dancing and that'd really hurt." As if on cue, music from the square swelled into an audible finale.
She relented and, almost meekly, extended her hand. He lifted his palm up to steady her fingers as he turned the numbweed jar over the scrape, waiting for a glob of the semiliquid stuff to ooze down.
"It's easier to let it take its own time," he remarked idly, all too aware of her nervousness. The gouges weren't deep, he noticed, but went from knuckles to wrist. She should have taken care of it immediately. It was, he judged from long experience with injuries, several hours old. Why had she ignored it?
She gave a little gasp as the cool numbweed flowed. Expertly, F'lessan tilted her fingers and they both watched the salve slowly cover the scratches.
"At Turnover one is more apt to require fellis for overindulgence than numbweed." That wasn't a particularly clever remark, F'lessan said to himself and gave his head a little shake. "There! That'll prevent infection."
"I didn't realize it was quite so bad. I was in a hurry, you see." She gave the reading room a quick glance.
"Trying to work without interruption." He chuckled, hoping that wouldn't offend her as much as his smile seemed to. "That's why I'm here. No, wait a few moments longer to let the numbweed set," he added when she started to move.
He pulled out a chair, indicating that she should seat herself as he dragged another over for himself, switching it around so he could straddle it, resting his arms on the top. She propped her arm on the table, watching as the numbweed changed from clear to opaque on the scrape. Trying to appear more solicitous than overbearing, he let the silence lengthen, wondering what he could ask without giving additional offense. He didn't usually have problems striking up conversations. He was beginning to wonder if he should have just left her alone in the reading room. Just then the significance of all those Yoko records made sense.
"May I ask why you're interested in the Ghosts?"
She stared at him in such astonishment that her mouth, with its very well shaped lips, fell slightly open. He gestured.
"Why else would anyone be looking over Turns of the end of the thirteenth month? When the Ghost Showers occur?"
She looked everywhere but at him and then, suddenly, blurted out, "I often do some research for Master Wansor and he'd heard that the Ghosts-which we can't see down here-but you'd know about them since you're from Benden-" she stopped, swallowing as if she'd said something untoward.
"Yes, I know that they are not visible here in the southern hemisphere, and yes, they do appear extremely bright and numerous right now. I did notice. In fact, many people have noticed," he went on encouragingly, "but, having lived in Benden Weyr all my life, I remember that on other occasions, they have been as bright and as numerous. I have studied some astronomy, so would a Benden dragonrider not totally untutored in his local starscape be any help to you?"
"Personal observations are always admissible," she said rather primly. "Others have noted," and she gave him the ghost of a smile, pointing to several of the volumes, "their brightness and numbers occur in cycles of seven Turns."
"That's right, because I was three when I saw the pretty lights and asked about them, and this is the fifth time I've seen them so brightly in their hundreds. Here, I'll help you put those heavy books away. Spare irritating your hand."
She seemed about to hesitate, but he stacked five volumes deftly on one arm and walked to the proper shelf. She hastily gathered up more.
"Did you have any luck with your research?" she asked when they had finished racking.
"Actually, no," he said. "But there may not be a source."
"With all this?" She indicated the full ranks of shelving around them.
"Aivas didn't know everything," he said, once again managing to startle her. "That's not heretical, you realize, because he couldn't have recorded anything after the Second Crossing."
"I know."
There was an odd note in that simple agreement that he didn't dare query.
"The answer to my puzzle probably doesn't even exist," he added.
"What puzzle?" She inclined her body slightly in his direction.
Ah, she's curious. That's good. "Initials." He reached into his belt and found the slip of paper. "S.K." He smoothed it out to show her. She frowned slightly, puzzled but not totally reserved. "I believe the initials are Stev Kimmer's," he said.
She blinked. "Who?"
"A real villain-"
"Oh! The man who absconded with a functional sled after the Tubberman launch?"
"You know your history."
She flushed, ducking her head. "I was very fortunate to be accepted to the Landing School."
"You were? I hope you were a better student than I was."
"But you were already a rider," she said, startled into looking directly at him. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green.
He grinned. "That didn't necessarily mean I was a good student. If you're still studying," and he gestured at the shelving, "then you learned good habits. Did you stay on here when you finished schooling?"
She glanced away from him, and he couldn't imagine what he had said to alarm her.
"Yes," she said at last. "I was fortunate. You see," she explained hesitantly, "my father brought us all here. From Keroon. He was a Smithcraft journeyman and helped-here."
"Oh?" F'lessan drawled the exclamation out encouragingly when she faltered.
"My brothers were his apprentices, and my mother took my sister and me to the school, in case we were lucky enough to be accepted. My sister didn't like school."
"Not everyone does," F'lessan said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Her quick glance gave him the impression that she had taken to learning as a fire-lizard to the air. "So ... ?" he prompted.
"Then, during the last Turn when everyone at Admin was so busy, Master Samvel sent me here to work. My father was anxious to find a good place to hold and they went off."
And, F'lessan thought from the sorrow in the set of her shoulders and dejected attitude, she had never heard from them again.
"Did anyone look for them?"
"Oh, yes," she said quickly, glancing up. "T'gellan sent out a full wing." She looked away again.
"No trace at all?" he asked gently.
"None. Everyone was very kind. I was apprenticed to Master Wansor-I read for him. He liked my voice."
"I don't wonder at that," F'lessan said. He had already noticed how expressive her voice could be.
"That's how I came to be at the Monaco Bay Hatching and Impressed Zaranth."
"Reading to Master Wansor?"
"No," she said in an amused tone. "He liked to have someone telling him what was going on. So we were seated to one side of the Hatching Ground."
F'lessan chuckled. "Yes, I remember. Master Wansor had to push you at Zaranth. You didn't know what to do: respond to the hatchling or tell Master Wansor what was happening."
The smile that lit her face and her green eyes was evocative of the sense of incredulity and wonder that overwhelmed anyone lucky enough to Impress a dragon. His smile answered hers and both were silent for a long moment in fond reminiscences of their Impressions.
"You're still keeping up with your studies?" F'lessan asked, indicating the old tome she'd been studying.
"Why not?" she asked, with a wry grin. "It's as good an occupation for a dragonrider as any."
After a pause, she asked, "Have you tried the Charter?"
He blinked. "The Charter?"
She waved toward the special case where the original Charter of the Pern Colony was housed.
"Kimmer was an original colonist, wasn't he?" she said. "He'd've had to sign his name somewhere, even as a contractor, wouldn't he?"
F'lessan got to his feet so fast he had to catch the chair from falling. His movement startled her.
"Now, why didn't I think of that?" he exclaimed with exaggerated self-castigation. He strode to the airtight case that held what was considered the most valuable, and venerable, document on the planet.
Fort Hold had ceremoniously returned the Charter to Landing. Indeed, no one had known what had been stored in the thick container that had been gathering dust with other Hold treasures until Aivas had told them what to look for. Aivas was certainly the only intelligence that had known the combination of the digital lock. Inside its airtight case, the Charter had been revealed to be pristine. Upon close examination, Masterwoodsmith Benelek remarked that the plastic-coated pages could not have been damaged by anything short of being chopped into little pieces by very sharp blades. Now the Charter was enshrined behind some of Master Morilton's clear thick panes, mounted on a mechanism-also an Aivas design-that turned its pages to the one required.
"The capital letters would be similar, wouldn't they? Printed or written," F'lessan muttered. "Your research skills are better honed than mine." He shot her an appreciative grin. "Let's get to the end ... Ah, contractor, contractor," he said under his breath as the pages shifted in sequence to the final ones containing signatures, many of them mere illegible scrawls. There were three sections: the first, of the Charterers; the second, longer, included the names of all the Contractors; while the third listed all minor children over five years of age who had come with their parents on this momentous venture.
"There," Tai said, her right index finger tapping the glass so that he could find the bold handwritten Stev Kimmer, Eng.
With careful fingers, F'lessan smoothed his note on the glass, just above the bold, and legible, name.
"Couldn't be anyone else," Tai said. She ran her finger down the listings. "No other S.K."
"You're right, you're right. He's here. It's him." With his characteristic exuberance, F'lessan grabbed her by the waist and spun her about, forgetting the reserve she had shown any of his overtures of friendliness. "Oops!" He dropped her, staring in mute apology.
She staggered a little off balance and instantly he steadied her.
"Thank you very much for finding it so quickly. I was looking so hard I couldn't see," he said, giving her a quick bow.
She had a very nice smile, he thought, as the corners of her wide mouth curved up, showing her teeth, white and even, accented by a tanned complexion that was as much heredity as exposure to southern sun.
"Why was it so important to you?"
"Do you really want to know?" he asked with the ingenuousness that could still surprise people.
Her smile deepened, causing two dimples to appear in her cheeks. He didn't know any girls with dimples.
"If a dragonrider finds it more important than"-she tilted her head toward the noise of very loud dance music-"Turnover eating and dancing, it must be important."
He chuckled, "You're a dragonrider and you're here."
"But you're F'lessan and a bronze rider."
"And you are Tai and a green rider," he countered.
The dimples disappeared and she looked away from him.
You are a bronze rider and you are F'lessan and she's shy, Golanth said. Zaranth says she wants to make something of herself for After. She never wants to be beholden to anyone else ever.
Like all dragonriders, F'lessan said with considerable irony.
Not even to other dragonriders, Golanth added, slightly offended by Tai's utter independence.
"We were getting along quite well when you found Stev Kimmer's signature for me," F'lessan said gently.
Be very careful, his dragon said softly.
"I think the numbweed is dry enough now," he added. "I know I'm hungry and thirsty and, while I would prefer to go back to Honshu, I have to put in an appearance out there." He nodded in the direction of the music.
"Is that where Stev Kimmer went? To Honshu? Why would that be his destination?"
"Ah," and F'lessan held up a finger, "that's part of the puzzle I've got. I did find his initials on surfaces in the Hold, and yet the records Ita Fusaiyuki kept until a few months after Kenjo's death make no mention of him."
"She died there?"
F'lessan shook his head as she absently followed his slow drift out of the Archives room.
"I don't know that. Aivas has records of messages sent to her, urging her to come first to Landing to cross north. So she was still alive during the Second Crossing. Or someone at Honshu was."
"I promised I'd lock up," Tai said, pausing in the entrance hall to enable the alarm.
F'lessan nodded approval. All archival material, whether here or at a Hall or Hold, was provided with safeguards against natural-or unnatural-accidents.
Outside, both stopped on the wide top step. The quick transition from twilight to full tropical night had occurred as they talked. Below them, spread out in festive splendor, were the lights, sights, and sounds of Turnover. More enticing were the luscious aromas of the fine feast awaiting the revelers. As one they inhaled the odors and then, again simultaneously, turned slightly to see the round blue lanterns of massed dragon eyes on the heights, the blue denoting the dragons' own enjoyment of the happy scene. The music came to a raucous finale and the sound of laughter and excited chatter drifted back to them.
"The harpers are setting down their instruments," F'lessan said, pointing to the platform. He rubbed his hands together. "That means it's time to eat and I'm very hungry."
He looked around at her: she was exactly the right height for him. But would she dance if he asked her? "I am, too," she admitted and tilted her chin just slightly. He made a bow and swept his hand gracefully, indicating they should proceed.
"You've got long legs. I'll race you to the roast pits." And he took off, hearing her laugh before he heard her boots scrabbling in the beach pebbles that lined the path.
Tai, who knew rather more about Benden Wingleader F'lessan than he was aware, surprised herself by responding to the challenge. Despite all the tales she had heard from Mirrim about the bronze rider-including dire warnings about his fecklessness-he had acted considerately and courteously toward her in the library. She'd been surprised that he appeared to know his way around the shelves. He had certainly prevented her from getting in trouble with Master Esselin, who had his own ideas about what dragonriders should study. Especially green female riders. After Tai's first distressing encounter with the pompous Archivist, Mirrim had comforted her with a tale of how nasty Esselin had once been to her, in the early days of the discoveries at Landing, before Aivas was discovered, and how MasterHarper Robinton himself had acted on Mirrim's behalf. The fussbudget was the main reason Tai tried to pick unusual hours at the library: times when she wouldn't have to deal with the persnickety old man.
Fortunately the path from that wing of the Archives was wide all the way down to the open area where the Turnover festivities were being held. Now that the sun was down, lighting had come up so they didn't have to watch where they put their feet. F'lessan was ahead of her, as he passed the Aivas section, but he slowed and looked to his right with a respectful bend of his head. Tai knew that he'd been very much involved with Aivas, almost from the day of discovery, so his reverence was understandable. She slowed, too, as much from surprise as to nod her own respects. Then he lengthened his stride and so did she, trying to catch up. She wasn't a Runner, but she was no drag foot either and really wanted to catch up. Riders kept fit-it was part of their dedication to their dragons-and running was good exercise.
She ran into the dragonrider when he abruptly stopped, rounding a curve and trying to keep from knocking over a couple who were so involved in each other that they were oblivious to their surroundings. His halt and turn were close to acrobatic as he kept her from tripping over him.
Contrary to what Mirrim had led Tai to expect in F'lessan's behavior, he held her no longer than was necessary for her to regain her balance. His eyes were merry with amusement as he jerked his head at the still unmindful pair, lost in their private world.
"Let us not be an obstacle in the path of true love," he murmured to her and gestured that they circle around the lovers. He was breathing only a little hard from the run, though no more than she was.
They made the detour and then, the race forgotten, loped easily side by side toward the roasting pits. Diners were just beginning to assemble.
There was always an evening breeze at Landing, and that dried the sweat on her brow as they stood in line. They arrived just before the crowd streaming from the square. By the time they were served roast beast and quarters of grilled avians, and took their choice from steaming bowls of tubers and vegetables, the line at the serving tables had tripled its length.
"Where shall we sit?" F'lessan asked her, looking around.
"Surely you're joining your friends?"
"Ha! No one in particular. I wanted free time at the Archives. Look, over to our right, there at the edge. A quiet table." He raised his voice. "Hey, Geger!" A wineman glanced their way. "Serve us, will you?" F'lessan pointed and, putting his free hand on her elbow, steered her in that direction.
The wineman converged on the table just as they arrived.
"White? Red?" F'lessan asked her before turning to the wineman. "D'you have any Benden there, Geger?"
"Well, seeing as it's you, F'lessan, yes, I can get one." The wineman put his fingers to his lips and his shrill whistle pierced the happy noise of the crowd. Across the square, where skins of wine were hung in display, another wineman looked toward them. Geger flagged his arms in a private code and the man waved in reply. "That'll be three marks, bronze rider."
"What?" F'lessan demanded.
"I'll pay my share," Tai said quickly, reaching for her belt pouch.
"That's robbery, Geger. I could have bought from the source for one and a half."
Tai was amused by the outrage in his voice.
"Then you shoulda done before you got here, F'lessan. And you know three marks isn't high for cold white Benden." The last three words were delivered in a slow cajoling drawl.
"But three?"
"I'll give-" Tai began, but F'lessan flapped his hand sharply at her.
"Geger and I are old friends," he said, his eyes sparkling. There was a firm edge to his voice. "Aren't we, old friend?"
"Even for old friends, three marks for a '30 vintage cold white Benden is a good price at Turnover." Geger was not to be moved by any consideration of friendship.
"Benden marks," F'lessan said, sticking his jaw out.
"Benden marks are, to be sure, the best. Almost as good as Harper Hall."
F'lessan passed over the three marks just as the other wineman arrived with the skin, a large one.
"Good Turnover," Geger said, tipping a salute to F'lessan and a wink at Tai.
"Well," F'lessan commented, feeling the skin, "it's properly cold." He unplugged the small end, gesturing for Tai to supply glasses from those on the table. He filled both deftly, restored the plug, and laid the skin under the table. "Safe skies!" he said in the traditional toast. Quickly she touched her glass to his.
"I think it is a '30," he added after a judicious sip. He grinned broadly. "You know, three marks isn't that bad for a vintage Benden white."
His remark caught her taking her first sip and she nearly choked on it. Three marks would have been out of her reach even at a Turnover celebration when everyone tended to spend freely. She hadn't brought much with her; once she'd completed the declinations that Erragon wanted, she hadn't expected to do more than get a quick meal here-and maybe listen to the harpers awhile-before returning with Zaranth to her weyr down by Monaco Bay. She didn't have a great many marks in any event, though like many other green riders she could be hired to deliver small packages and letters almost anywhere in Southern, when she wasn't involved in Weyr duties or researching for Master Wansor at Cove Hold.
"Thank you, bronze rider," she said.
"I'm F'lessan, Tai," he replied with gentle chiding and a smile lurking in his eyes.
She wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"Let's eat," he suggested, taking his belt knife from its sheath. "I think from the smell of it the Landing cooks have used their special sauce. What more can one ask for on a Turnover night?"
Tai wouldn't have asked for this much, she mused as she picked up a clean fork and started on the roast tubers, her favorite.
The wine was the best she'd ever tasted and so was the food.
"How's the hand?" F'lessan asked after they'd eaten in hungry silence for a few minutes.
"My hand?" Tai looked down at it. "Oh, truly nothing now. My thanks again. And I usually do keep numbweed handy. I just didn't ... today." In truth she had a big jar among the supplies in her weyr, but she did not have one small enough to fit in her belt pouch.
"How'd you do it?"
"Oh, probably when I was scrubbing Zaranth this afternoon. She hunted today and needed a good wash." Hunting and bathing Zaranth had taken longer than Tai had planned. Knowing that the Archives were more likely to be unoccupied on Turnover days, she'd been anxious to get there-and not careful enough to avoid barnacle-covered rocks when rinsing the stiff brush she used on Zaranth's hide.
"That can happen," he said with rueful agreement. "Are you weyred along the coast or inland?"
Tai tried not to freeze at the question: bronze riders with an eye to mating with Zaranth the next time she was "ripe" always wanted to know where she could be found. Zaranth wasn't even close to her cycle. "Coast," she replied quickly. Almost too quickly. "Do you spend a lot of time at Honshu?"
"Coast, huh? See much of the Monaco dolphins?"
She made herself relax. She was being overly suspicious. "Yes, I do." She smiled. Thinking of her dolphin friends always made her smile. It seemed to have a similar effect on F'lessan, who grinned back at her. He had such a merry smile. Just as Mirrim said he had.
"Natua has a new calf. She showed him off to Zaranth and me," she said, quite willing to talk about dolphins.
"She did?" F'lessan was really interested. It showed in the way his eyes sparkled and his whole face lit up. "Golanth and I must take the time to admire him."
"She'll show him off to anyone, she's so proud."
"I'm better acquainted with the Cove Hold and Readis's pods, you see," he confided in her.
"I know," she replied.
"Quite likely," he said, shooting her a teasing glance. "Dolphins like nothing better than to gossip. They can spread news faster than Runners. We have too many animals on this planet who can talk back to us humans."
She gave him a startled look and then let herself chuckle. "I suppose we should be grateful that fire-lizards can't talk."
"A large mercy," he agreed. "It's bad enough they sing!"
"But they add such beautiful descants."
"I suppose so," he replied amiably.
She knew that Lessa, his mother, had a prejudice against fire-lizards. Mirrim had said it was because no one had known how to control the creatures when they were first brought to Benden. Did F'lessan share her bias? She didn't know what to say to change the subject. He spared her by speaking first.
"What has you so interested in Rukbat system charts?"
"Ah!" She was grateful for the change in topic. "Well, I'm close enough, being at Monaco Bay, and I was an apprentice ... " She floundered a moment.
"So you said ... "
"So I'm often asked to check out figures on the original charts, which are much too valuable to be anywhere else."
"Good Master Esselin." F'lessan's tone was facetious.
She flushed. "He doesn't really approve of me, even if Master Stinar entrusts me to take Yoko updates to Cove Hold, because I'm only a green rider."
"There's no such thing as 'only a green rider,' Tai. A wing never has enough green riders," he replied so staunchly that she was startled enough to catch his eyes. "That's the Wing-leader in me talking. Besides which, Master Esselin is a pompous old hairsplitter! Ignore him."
"I can't. And weren't you hoping to avoid him, too?"
"Whenever I can. He," he told her, dropping his tone to a whisper as he leaned across the table to her, "doesn't approve of me being in Honshu."
"But you found it," she said, surprised.
"Yes," he said, nodding with an air of mischievous satisfaction. "And I take great care of its treasures."
"So I've heard."
"So you have heard some good of me?"
She knew he was teasing her; she knew she was often too solemn. Even Mirrim said she shouldn't be quite so conscientious, but that was just how she was. She just didn't know how to respond to levity. As if he hadn't noticed her uncertainty, he reached for the skin.
"More wine," he said briskly.
She hadn't realized her glass was empty and obediently held it out.
"Does Erragon let you stand any night watches with him at Cove Hold?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm a good timekeeper." Conscientious was what Erragon called her, just like Mirrim.
"Time is a critical factor in astronomy," he replied.
She was surprised that he knew that.
"Did you study much astronomy?"
"Not as much as I should have, but I'll catch up." He wasn't teasing now. He was quite serious. "And to good advantage, since we must look beyond our traditional duties. I like people who think ahead."
"You certainly are, with Honshu."
His expression altered again, as if he, too, had considered his future-which put another dimension to the outwardly lighthearted dragonrider. He grinned, impulsively covering her hand with a reassuring pressure.
"Yes, I've plans for Honshu." Then, in another abrupt change, he added, "I'll just get us second servings before the roasts are all gone."
She wouldn't have had the nerve to go back for more to eat, but F'lessan took her plate before she could protest. Slightly awed, she watched as he chatted with the cook while the man carved generous slices from the roast.
All the tables around them were filled now with boisterous diners, enjoying the excellent Turnover meal. Though several called cheerfully to F'lessan as he made his way back, he returned the greetings without stopping to chat. He wasn't at all what she'd expected based on Mirrim's tales of some of his pranks at Benden Weyr. Well, that had been Turns ago, before he'd Impressed. He did have a serious side to his nature, along with that most amazing sparkle in his eyes. She should be wary of such a sparkle. Mirrim had said he had been very much a bronze rider! Maybe she should slip away while she had a chance. But that seemed very discourteous. She had barely touched the second glass he'd poured.
A bright chord of music cut through conversations and she saw that harpers were ranged on the platform, ready to entertain the diners. Moreover, there'd be new music for a Turnover. She'd intended to stay that long. She reached out for Zaranth's mind, but the green was obviously enjoying herself on the heights with the other dragons.
F'lessan deftly placed the dish before her. It was piled so high she wondered where she'd put all that food.
"I brought you some of the things I like, too. Fresh from the ovens." He topped off their wineglasses. "With music! Good!"
He had no trouble putting away his second helping of Turnover food. Nor did she, but then, her parents had raised her to "eat what's on your plate and be thankful." She took a hasty sip of the white Benden; she hadn't thought of her family recently. Her life with them had been so different from the one she now had-even before she had Impressed Zaranth. Zaranth-and Monaco Weyr-was her family now, and closer to her than she had ever been to her bloodkin.
Determinedly she concentrated on something else and the music caught her up. Sometime during the first round of songs, their plates were removed and a basket of southern fruit, northern nuts, and sweet cakes was deposited on the table. Klah was also being served and F'lessan, she noticed, drank more of that than the wine, which he continued to savor in sips.
It was expected that the diners would join in the chorus of the ballads. When F'lessan opened his mouth to join in, she was astonished. He complained about fire-lizards? They could harmonize, and were supplying descants from wherever they were perched. He couldn't even find the melodic line! He wasn't quite a monotone, but so near to one that she hoped the lusty voices around them drowned him out. Yet he was-well, not exactly singing, although he bellowed out the right words-carrying on as if he didn't care. He merely waved to those at the nearest table, who were grimacing at him and vigorously indicating that he should either shut his mouth or go elsewhere.
Should she try to drown him out? She had an alto range but at least she sang on pitch and with reasonable musicality. He was gesturing broadly-urgently-for her to sing. His merry eyes caught hers, and from the mischief in them, she suddenly realized that he knew very well how badly he sang and didn't care. That he was willing to show such a defect in a culture that apotheosized music, and certainly encouraged vocal talents, astonished her. Mirrim might criticize his fickleness and breezy attitudes to weyrmates, but why hadn't she mentioned his flawed voice?
Now, still lofting his hearty non-tone, he cupped his ear to indicate that he couldn't hear her singing. Out of pique, she took a deep breath and joined in-hopefully loud enough to cover his performance. Vigorously, he approved her efforts, amiably marking out the tempo with both hands. He did have a good sense of timing. At the rousing end of the final chorus, he closed his mouth but applauded enthusiastically.
"Why do you sing, when you know you can't?" she demanded in a low voice.
"Because I do know all the words," he replied, not at all abashed.
She had to laugh and waved her hands helplessly. This group of harpers had finished their stint and F'lessan stood up, surveying other tables, waving to someone who waved back, though he made no effort to leave her side. Then suddenly he was hailed.
"Thought we heard your bellow, F'lessan!"
Tai saw the unmistakable figures of T'gellan and Mirrim making their way toward them. That wouldn't do at all! While the bronze rider was urging them to join him, Tai got to her feet and, pausing only to take her wineglass with her-the white Benden was too good to be abandoned-she slipped into the shadows and away.
She heard him welcoming the bronze and green riders.
"T'gellan, Mirrim, you'll never guess who I met at the-"
His voice broke off as he realized that she had gone. She halted in the darkness, waiting for him to identify her. She'd never hear the last of it from Mirrim.
"Geger," he called after a beat. "D'you have more white Benden?"
Tai hurried away.
That was silly, Zaranth said.
You know how Mirrim can be.
Why would she object?
You know Mirrim, Tai replied.
You're silly. Then Zaranth asked wistfully. Do we have to go now?
No, love. I want to listen to the music. I can do that from any part of the Square.
You 'II have to stand. Everyone who can be is at Landing's Turnover.
Don't tell Golanth where I am, Tai said, remembering the proximity of the two dragons on the heights.
Why not?
Just don't.
Oh! As you wish. Zaranth sounded confused.
It's all right.
Tai found herself a place to stand at the edge of the throng and listened to the splendid music. She made her glass of Benden white last through the concert. It really was the best wine she'd ever tasted.
It was when she was making her way back to the heights that she heard the crashing. Glass? Rather a lot of glass, by the sound of it. An accident? She ought to see what was happening. That was much too much noise for a simple mishap.
Lessa, Ramoth's rider and Benden's Weyrwoman, emerged into the winter night air, shivering as the crisp cold struck. At least the blizzard blanking out High Reaches and a good bit of Tillek Hold had not marred this last night of Benden's Turnover. She wrapped the long fur-lined coat about her and wished she'd put her gloves on, too, though the basket of hot pastries, which Manora had pressed on her as they left, kept her right hand warm. When F'lar finished closing the panel on the rousing chorus of the latest Harper ballad, she slipped her left hand between his elbow and the rough hide of his jacket. He slung the wineskin over his left shoulder and pressed her hand tighter to his side.
Out of habit they both glanced across the Bowl, which was eerily silent. Opposite them, on the ledges to the Weyr-woman's quarters, they could see their dragons in the moonlight. Blue-green, two pairs of dragon eyes winked open and followed the progress of their partners across the flat, frosted Bowl.
Belior, its brightness better than a glowbasket, lit the eastern arc of the huge double crater, throwing the entrances to the individual weyrs into darkness. The moon illuminated the watchdragon and his rider, striding up and down the Rim to keep warm.
"Don't dally, girl," F'lar murmured, shrugging into the warmth of his jacket and lengthening his stride.
"If I had a Harper mark for every time I've crossed the Bowl," Lessa said.
"Add those to mine and we'd be as rich as Toric."
Lessa gave a snort and, her breath misting before her, quickened her steps. Maybe they should have gone south, where Turnover could be conducted on sun-warmed beaches and the more temperate southern night. But Benden Weyr had been home to her for thirty-five Turns now, and F'lar's for all of his sixty-three. Although they had made their traditional appearances at Benden Hold on Turnover First Night and heard marvelous music at Ruatha on the second, they preferred to end the celebration here. She was glad enough to be able to enjoy some quiet time after the frenetic pace of this Turnover Past.
She wondered if, at the end of this Pass-"After," as people referred to it-he would want to leave Benden. Or maybe, if he could not bear to leave the splendor of the Weyr, at least spend the worst of the cold months in the south. Maybe not in Honshu, which F'lessan had repeatedly invited them to share, but nearby.
She understood, on one level, that the prospect of "After" did not obsess F'lar: "During" was his responsibility, and hers. Finishing this Pass honorably and still as Benden's Weyrleader-even knowing Thread would no longer threaten Pern-was his committed goal. Especially since they had both made such a point of urging their younger dragonriders to learn an alternative skill, Lessa kept trying to insinuate After in their private conversations to see what he'd really like to do then. Idling on a sandy beach in Southern would quickly bore a man who'd always been active. And, if he would not contemplate the options, maybe she'd have to make the decision for both of them for where they'd live After. Only where?
Suddenly both dragons reared, staring up into the night sky, the color of their eyes briefly reflecting the orange of alarm. Startled, Lessa glanced over her shoulder and grabbed F'lar tightly.
"Oooh!" she exclaimed. The night cold was nothing to the fear that surged through her, making her heart race at the brief trails of fire in the north. Then she was disgusted with her primitive reaction to what she now knew were meteorites burning up in the atmosphere. As a child she'd believed her nurse-that those flares across a night sky were the Ghost Dragons of the First Pass.
"Erragon said we'd have a lot of Ghosts this Turn." F'lar chuckled at the old explanation, his breath puffing white. "So long as they keep their distance." Another flare caught his eye, barely a finger length in the northern sky. His sigh drifted white in the frosty air.
"There really are a lot more of them this Turn, as Toronas complained last night at Benden. They certainly are bright. Why that one-" She pointed her finger, following the arc in its path before it blinked out. "-looked like it might land."
"They never have."
"Well, you heard Toronas. All that nonsense about it is all"-she altered her voice to mimic the Benden Lord Holder's slightly nasal speech pattern-"because we let Aivas change the orbit of the Red Star and this is the result of meddling with things we don't know enough about."
F'lar laughed, because her imitation of the Benden Lord Holder was so accurate. "One of the reasons Aivas delayed the blast was to put the Red Star far beyond affecting any other of the planets in this system. The mathematics was accurate to the tenth decimal point. Or so Wansor assured me at the time. Or ask F'lessan. He's into astronomy with that old telescope in Honshu."
"I might indeed ask F'lessan," she said. "It's something like this that would agitate the Abominators into doing more harm than they've already done."
"You think they're behind some of those peculiar incidents of vandalism Sebell reported?"
"Who else would be that vindictive and destroy only new medicines or materials, or waylay traders carrying components from one Smithcrafthall to another?"
"Let's talk about it in the weyr. It's far too cold to dawdle out here, woman."
He tugged her into a jog, throwing an arm about her shoulders to prevent her from slipping on the icy ground, and they quickly reached the stairs up to her quarters.
Are you two coming in? he asked the two dragons, who had not moved from their ledges.
We will watch the Ghosts until they leave, Mnementh said, a hint of amusement in his voice. As you wish, F'lar said.
"Silly beasts," Lessa murmured, smiling as she pushed aside the entrance curtain. Sometimes she wished she had a hide as impervious to weather as a dragon's. Or was it just that this winter was unusually cold? Between is colder, Ramoth remarked. Once she was inside, Lessa swiftly made for the nearest heater unit, putting Manora's basket, still warm, on the table as she passed it and stripping off her long fur. She hung it on the hooks to the left of their sleeping room.
"I didn't think we'd have to worry about Abominators again," she said with a weary sigh.
"N'ton checked the island where we exiled those that were convicted of abducting Robinton." F'lar's expression was austere, his lips thinned. He kicked the heavy curtain rather more forcefully than was needed to be sure that the hem excluded the cold drafts. "In fact," he added, his face altering to a less forbidding look, "there were some youngsters, since several spouses went with their men."
"Oh!" Lessa paused. "And the earlier group, who were caught damaging other Crafthalls? The ones who were sentenced to the Crom mines?"
"Ah, now, there's a possibility." He shrugged out of his jacket and would have dropped it on the chair but Lessa pointed sternly at it and then at the hooks where she had hung her fur. He grinned, scooped it up, and hung it with exaggerated care.
"Go on," she urged him, knowing he was going to tease her before he answered.
He got two glasses from the cabinet and deftly poured wine from one of Morilton's elegantly carved glass bottles. He handed her a glass, then stepped backward until he was close enough to feel the heat from the radiating unit on his legs.
"That meteorite-the metallic one that everyone in the Smithcrafthall is going on about-smacked a good-sized hole in the prisoners' quarters and broke one man's leg. It wasn't until evening that a count was taken. One was missing. One of those-" F'lar's lips thinned with remembered anger. "-who were involved in that attack on Aivas. He was deafened. Big man. Should be easy to find. He's missing the tip of his first finger on his left hand."
He took a sip of his wine, savoring it. Lessa allowed him that enjoyment.
"But he hasn't been found yet, has he?" she asked at length.
With a wave of his wineglass, F'lar dismissed the problem. "Telgar, High Reaches, and Fort Weyrs have been alerted. Runners carried the news along their traces and warned the traders."
Lessa gave a cynical snort. "Some of the traders are not above harboring a holdless man."
"According to the Mine Master, this man kept himself to himself. Seemed to dislike new things."
"Made by Aivas, of course," she said in a caustic tone.
F'lar raised his eyebrows. "By Aivas, of course."
"Do you think this one man is responsible for all those thefts and vandalism? Too wide a spread."
"Quite right, but there are enough people with petty grievances against hold and hall who might delight in causing trouble here and there." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, relishing the warmth. "I don't consider that as serious a problem as deciding what more refinements"-he pointed to the heating unit-"we can safely introduce."
"No one has objected to having better lighting and heat," Lessa said. "After all, solar panels came with the Ancients. So did hydro-engineering and generators. We just have to speed up the education process to produce the necessary improvements that will reduce drudgery After."
"I don't approve of life being made too easy," F'lar remarked.
"You were never a drudge," she said caustically, reminding him of her ten Turns spent as one.
"Don't forget that this Weyr was scarcely luxurious until Thread started falling again."
"How could I?" She grinned at him, her eyes alight with laughter. "But that doesn't mean an indiscriminate release of technology. The Crafthalls are the worst offenders there."
"You mean, you object to what Master Oldive is doing in surgical procedures and more effective medications?"
"Of course not," she said with a scowl. "But I don't think everyone agrees with some of the surgical stuff." She gave a little shudder.
"You would if your life depended on correcting an internal problem, like your guts protruding out of your belly because the stomach lining had ruptured," F'lar said with a humorless laugh.
"Sharra said it's called a hernia and is not life-threatening," she responded in a brusque tone. Then, in an abrupt change, she exhaled. "I take the point. We have to educate others to do so."
"Agreed, and we have to get our younger riders to educate themselves, too, for After."
"Well, some will have no trouble," she said. "They don't consider it beneath their dignity to deliver messages or transport urgently needed bulk items. Tagetarl sent us a copy of the dictionary that he copied from Aivas's files with definitions of technical terms. Far more current than anything the Harper Hall has. Sebell said he's got orders from every major hold, nearly all the minor ones, and most of the halls."
"Then maybe understanding and defining a technological vocabulary will become wider spread."
His facetious tone caused her to grin. "That wouldn't hurt. But it's the older riders, who show absolutely no interest in supporting themselves After, who worry me. Why is it so belittling for a dragon and his rider to extend their abilities in other quite respectable pursuits? They know that living in Southern is not a matter of flinging up some fronds to cover a hut on the white sands and picking ripe fruit off the nearest tree. They won't even consider helping the beastherders to keep the feline predators from causing witless stampedes into gorges and ravines even if dragons have always killed their own food. Dragons don't share their kills, even with their riders."
It was F'lar's turn to chuckle at her acerbic remarks. "If you're hungry enough, I suppose roast feline can be tasty."
"Sharra said it's tough and often tastes more of fish than flesh."
"We've sixteen more Turns of Threadfall, love," he said, refilling her wineglass.
"Now," and she gave him a sly look, "if Benden's Weyr-leader should make a decision as to what he will do After?"
He chuckled indulgently as he held Manora's basket of delicacies out to her. The spicy odors wafted her way.
"What is Manora tempting us with?" she wondered, unfolding the napkin.
"They certainly smell palatable. You take your pick."
She did, delighting in the flaky pastry and the spicy filling. "I think," Lessa mumbled through her full mouth, "that she plans to go from one end to the other of the recipes she had us download from the Aivas files."
"It's a shame she never got down to speak to Aivas. He'd've liked her."
Lessa grimaced. "If you remember, we offered to take her many times and she refused. There was always too much to do." She licked the last of the pastry flakes from her fingers.
F'lar sat down and she noticed the bone-weariness evident in the slow way he settled his body in the comfortably padded chair across from her. Only with her did he have the luxury to relax. If she missed the painful stiffness that indicated his bones were aching, Mnementh would tell her and she'd make him take a dose of the medication Oldive had made to relieve the problem.
"Is there ever enough time?" she asked.
"There should be." He scowled, sweeping back the forelock that was silver now. "There should be all the time in the world After."
"Have you decided where we'll go After?" He frowned, brushing the inquiry aside. She fretted at his reluctance. They certainly should have their choice of residence, barring beautiful Honshu in deference to F'lessan's proprietary interest in it. But what-and a dreadful thought arose from the deepest part of her mind. She did not refuse that flash of unnecessary alarm; she did hold it deep in her thoughts. What would happen if Ramoth should fail to rise to mate in the coming Turns, as Bedella's Solth had done recently? R'mart had gratefully retired to Southern with his Weyrwoman. But somehow Lessa had always assumed that she and F'lar would remain Weyrleaders until the end of this Pass. There would come a time, even if it wasn't imminent, when Ramoth would not feel the challenge of fertility. Lessa gave her head an impatient shake, smiling as she remembered the most recent time Ramoth had risen gloriously to challenge the bronzes and Mnementh had vigorously conquered. Her grin broadened as her dragon caught that thought. But Mnementh lived in constant danger of injury.
He is strong and clever fighting Thread. He evades score and ash as nimbly as any green, Ramoth responded in stout support. Mnementh is the only bronze I will ever accept and there isn't another as daring. Even if he sleeps more than he used to. Be easy.
With the bond between the riders so acute, F'lar invariably knew when Ramoth had spoken to her rider. He cocked one eyebrow at his weyrmate.
"What's on her mind?" Then he chuckled. "Or yours?"
"When are you going to make up your mind where we'll go After?" she asked with a hint of exasperation, as if that was what occasioned Ramoth's remark.
F'lar gave her a long patient look. "We can go where we want. Be certain of one thing: we shall not be dependent on anyone." Briefly his jaw settled into an inflexible line.
"That will make a very nice change," she said at her driest.
"We could see if one of those eastern islands would suit."
"What?" She scowled fiercely at him, realizing that she had risen to his bait. He chuckled again. At least he was in a good mood.
"I know the weather here's terrible but I've spent all my life in this pile of rock." He shot her a look to see if she would disagree.
"Rock is cool in the summertime," she agreed diffidently, then added in a nostalgic tone of voice, "When I think of how much history we have made here ... "
"Indeed. And how many changes have occurred since we became Weyrleaders."
"Too sharding many losses in the past Turn, too."
"There is a time for every purpose under the heaven,' " he quoted softly.
Tears welled quickly in Lessa's eyes at that reminder of Robinton-and Aivas. Two Turns and a few months were not enough to distance that double loss.
"I miss Robinton so much."
"Who doesn't?" F'lar replied softly, lifting one hand briefly in resignation before he continued. "I was thinking more of Laudey and Warbret. And good old R'gul." He let out a sigh of remembered frustration.
"We must be charitable," she reminded him in her more usual caustic fashion. The bronze rider had been a thorn in both their sides despite his outward acquiescence to F'lar's Weyrleadership. There was always the hint, when R'gul took orders from F'lar, that he, R'gul, would have done differently. "He did obey, you know, and his wing thought highly of him as a leader."
F'lar grunted, twirling the stem of his glass and apparently absorbed in admiring the ruby color.
"I'll miss Laudey," she went on after nibbling at a pastry, "although I do like Langrell as Igen Holder. Very nice person."
"Handsome, too."
She shot him a glance. "He needs a good wife."
"He'll have no trouble." F'lar poked at the contents of the basket before selecting a triangular pastry and popping it in his mouth. "Not bad."
She found another of the same shape. "No, it isn't." She licked her lips.
He sipped his wine, regarding her from the corner of his eye. "Do you favor Janissian for the Holdership at Southern Boll? That's another issue for the next Council to decide."
"Boll has an historical precedent for Lady Holders, you know."
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
"Certainly Lady Marella has been directing the Hold unofficially for a long time, saving Sangel's face. She got Janissian educated at Landing, too."
"Groghe likes the girl. Old enough to take Hold. Well respected."
Lessa shrugged. "Jaxom says she's as organized as Sharra is. He'd be glad to step down from the position of youngest Lord Holder."
F'lar stretched out his right leg, grimacing as the tendon resisted full extension. He gave a sigh.
He's all right, Mnementh told Lessa privately, waking from his nap.
All that dancing he tried to tell me he didn't enjoy, Lessa replied.
"We need younger minds dealing with all the changes," she said aloud.
He turned his amber eyes on her, amused and slightly condescending. "Young heads can be as certain that they are right as the old ones. And no experience to draw on." He ate another pastry, licking his fingers as the juice within leaked. "Idarolan's been studying astronomy with that journeyman of Wansor's. He got Morilton to make him some special mirrors for a telescope to set up on that bridge of his down at Nerat's Ankle."
"For all that I like Curran as Masterfisherman, I'll miss Idarolan's sly wit in the Council." She took another tidbit and then a sigh escaped her lips after she swallowed. "I shall miss them. I'll miss them all."
F'lar reached over the table to cover her thin, small, but remarkably capable hand, squeezing her fingers.
"We both shall, love." He picked up his glass. "To absent friends."
She raised hers, the glasses touched, and they finished off their wine.
Simultaneously they rose. F'lar slipped his arm about her slender shoulders, drawing her against his body as they walked in step to the sleeping room.
Lessa didn't think she'd gotten to sleep before they were both roused by angry dragon trumpeting.
Toric was recovering from too much wine consumed the night before. The red had definitely been too young to be potable, even if it had come from his own vineyard and therefore was handy and cost him nothing. Except this morning's headache. Well, it took time to establish vines and, considering the cost of the starts from Benden, he had been eager to see some return on the investment. MasterVintner Welliner's estimate of how much wine he would be bottling from the hillsides under cultivation was inaccurate, too. If this year's press was not up to what he'd been led to believe he could expect, he'd have a long chat with Welliner. Toric slowly opened dry eyes in his aching skull.
"You're getting old, Father," Besic said. He handed Toric a steaming mug. "Mother's compliments."
Toric stifled a groan as he took the mug. Though he knew from experience that Ramala's morning-after cure was efficacious, the steam was slightly nauseating and he averted his head before attempting the first gulp.
Besic settled himself in the sling chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles, thumbs hooked in his belt as he regarded his father with a bland expression.
"Hosbon's here. Sailed in from Largo last night. Got here at dawn."
Toric nearly dribbled the potion down his chin at the unwelcome news. Had Besic timed that remark until he had the cup to his lips? The two men tolerated each other warily, not because of Blood ties but out of begrudged respect. Toric grunted and drank as fast as the heat, and the taste, allowed. "I told him that you were busy."
"I am," Toric said. The liquid made him belch and left a vile taste in his mouth. He stood, balancing himself on his bare feet, to prove that he was capable of overcoming the previous night's excesses as easily as ever. He strode to where Ramala had laid out fresh clothes and stepped into the new short trousers and matching loose shirt that would be comfortable during the heat of the day. He growled as he had to sort the rank cords against his right shoulder. Nuisancy things. As if everyone didn't recognize the Lord Holder of Southern. That caused him to snort, as any reminder did of how he had been gulled by the Weyrleaders. From the corner of his eye he saw the smirk on Besic's face, as if he read his sire's thought.
"Didn't you think to bring in-"
Besic interrupted him by pointing to the breakfast tray on the table.
Despite the fact that the pounding in his head was easing, Toric was still in a foul humor. "What's on Hosbon's mind? He's always at me for some concession or other."
"He's a good holder," Besic said, knowing not only that his approval counted for nothing in Toric's opinion but also that, by being scrupulously fair, he could sometimes irritate his sire.
Toric waved his hands dramatically. "Is the man never satisfied? First it was a drum tower, then a pier, and a sloop and a crew."
"He gets results."
"So-what does he want this time? A hold dragonrider?" Though there was always a dragonrider available to Lord Toric, the relocation of Southern Weyr still rankled. It was irksome, too, that the Weyrleader, K'van-the impertinent scut-so punctiliously performed his duties to the Hold that Toric never had grounds to fault him. He had managed to swallow that mortification, since he really did prefer not to have the constant traffic of dragons overflying the harbor, but perhaps he should not have taken issue with K'van over the matter of Weyr support to subdue the rebels and that sharding Denol on Terne Island.
"Why, he wants to celebrate the end of Turnover with his Lord Holder," Besic said, getting to his feet. "Dutifully listen to whatever harper reads the Report. And, quite likely, to see what other craftsfolk he can lure to his hold."
"Hasn't he got enough?" Toric demanded, seething.
"Some can't get enough," Besic murmured, reaching the door as he delivered that parting shot.
"Get out! Get out!" And Toric lunged, aiming a kick at his son. Besic didn't so much as look back over his shoulder. So Toric kicked again at the heavy yellow wood door, which slammed satisfactorily, echoing down the stone hall. Besic knew his father too well!
Limping because he'd caught his bare toes on the wooden edge, Toric wheeled and attacked the food on his tray. The tonic had cleared his head and now his stomach grumbled, as much with hunger as with irritation.
Where would Hosbon put more craftsfolk? He'd already enticed some of the best-trained people from Landing once the Great Bang had been accomplished, supposedly ridding the planet of Threadfall forever. Toric was not at all convinced that Aivas had known what it was doing: imagine blowing a whole planet off its course with the stuff left in long-dead engines! Still, in sixteen Turns-or was it seventeen in this Pass?-the end of Thread meant he could proceed with his plans to develop the small portion of the southern continent that he had been able to wrest from the sharding Benden Weyrleaders. That inequity would always infuriate him.
He made an effort to calm himself. Ramala was certain his indigestion came from stress. He should take his meals calmly and eat slowly. He was, after all, Lord of an important Hold, no matter how much larger it should have been.
His Lady Ramala was already chatting with Hosbon, seated in the main hall. She rose when Toric entered. "Perhaps you would both like more klah. There's still time before Harper Sintary makes his report. Is your wife here?"
Hosbon gave an almost imperceptible wince. She was here, and if they'd arrived by dawn, she'd have had plenty of time to spread marks about, Toric thought, his humor revived by Hosbon's discomfort.
"Yes, join us for klah, Hosbon. Come outside. It's a fine day for our first one of this Turn!"
Tone clapped the man heartily on the shoulder.
"I'll just bring fresh klah," Ramala called after them.
Toric indicated the way to the smaller of the two tables that were situated on either side of the Hold's entrance. A small awning shaded it from the bright sunlight. He took his usual chair, arranged so that anyone sitting opposite him had the sun glaring into his face. "Now, what's on your mind, Hosbon?"
The man was no fool, but he settled himself, elbows on the table, and leaned forward. There was little danger of being overheard, slightly above and well back from the entrance to the Hold.
"I am wondering if you know what the subjects of today's Report will be?"
"Of course I know, and what's to be voted on," Toric replied with some heat. "I had to sit in on the sharding meeting, didn't I? Boring trivia, with the Council insisting that the 'original intent' of the Charter be followed."
Toric did not approve of the publicity regarding the Charter: a document so old that it should be regarded as an artifact, rather than guidance for this planet's needs-not twenty-five hundred Turns after it had been promulgated. And harpers were holding "discussion groups" to be sure children and drudges could recite it by rote. There were a few provisions that he would like to see quietly annulled and the clauses that named the perquisites of major landholders extended. He would live to see the last day of this Pass, and he certainly intended to exert his not-so-small influence when the Charter was reviewed-After-and suitably altered once dragonriders were no longer needed. Toric had endured many boring hours to be sure no one in the Council slipped in any more surprises on him. He was developing a few surprises of his own.
"Is that all?" Hosbon was plainly disappointed.
"Oh, there'll be the usual reports from Landing, premises and promises." Toric dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "The availability of printed texts for those wishing to improve themselves." He snorted. "I-" Then he stopped himself. "And you know that any 'improvement' will stay here, in Southern and in Largo." He inclined his head tactfully at Hosbon as he recalled Besic's reason for Hosbon's visit. "You have such a growing number of craftsfolk there. We wouldn't want to lose any of them. Did you find any new recruits this Turnover?"
"None that I would dare tempt from here, Lord Toric," Hosbon said with oily deference. "Not," he added quickly, "that we don't always need more."
Toric merely nodded. Generally he approved of Hosbon. The man came of a Bloodline that had produced many sensible holders who knew how to get the most out of their workers. Looked like a much younger version of his sire, Bargen, even to the pale eyes in a deeply tanned face and a body that had sweated off excess flesh. Anyway, Hosbon had older brothers, and now that he'd had a taste of holding in a decent climate, he'd not want to return to frigid High Reaches.
"So I will bring back news of this meeting and the Report for my holders." Hosbon's lips twitched slyly.
"As well you do," Toric replied, allowing his eyelids to close briefly in acknowledgment of the tacit understanding. Just then Ramala emerged from the Hold entrance carrying a tray of refreshments, so he added, "We will discuss it later."
They had time to finish the klah and most of the little spiced rolls before the big bass Harper Drum boomed to announce the imminence of the public meeting. The deep sound echoed off the cliffs, reverberating to the ships at anchor in the deep harbor, vibrating along the stones of the Hold and, it felt, into one's very foot bones.
As Toric rose and strode up the wide shallow stairs carved out of the rock path that led to the cleared space on the height, he glanced down to the other levels of the Hold complex. In small groups, holders were surging up from the wharves where numerous small craft bobbed beside buoys or were tied to the pilings. He moved through the crowd, toward the platform on the southern edge of the Gather area where a single Harper sat, holding the traditional scroll that contained the Report he would shortly read. Toric looked from right to left, occasionally awarding a brief smile to those who deserved his favor. Since he had taken over Southern thirty-one Turns ago, twenty-four self-sufficient holds had been established under his direction and tithed to him. He could see representatives of each holding-significantly fewer from the more distant ones-and identified the shoulder knots of many journeymen of various crafts. With an all-too-fleeting moment of satisfaction, he took the six steps to the platform, two at a time, defying anyone-especially Besic-to assume that he had been the worse for wear earlier that morning. The Harper, Sintary, had been suggested by Robinton himself as suitable for the position of Master Harper for Southern. Robinton had been one of the few northerners whom Toric had respected, so he had not appealed the appointment. But he had come to regret that decision, for Sintary was a subtle and stubborn man who took his position as Harper so seriously that he had agreed to no changes even when Toric had suggested several minor alterations to the traditional teaching. The old Harper was very popular, with a dry sense of humor and an ability to improvise lyrics about local incidents that made him a very difficult man to discredit. Toric had tried; he kept hoping that an opportunity might yet arise and he could indisputably be able to send Sintary away.
With a curt nod at his intransigent Harper, Toric turned to face the audience. Holding up his hands, he brought conversations and laughter to a halt. Even fire-lizards stopped their flitting about and disappeared into the forest curving about the space.
"Master Sintary needs no introduction," Toric said, lifting a voice that had once carried above storms. "I see you have a scroll to read us today, Master Harper."
Master Sintary rose, giving Toric a bland stare for such a terse introduction. Toric enjoyed giving subtle jabs, especially to harpers and dragonriders. And where were the dragonriders who should be here? Toric glared out across the tanned faces, looking for the Weyrleader. If K'van hadn't come ... Then Toric located him on the left, where trees and the ferny shrubs of this highland formed a bordering park. He counted at least fifteen dragonriders and the three queen riders! Shards! He could make no complaint that they had been delinquent in performing this Weyr duty.
Sintary had taken two steps forward, an easy gesture of his hand waving Toric to the other chair on the platform. Deftly unrolling the traditional scroll with his right hand, he proceeded to read, winding it up with the skill of long practice.
Toric took the chair, crossing his arms on his chest. He was almost as annoyed now as he had been this morning when he'd awakened. The dragonriders were in attendance. They-and far too many other people-would eat of the feast a Lord Holder was required to produce. And how could Sintary make himself heard so effortlessly? He hadn't even raised his voice, just intensified it with some harper trick.
To occupy the time it would take Sintary to get through that thick scroll, Toric surveyed the polite faces below him. Spotting his brother, Mastersmith Hamian, Toric uncrossed his arms, because Hamian had assumed a similar stance. Hamian and his new Plastics Hall. Plastic indeed, when he should be working metals: especially that lode of-what was it called? box-something-that produced very lightweight and malleable ore. Toric hadn't encouraged his young brother to pursue his Mastery in the Smithcraft only to have him fritter his skills away on some Aivas nonsense. The summarily exiled Master Glass-smith Norist had been right to call the artificial intelligence an Abomination.
The sun was now midheaven, and even in his loose clothing, Toric was beginning to feel the heat. Packed rather tightly together, the crowd was becoming restless, fanning themselves and shifting weight from foot to foot. Those who had no one to leave their children with were beginning to sidle to the edge of the crowd, taking the fretful whingeing brats away.
Was the Harper speeding up the tempo of his recital? Well, why not? The scroll would be displayed on the notice board when the reading was over. He caught the change of pace and heard Sintary's concluding remarks.
"Now, I can start taking your private petitions, which, I assure you, will be scrupulously dealt with."
Sharding Harper Hall, meddling with what was Hold business. His holders had no right to complain. They worked hard and they got what they deserved.
Toric quickly scanned the assembled to see if any petitions were being removed from belt pouches or dress pockets.
Sintary finished reading. Cheers, loud calls, whistles, and other raucous noise welled up, and that combined with the heat brought back Toric's headache. While the bloody Harper descended the steps, Toric went down the back way, into the cool shade. He needed to find Dorse. The man had said he would be back by now from his latest trip north.
His public duty completed, Sintary stepped off the platform, aware that Toric had scooted off as soon as he could. Just as well. The Harper could collect petitions without Toric's interference. He whipped open the sack he'd brought for the purpose and, securing the scroll of the Report under his belt, took the petitions shoved at him as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps.
"They'll be read, I assure you. Harper's word on it. Thank you. Yes, the Council will see this. Thank you. It will take time but this will be read." He repeated these phrases as he made his way through the crowd to post the Report. "Yes, yes, this will be read." It became a litany. "They'll be read's" to the left, a "harper's word on it" to the right, and "let me through, thank you" as he made his way forward until he reached the notice board. He handed the scroll to the apprentice in harper blue and held it flat to be tacked up.
The days of laborious copying by cramp-fingered apprentices were now well gone. Council reports were printed by Masterprinter Tagetarl's speedy presses on some of the new heavy paper, made in rolls and then plastic-coated so the notice could not be easily defaced. Copies had been sent to every major and minor hold to be read on this day of Turnover. Even Toric would have to let it remain displayed, at least until the Turnover crowd had all departed to their holds.
Which, knowing Toric's ways, would be as soon as possible. However, judging by the number of small craft, it would be the work of two days, at least, to clear the harbor.
Not that Toric was a bad Holder. Quite rightly, he insisted that everyone earn his or her right to hold on his land. The man had had to put up with the vagaries of the Oldtimers as well as incursions by thousands of folk streaming south, hoping for easier living. For all the tribulations the immigrants left behind, they acquired as many new ones here-but many of their supposed grievances would be minor.
Sintary left most of the eager petitioners behind as they began to read through the Report or went to look for shade, food, and drink. He was given two more crumpled sheets on his way down to the Harper's hall and slipped into a small entrance when he spotted Dorse and one of the hard-faced men Toric used as guards hurrying up the stairs. They were busy watching their feet, but he particularly didn't like the obstinate and sly expression on Dorse's features. Sintary knew that Dorse often did "errands" for his Lord Holder.
When the two men had passed around the bend out of sight, Sintary continued on his way. That's when he heard the crash of glassware and the dull sound of an axe hitting wood. But Dorse and the other man were on their way up. So who was throwing things about?
With the petitions weighing him down, he decided to get them safely to his hold before he returned to investigate the noise.
Masterhealer Oldive eased back from the worktop, closed eyes bleary from peering so long into the microscope, and sighed deeply. So similar and yet the samples did not match anything from Aivas's pathology files sufficiently to call them the same virus. Ah, what splendid, and frightening, new dimensions for learning-and Healing.
Slowly, aware that his body was cramped from inactivity, he extended one leg as far as he could from the rung of his stool. Letting it hang down, and gripping the seat of his perch, he stretched the other leg. Then he raised his arms as far as his deformity allowed before rotating his neck to ease those aching muscles.
"Oldive?"
"Oh, my word, Sharra!" He swiveled the stool so that he could face her in the corner where she, too, had been single-mindedly peering into her microscope. "I didn't realize you were still here."
This laboratory was such a pleasure to work in and today he and Sharra had it to themselves, since anyone with any sense was up at Fort Hold's Gather Square enjoying themselves. Through the wide expanse of special triple-plated glass, he could see the banners displayed from the windows of the Hold and yet not feel the cold that was gripping the northern continent. While he wished he could be in two places at once-and right now, one of them would by preference be the large sunlit Landing Healer facility-he was still luxuriating in the new headquarters at Fort. "Head quarters"-such a lovely concept and such splendid "quarters,"-with sufficient teaching rooms and airy dormitories, as well as more aspiring healers than ever before. More need of them, too, he admitted.
"We do get involved, don't we?" Sharra commented with a tired smile. "Have you been able to identify that virus?"
He shook his tired head.
"Could it be one of those mutations that are mentioned in Pathology Records?" she asked. "Considering what we've learned about such things, there's been plenty of time for them to alter from the specimens Aivas had."
"And that would account for the fact that the plague can decimate otherwise healthy holds," Oldive said sadly. He gave himself a little shake. No sense being morbid. "But such things have been with us a long time and are, fortunately, not upon us right now. While this is the last day of Turnover, and you should be with Jaxom and your children."
"They are all very well occupied with Ruatha's festivities," she said fondly. "Jaxom had to read the Report and accept petitions. I could do much more here than sit there and be bored, you know." She indicated the slides that she had been studying. She kneaded the nape of her neck, arching her back against having hunched so long over her instrument. "Will we ever have one of those electron microscopes that Aivas mentioned?"
Oldive permitted himself a chuckle as he carefully descended from the high stool. Had his spine developed normally, he would have been tall; his legs were long. They were the same length, but the malformation of his backbone had resulted in a pelvic slant. With a slight lift in one shoe, his limp was barely noticeable.
"There are so many calls on Master Morilton's skills," he said ruefully, and gestured to the cabinets filled with special glass products, the myriad paraphernalia that had been created by the Glass-Smith for healer use.
"A start, of course, on the quantity needed to equip all Healer Halls," Sharra said in an acid tone, "especially when the Council unanimously-for once-agreed that the Healer Hall has priority. We are concerned with the health and well-being of everybody, not just new gadgets that we've done without for twenty-five hundred Turns."
Though Oldive completely agreed with her, he raised a hand in gentle rebuke as he walked across the airy room to the small stove where the klah pot was kept warm. Someone had brought in a tray of food. He flipped back the napkins and saw the generous servings. When had these been brought? The meatrolls were still warm. He oughtn't to concentrate to the exclusion of everything else.
"Someone brought some food," he informed her.
"Oh, yes, I should have told you," she said contritely as she slipped off her stool and joined him. "I just wanted to finish that tray of slides." She poured klah for them both.
"Oh, we do very well, my dear Sharra," he said, talking around a mouthful of roll. "We have achieved all this-" He gestured around them. "-and Morilton is considering dedicating one Hall to nothing but Healer requirements." He glanced back at his workstation and his unidentifiable virus smear. Then held up his hand as an odd sound impinged on the silence of the laboratory.
Sharra listened hard. "Sounds like breaking glass. Breaking glass!" She repeated, setting down the mug and rushing to the door. As soon as she'd opened it, the noise was far more audible, and far too close.
"Meer, Talla," she cried, calling for her two fire-lizards.
"What's the matter? What's going on? What clumsy apprentice has been let loose?" Oldive cried.
Despite his physical disability, Oldive could move swiftly, but Sharra, after one startled look to her right, hauled him back from the threshold and closed the door, throwing the latch.
Ruth!
The white dragon might be asleep on Ruatha's fire-heights, but he'd respond to her mental call from any place. Meer and Talla arrived, midair, mouths open to shriek panic, but Sharra's stern command aborted that instinct.
"I don't know who, Oldive," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, "but there are people crashing about in the still-room as if they thought no one would hear them."
Once again the intrepid Masterhealer attempted to leave the room and she caught him by the arm.
"There shouldn't be anyone else here but us," he said grimly. He had given leave to even the lowliest apprentice to enjoy this last day of Turn's End.
"But there are," she said, her eyes sparkling with anger as she opened the door to the noise of considerable destruction. A shadow fell across the long window of the laboratory and she grinned, pointing. "However, we shall deal with it."
Oldive gasped at the sight of a white body, wings outstretched, all but plastered against the glass, his eyes flashing the red and orange of alarm.
Ruth! Sharra said, relieved that he had responded so quickly. Tell the Hold's fire-lizards to attack the intruders. Fire-lizards held Ruth, the white dragon, in awed respect and would obey him without question. She gave him a very clear mental image of what she had seen in her brief glimpse down the hall. Meer and Talla cheeped once and disappeared. Scant seconds later, both she and Oldive heard loud cries, angry fire-lizard bugles, shouts of pain, and more banging and crashing.
Sharra opened the door wide enough to see down the hall. A mass of fire-lizards was trying to enter the stillroom. Then the mass split into several groups, which zipped off, screeching challenge, swooping down the stairwells at each end to the other levels of the hall.
There are several groups throwing things about in the Hall, Ruth told her. That is wrong. Fort dragons come.
She and Oldive watched as the fire-lizards drove four people out of the stillroom. They could hear human cries echoing from other points. Oldive groaned in dismay.
"They'll be damned sorry they ever thought of this," she told him angrily as she started purposefully down the hall. "Damned sorry."
"I never thought of-intrusions-when we built here," Oldive murmured, shaking his head in bitter denial of the event as he followed. He'd been so proud of this new Hall, with its marvelous equipment, its spacious and well-organized facilities. The previous quarters had been better protected in the angle between the Harper Hall and Fort Hold. But the Healer Hall was usually so busy that, on a normal day, no unauthorized persons would have been on this floor.
Sharra reached the stillroom first. The reek of spilled liquids and wet herbs was nothing to her appalled survey of empty shelves, cabinets with broken doors, glass shards everywhere. Even the marble worktops had been cracked. She slammed the door shut to spare Oldive the sight.
"Everything's ruined," she said tersely and pulled him toward the stairs, dreadfully certain now by the sounds of screams and shouts from the lower floors that there would be more damage elsewhere.
Fire-lizards drove the intruders out of the Hall where the humans were halted by the sight of a dozen dragons, their wings spread to form an impregnable wall, their eyes whirling red with anger. More dragons hovered overhead, their wings casting dark shadows on the scene below. Shouts and drumbeats echoed down Fort's rocky canyon, confirming that reinforcements were on their way. The cowering vandals were herded into a knot, clothes rent by fire-lizard beaks and talons, bloodied hands raised to protect their faces. While no dragon would hurt a human, the fire-lizards were under no such restraint and darted in to peck or claw when anyone in that huddle moved.
Call them off now, Ruth, Sharra said, pausing to catch her breath on the broad top step, and thank them for coming so quickly. We need the wretches alive and able to tell us why they despoiled a Healer Hall.
Though some of the wild fire-lizards looked as if they would disobey, a second rumbling bark from Ruth caused them to disappear, leaving the dragons to stand guard. When the dragons did not advance, one of the men uncoiled and stood up, glowering at Sharra and Oldive.
"Why are you here?" the Masterhealer asked at his sternest. He counted fifteen men and women in front of him, a sufficient number to trash more than his fine stillroom. His heart sank at the destruction they must have done. "Why have you destroyed the very materials and medicines-"
"The Abomination must be halted!" a man shouted, his body taut with his fanaticism. "Its taint removed forever from Pern."
"Abomination?" The word made Sharra shudder. That's what some people called Aivas. And those Abominators had kidnapped Master Robinton to force the Council to shut Aivas down because of the technology he represented. They'd tried to prevent the restoration of the technology that their ancestors had used and that many, many people wished to revive. Oldive caught her eye and his expression turned bleaker still.
The others began to chant, shaking their fists in the air, undeterred, as if they now realized that the dragons would not harm them.
"Vileness must be expunged!" the leader went on, louder, more daring. "Erase abominations."
Sharra began to shiver in the cold. Oldive's face looked pinched. Though she could see nothing beyond the high interlaced wings of the dragons, she could hear the pounding of hooves on the hard-packed road, the rumble of a cart, and shouts of many voices. Lioth, bronze dragon of N'ton, the Fort Weyrleader, cocked his head as if he had understood the taunts, his eyes beginning to whirl with orange spurts.
They're coming, Sharra, Ruth said and craned his head ominously toward the protestors. Their chanting noticeably faltered as the sound of hoofbeats and shouts penetrated to the dragon circle. Their leader rallied them to greater efforts.
"Tradition must be upheld!" He glared around him, his angular face and burning eyes inciting his followers. "Halt abominations."
"Turn back to tradition at Turnover!" screeched one of the three women, waving a bloody hand at Ruth, who frowned down at her.
"Our petitions have been ignored!"
"We protest the Abomination!"
"And all its works!"
"Abomination! Abomination!"
Stoically, Sharra and Oldive endured the chanting.
Smoothly, as humans neared, the dragons began to close their wings and give way, to allow the reinforcements a clear path to the despoilers. Lioth stepped closer to Ruth; Sharra knew that his rider, N'ton, would be in the vanguard. But it was two of Lord Groghe's sons who arrived first, riding bareback on a gray runnerbeast that wore no more than a head-collar. Haligon hauled it to a stop just short of the captives, doing a flying dismount to confront them. Such was the fury in his face and manner that the group backed away from him.
In one of those irrelevant observations that can occur even in moments of crisis, Sharra noted that gray hairs marred the brown of Haligon's fine Gather clothes. Horon, taking a belligerent stance next to his brother, was equally untidy.
A group of blue-clad Harpers, led by Masterharper Sebell, arrived on foot, to increase the force. The cart, driven by N'ton and crammed with holders, some clutching clubs, nearly rammed into them. With an enlarged audience, the prisoners renewed the volume of their defiant messages.
"Destroy all the Abomination's devices."
"Purity for Pern!"
"Turn to Tradition."
"Avoid abominations!"
The holders began booing from the cart as they jumped down, clubs raised threateningly. Those in Healer green continued to where Sharra and Oldive stood on the top step.
"See what damage has been done, Keita," Oldive ordered in a low voice to the Healer journeywoman who rushed to him. A convulsive shiver ran through him. "Check the infirmary first."
Sharra was wracked with compassion for him. "A cloak for Master Oldive," she added urgently, suddenly realizing that she was feeling the cold seep through the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes.
"Harpers!" Sebell said, gesturing for his men to help. "Assist Keita."
Over these orders, the chant continued in rabid cadence-until Lord Groghe reached the scene. As well his mount had been saddled, Sharra thought, just as someone threw a fur-lined wrap over her shoulders, for Groghe was no longer agile enough to ride bareback like his sons.
"Abomination away!"
"Restore our tradition!"
"Shut up!" Groghe bellowed, the volume of his voice as intimidating as the powerful runnerbeast he pulled up just short of knocking the leader down. The man rocked back and it was then that Sharra noticed that he, and the rest of his vandals, had the effrontery to be wearing green: not the genuine Healer green but close enough to answer how they had been able to gain access to the Hall.
At his most fearsome, face suffused with fury, eyes protruding, Groghe stared down at the man. He looked larger than life, fine in his Gather clothes with a cape billowing out over his mount's rump.
The silence was palpable. Then it was broken by a plaintive moan.
"I'm bleeding," one of the women said in a mixture of outrage, shock, and horror as blood dripped from her face to her upheld hand.
"You can bleed to death for all I care," Sharra snapped, furious.
"Head wounds invariably bleed freely," Oldive said, descending the wide steps. Sharra hurriedly followed. Throwing back the corner of the cloak someone had put on his shoulders, Oldive reached into the belt pouch that he always carried and drew out a bandage to staunch the wound. Although the woman shrank away from him, her eyes wild, he was able to assess the long gash on her head. "It will require stitching."
The woman went white with shock, a look of absolute horror on her face before she folded in a faint.
"No!" cried the leader, dropping to his knees to shield her body. "No! No abomination! Spare her that!"
Groghe let out a contemptuous oath, his mount dancing nervously. All the onlookers echoed Groghe's reaction and cries of "shame" were loud and angry. Oldive, however, turned a look of mixed compassion and rebuke on the protester and sighed with genuine regret.
"Let her bleed, Healer!" someone advised.
Others around Oldive mockingly repeated "No, spare her, spare her."
"Healers have been stitching wounds as needed for the past two and a half centuries," Oldive told the leader with quiet dignity. "Still, she is unlikely to bleed to death."
"More's the pity," was the quick gibe from a spectator.
Oldive held up his hand and the crowd turned respectfully silent as he went on. "The laceration is long and shallow. If the scalp is not stitched, there will be an unsightly scar. The hair must be cut away to prevent infection. Numbweed would reduce her discomfort." He paused and then added in a wry tone, "Numbweed flourished on Pern long before our ancestors arrived."
With each of Oldive's sentences, the prisoners had moaned or writhed. The leader glared at the Healer.
"By giving my advice freely, I have fulfilled my duty as a healer," Oldive said stolidly. "It is up to you to accept or reject."
"Spare her! Spare her! Away, abomination," cried several of the prisoners, lifting their hands in entreaty.
Oldive gave a slight nod of assent. "Her healing is now in your hands." He turned from them, outwardly composed. Sebell stepped solicitously to his side, and he acknowledged the tacit support with a little nod.
Just then, Journey woman Keita came storming out of the Hall, other healers behind her, all shaking their heads, visibly devastated by what they'd found.
"They've smashed every piece of Morilton's last shipment!" she cried, glaring at the culprits, hands clenched at her sides. "It'll take months to replace our supplies. The still-room's a complete shambles! Every sack, canister, and bottle in the treatment rooms has been emptied, and what they didn't burn-" She paused in her telling to take a deep breath before she could continue."-they urinated on!"
Before Groghe could intervene, a holder launched his club at the prisoner nearest him, whacking the man to his knees.
"No!" Groghe roared. "No!" The crowd wavered but its forward surge aborted. "I am Lord Holder. I mete out punishment. And they shall be punished!" His face was livid with fury that anyone would usurp his prerogative. He legged his big mount forward. "You!" He jabbed a finger at the leader, who skittered to one side on his knees as the runnerbeast's hooves came very close to stamping on his feet. "Name! Hold! Craft!"
"Notice that they're wearing dark green, Lord Groghe," Keita said in a taut voice. There was an angry murmur for the additional insult.
"No rank knots or hold colors," Sebell said, walking around the vandals, closely observing them.
"I'll ask you once more!" Groghe said. "Names? Holds? Crafts?"
He-and the crowd-waited with brief patience. The prisoners looked more obdurate than ever.
"Search them!" Groghe said with a wave of his hand. More than enough erupted from the crowd to obey. "I said 'search them,' not strip them," Groghe added when he observed the force used.
"Why not? Maybe the cold will loosen their tongues," suggested a burly holder wearing Fort colors and a journeyman's knot.
The vandals found their tongues only to protest vehemently against such handling.
"We have rights!" the leader cried, surrounded by willing searchers.
"You just lost 'em. Not answering the Lord Holder!" the holder bellowed, roughly turning out the leader's pockets, scattering a few quarter marks on the frozen ground.
Suddenly Keita pointed to one of the women, whose shirt and jacket were opened to expose a red and inflamed chest.
"I recognize her," the journeywoman said. "She came to the Hall for ointment to ease a rash."
"Come here!" Groghe gestured to the woman.
"You will not touch her with your abominated hands," the leader said, shaking himself loose of his searchers.
"You had no problem with my abominated hands when you wanted something to stop the itching," Keita said as she pulled the woman out of the group. "And from the look of it now I'd say you didn't even use the salve. Well, I hope you itch forever!" She released her and the woman sidled hastily back to her companions.
"Keita," Oldive asked, "can you remember exactly when she was here? If she gave a name or any details?"
Keita nodded and dashed up the stairs to the Hall.
"No doubt she had a good look round the Hall, as well," Sebell said.
Nothing more significant was discovered on the vandals' persons. Groghe ended the search and the prisoners adjusted their rumpled clothing.
Sebell spoke up. "The clothes and boots they're wearing will tell us where they were made, and we've weavers and tanners enough at the Gather to make such identification."
Then Sharra gave a bark of laughter, pointing to travel stains and scurf on the worn boots. "They're not dressed for the Gather, are they? In fact, they've done some hard riding. Could they possibly have stabled their runners in the Hall's beasthold for a quick escape? And left interesting items in their saddlebags?"
She saw several of the vandals flinch and laughed again as Groghe roared for Haligon to check. The Hall's stabling was to the west of the main entrance. A half-dozen holders accompanied Haligon on the search.
"Stuffed in here, Father!" Haligon shouted back. "Still saddled. Eating their heads off."
"A gallop to the harbor and a ship to sail away in?" N'ton asked.
"It's been done before," Sebell said, his eyes narrowing with anger, his expression grimmer than ever.
"Would you be kind enough to check Fort Harbor, Weyr-leader?" Groghe asked N'ton.
"My pleasure, Lord Holder." Pivoting, N'ton singled out four riders, standing by their dragons. As soon as the dragons were aloft, fire-lizards appeared, shrieking glad cries and following them in graceful fairs.
"Rather stupid, really," Groghe said, easing himself in his saddle and staring down at his prisoners. "Never considered the possibility of discovery, did you? Thought you'd do the dirty and get away without being seen?"
The leader looked arrogantly in another direction, but the rough body searches had considerably subdued the others; most of the bluster was drained out of them. Two looked dismayed as Haligon and the others led the mounts out for inspection. Willing hands emptied the saddlebags onto the ground, spilling out the usual camping gear.
"Fifteen of them, aren't there?" N'ton said, rubbing his jaw. "One of my sweepriders saw such a group camping in the Trader clearing by Ruatha River a few days back."
"He didn't report it?" Groghe demanded, offended.
"To me. Lord Holder, as he reported all those heading toward all the Turnover celebrations," N'ton replied with a diffident shrug. "He mentioned them wearing Healer green."
Groghe harrumphed at that detail. Who'd know these were not legitimate folk, braving the discomfort of winter travel for the magnificence of Turnover feasting and dancing? Who'd have thought the Healer Hall would be attacked?
Sharra, standing close to Oldive, could feel the man beginning to shake. The cold was penetrating her boots, and he was only wearing soft leather shoes.
"You must go in, Master. This has been a terrible shock to you," Sharra murmured and began to withdraw him from the scene.
"No, I must stay. It is my Hall they have defiled." He hunched into the wrap, pulling it tighter against him.
Sebell stepped close, offering Oldive a small flask.
"It's some of that fortified wine of yours," the Master-harper murmured. Oldive gratefully took a hefty swig.
"Father!" Haligon's cry was triumphant as he held up a thin wallet. He hastened to put it in Groghe's hands.
As the crowd watched in anticipation, the Lord Holder made an exaggerated inspection of the wallet's contents.
Groghe held up a piece of paper by an edge. "What? You make use of abominations?" he cried, eyes glinting with malice as he turned to the leader. "No less than a map printed by Master Tagetarl's abominable press. Useful things, abominations!"
Sharra tried not to grin at Groghe's style; he'd always appeared so pragmatic. Mockery was unusual for him, but today the gatherers loved it. Dancing and singing was all very well, but this was the most unusual diversion! They must remember every detail to tell missing friends and kin in hold and hall.
"B?" Groghe read by dropping the single sheet to eye level. "That's you?" He fixed the leader with an inquiring look.
"One of 'em comes from Crom, Lord Groghe," shouted a holder busy examining a runnerbeast. "Brand on this one's rump. Under the mud!" He shot a disdainful glare at the prisoners for such shoddy animal care.
"This one's Crom, too," a harper reported.
"They could have been stolen," N'ton remarked. "But even that's significant enough to start a search there for stolen runnerbeasts."
"B?"
"Father," Horon began, "if there's a B, could there also be an A and C, and Abominators raiding other healer halls today, when they're apt to be empty?"
The sound of distant drumming echoed down the canyon, startling everyone. As one, heads were turned toward the Harper Hall Drum Heights.
"I'm sorry you're right, son," Groghe said with a weary sigh as he, and the others familiar with the drum messages, identified the source-Boll-and the message: vandalism.
Sharra became rigid with renewed anger as the message provided crisp details. "Janissian sending. Healer hall destroyed. Two journeymen and one apprentice injured!"
"Don't hold with hurting healers!" Groghe cried and his mount danced as he tightened his legs in angry reaction and barely missed knocking into the intruders. The Lord Holder began to give crisp orders.
"Use the cart. Take 'em to the Hold. Horon, put them in one of those rooms on the lower level." His expression was malicious. "One without abominable lights. No contact with anyone for any reason. Give 'em only water. Bottled water!"
The onlookers cheered.
"Him!" And Groghe's finger jabbed at the leader. "Take B to the small room. N'ton, Sebell, we'll question him there. Will you attend, Master Oldive?"
"I must oversee ... " The Healer waved vaguely at the Hall. Sharra moved to support him.
"Yes, yes, of course, you've better things to do with your time, Master," Groghe agreed, circling his mount while he decided what else needed organizing.
"But she's unconscious," cried the woman with the rash, pointing to the wounded one who was still in a heap on the ground.
"Then she can't object to being handled by abominable hands," Groghe said dismissively, motioning to the nearest men to put her in the cart that had been backed up to receive its load of prisoners. There were certainly enough hands and clubs to ensure that the prisoners quickly obeyed.
"Take all that gear up to the Hold, lads," Groghe told the men still inspecting the saddled runners. "Bring me that bony-backed Crom nag. Haligon, throw B over the beast and tie his hands. I'm not about to stay here in the cold any longer. I've other duties today." He made his mount pivot on its hindquarters, for a final survey of the scene. He kneed it to the stairs as Master Oldive, with Sharra and Sebell beside him, started to ascend.
"Dreadful display of ignorance. Dreadful," Groghe said bending from the saddle to sympathize with the Healer. "You took no hurt, Master Oldive? I shall deal with that rabble to the full extent of my power as Lord Holder. They expected to wreak their worst and disappear to the pits they came from. Ha!" The runnerbeast sidled, sensitive to his rider's anger. "Abomination! I'll show them abomination! I will find and punish all who perpetrated these outrages."
Oldive shook his head sadly. "I doubt they will be the last."
Sebell shot him a wary glance, pursing his lips tight.
Groghe scowled fiercely. "I thought we'd got rid of the lot of 'em after ... after ... the problem at the Ruatha Gather. Didn't I see Ruth here?" he added, looking about.
"He's probably gone for Jaxom," Sharra replied.
Groghe cleared his throat and reined his runnerbeast back to where B was being trussed aboard the nag. Haligon, bareback on his gray, held the lead rope. Standing up in his stirrups, the Lord Holder addressed the crowd.
"Any of you who care to help the healers restore order to their Hall will be well rewarded," he shouted, circling again to be sure all heard his message. "Let's clear the way, then. Thanks for your help, every one of you."
He led the way back to Fort Hold, Haligon just behind him while those not tempted by his reward followed at the brisk pace he set.
The dragons and riders who had not gone on search sweep sprang off into the air and, with great wings working, made the short flight back to the square.
They were halfway up the canyon when the air exploded with new arrivals of dragons, from several directions. Surprised, Meer and Talla set their talons into the cloth on Sharra's shoulders.
"What else can have happened?" she cried in alarm. She recognized not only Ramoth and Mnementh, but also Golanth carrying F'lessan, and Heth with K'van.
"I fear Master Oldive may be right," Sebell murmured, "that the attacks here and at Boll were not isolated."
Ruth, the last to arrive, uttered a squawk of surprise and agilely winged in under the others who were still hovering. He dropped precipitously to the ground, a maneuver that sent a sharp current of air up to lift the skirts of Sharra's coat. Her compulsive shudder was stilled when Jaxom's arms encircled her.
"Did they attack Ruatha, too?" she cried, horrified by the thought of all her carefully prepared and preserved medications destroyed.
"No, no," Jaxom hastily reassured her, hugging her tight.
"But Boll was attacked."
"I heard the drums." He held her tighter.
Alerted by the arrival of more dragons, Groghe came galloping back, his cloak flying and his expression fiercer than ever. He dismounted very agilely for someone his age and joined the newcomers. In that brief interval, Sharra fretted that Ruth had inadvertently alarmed too much support. F'lessan might not be annoyed by a needless summons, but she doubted the Benden Weyrleaders would be so charitable. Not when they were close enough for her to see their stern expressions. They both looked tired.
"The Healer Hall, too, huh?" F'lar said in a far too accurate assessment of the scene as he strode over toward Sharra, Oldive, and Sebell.
"What d'you mean by that, F'lar?" Groghe demanded.
"The same sort of thing has happened at Benden Hold and Landing," F'lar said.
"And Southern," K'van said, nodding courteously to Lessa and Sharra.
"We had just got Toronas calmed down when F'lessan contacted us," Lessa said, her voice as weary as her face.
"This can no longer be considered random damage," F'lar said, "but a planned and coordinated attack!"
"Let's go inside," Oldive said, his voice low with fatigue.
"The dining hall is warm-and wasn't touched," Keita said encouragingly, appearing on the top step.
"We could all use something hot," Sharra said, urging Oldive to lead the way.
"These incursions were far too widespread not to have been planned," Lessa said when they had all been served klah fortified with the Healer Hall's restorative liqueur. "Making too much good use of the laxity everywhere at Turnover."
"Not well-enough executed or timed, though," F'lessan remarked sardonically. "One of T'gellan's green riders investigated the sound of breaking glass and forestalled a more comprehensive destruction." His usually amiable expression was harsh. "T'gellan is questioning the three that were caught."
"The Benden Healer was not as lucky," F'lar said, "though his journeywoman says he'll recover. Our wings will search until full dark."
"Sintary got just a glimpse of the vandals," K'van said, and added in an apologetic tone, "The jungle's too thick to hope we'll find them easily."
"We've got this lot," Groghe said with great satisfaction as his fist came down on the table in emphasis.
"That leader looked an obstinate sort," Sebell remarked. "The kind who might die for a principle."
"I doubt the others are of similar fortitude," Sharra said wryly. "Scalp Wound is a moaner."
"Itch's rash is going to spread all over her body," Keita said, passing around a tray of tiny, hot Gather rolls.
Sharra tsked-tsked in mock pity. "Let them get thirsty, too?"
"Thirsty, Itchy, Scalp Wound?" Lessa asked pointedly.
Sebell explained and Lessa's grin of understanding turned into a wide yawn.
"My apologies, but we didn't get much sleep last night," she said.
"There are guest quarters here, Lessa," Oldive offered quickly.
"We're not that decrepit," F'lar said stiffly.
"Maybe you're not, F'lar," Lessa said, rising slowly to her feet, "but I was looking forward to a good night's sleep eight hours ago. And I would be grateful for some of it. Anywhere."
"Of course, of course," Groghe said. "You're always welcome at Fort."
"And Ruatha," Jaxom and Sharra said in unison, knowing how much Lessa liked to visit at her birthplace.
The Benden Weyrwoman shook her head with a rueful smile.
"Ramoth and Mnementh are already ensconced in the sun on Fort's fire-heights," she said, rising. "I'm for a quiet room. Here." She pointed downward. "No Gather noise."
"Shards! I have to get back to the Gather. Explain this mess and collect petitions," Groghe said, getting his feet under him to stand. "Those Abominators can bloody wait. Do them good."
"If anything will do that wretched lot any good," Sharra added bleakly.
Keita hurried forward, to escort the Benden Weyrleaders to guestrooms.
"I must return to report to Lord Toric," K'van said ruefully, pushing back from the table. "I doubt he'll appreciate that he's only one of many targets."
"Toric does indeed prefer to be singular," F'lar said, lifting a hand to acknowledge K'van's uneasy truce with the Southern Holder.
"We'll keep him informed," Groghe promised with a curt nod of his head. He had his own quarrel with the testy man. "Landing, Benden, Boll, Southern? How, ah, many targets could there be?"
"I wonder did they count on blizzards at High Reaches?" Lessa asked drolly and followed Keita out of the dining hall.
F'lar paused briefly. "F'lessan, are you coming with us?"
"No, sir, though I'm tempted. I want to see if that green rider's all right. They messed her about before her dragon arrived."
As the meeting broke up, no one was tactless enough to voice the customary Turnover good wishes.
Before Groghe, Sebell, and N'ton reached the Gather Square, more drum messages came rolling in.
"Alert," Sebell said, translating the initial beat and setting himself to hear more bad news, "from the Smithcrafthall."
"Not Fandarel, too? He's been extraordinarily conscientious in locking his Halls and stores against incursions. Ah, yes, I see ... " Groghe's face relaxed into a pleased expression as the drumrolls ended. "They tried! I wonder what he'll find out from them. Oh, shards, everyone's waiting!"
They could all hear the harpers playing a sprightly tune to a sparsely populated dance square. Around all four sides, knots of people were warming their hands at the braziers, murmuring among themselves, and anxiously watching the progress of their Lord Holder on his big mount.
"Father!" Horon's shout reached their ears as he came down the wide hold steps at an almost dangerous clip. He rushed over, waiting till Ke was close before he gasped out his message. "Father, we've found something you have to see!"
"Later, Horon, later."
"It's extremely important."
"Sharding Abominators! Thought we'd seen the last of their kind," Groghe said impatiently. "Sebell, go see what's so bloody important. I'd better deal with them." His gesture indicated the waiting Gatherers. "Damnable way to start Turnover." With that he kneed his mount to a trot all the way to the harpers' platform. The tune was brought to a conclusion with a flourish that Sebell wryly approved, and the crowd flowed forward to hear what the Lord Holder had to say.
Sebell caught the eye of the nearest person in harper blue, an apprentice girl who rushed up to him.
"Worla, I'll be at the Hold with Lord Horon. Bring me the text of all the messages coming in. I'll send any replies directly to the Drummaster." He summoned his gold fire-lizard, Kimi. Holding her to his shoulder, he and Horon jogged up the wide staircase to the freezing expanse of Fort's upper court. He heard the cheers as Lord Groghe stepped up on the harpers platform.
"So what is so important, Horon?" Sebell asked once they were out of the wind.
Horon gulped. "The most-ghastly ... " His face contorted with revulsion.
"Abominator cant?" Sebell was surprised.
Horon gave a shudder. He opened the door into the Lord Holder's five-sided office. A table had been set up on which the vandals' gear was spread. Grainger, the trusted steward of Fort Hold, was busy searching a saddle pack.
"That!" Horon pointed to a thin pamphlet with a dirty cover, its pages roughly fastened by crude stitches. His nostrils flared and it was plain he wanted nothing more to do with it. Grainger's expression was similarly revolted.
Sebell bent over to examine the pamphlet: obviously a very amateurish effort. Why, Tagetarl's youngest apprentice could have done a neater job. In bold block letters-similar to the single letter on the vandal's map-the title of the pamphlet read Tortures of the Abomination. Yes, the same hand had made the B.
"Just-just look inside, Sebell!" Horon flicked his fingers, his mouth contorted with revulsion.
Sebell lifted the cover and only stern self-control kept him from slapping it shut. He could see what had made Horon squeamish. The picture was, indeed, revolting to look at. It depicted shapes, indecently colored, of unusual appearance and what looked like knives holding flesh back from what could be a long incision. A caption had been blacked out. Underneath, again in the black block lettering: "A body laid bare, pulsing in torture. It could be yours."
"It's all like that. Revolting pictures," Horon said. "Where could they ... get such things?"
Impassively, Sebell flipped several more pages and found one picture he actually recognized. The compound fracture of a human tibia, the flesh colored an unrealistic pink against which the ivory bone nauseatingly contrasted. He'd seen such an injury in a hill hold, Turns before. The printed caption read "Shattered by blows." Sebell made out page numbers, almost obscured by the dirty finger marks, and, right by the margin of the picture, "Fig. 10" and "Fig. 112." Checking, he found none of the pages were sequential and realized that the pamphlet was comprised of random photographs, undoubtedly removed from a perfectly proper medical text released from Aivas's comprehensive records.
"Kimi." Sebell turned his fire-lizard's head toward him, one finger stroking her neck affectionately. He scribbled a quick note on the pad he kept with him and tucked it in her message cylinder. "Take this to Keita at Healer Hall. You know her." He projected a vivid image of Oldive's discreet journeywoman. The little queen made a throaty noise and disappeared from sight.
"Revolting to us, perhaps," Sebell said, negligently pushing the pamphlet away from him, "but instructive to a Healer when not used as ... disinformation."
Horon shuddered.
"Those photographs are quite likely of surgical procedures. Those are not well understood as yet," Sebell went on, looking directly at Horon. "Your own grandfather died of a burst pendix that the then Masterhealer could have removed. Such an operation was known-and successfully performed."
Horon's face was pale as he nodded his understanding.
"Healers have recovered much lost or imperfectly understood information," Sebell said. "Master Oldive has been training his most skillful men and women to perform surgery that will greatly lengthen life and improve health." He gestured disparagingly at the pamphlet. "That was deliberately produced to misinform people. To undermine one of the most basic rights of the Charter, the treatment of ills and wounds. You know," he said, pointing at Horon, "that when Master Oldive offered treatment, that stupid female rejected him. She's been well schooled in the delusion. No one is forced to accept healer help. Certainly no one's bones are broken in torture! Not by Healers!" He dismissed the pamphlet with contempt.
There was a scratch on the door, which swung open. The burly minor holder who'd assisted with the prisoners peered round the door.
"MasterHarper, Lord Horon?" He entered at Horon's wave. "I thought you'd like to know that they're talking."
"Talking?"
"The prisoners. Naming each other, at least. I thought you should know."
"Indeed we should," Sebell said. "That could be most useful."
The half-open door hit the man in the back as someone else tried to enter.
"Master Sebell?" A man in proper Healer green with a master's knot came in, breathless.
"Ah, Master Crivellan, just the person to explain what exactly we have here!" And Sebell slapped the dirty pamphlet in his hand. As Crivellan stared down at it with some apprehension, Kimi slipped into the room and resumed her perch on Sebell's shoulder. "Crivellan's particular skill is surgery. Do tell us what these pictures actually depict."