As soon as the warm air of Landing's morning hit him, F'lessan realized how tired he was.
You need to go back to Honshu and sleep. There is no Fall for two more days, Golanth told him as he circled above the panorama of Landing.
"I just want to check on Tai. They kicked her around a lot. Persellan said she'd be badly bruised but the gash on her cheek wouldn't scar."
She's not here. Golanth stretched his head skyward and stroked his great wings for height.
"Surely she's in bed in her weyr?" F'lessan said.
Zaranth is sitting by the sea.
"Zaranth is by the sea?" F'lessan echoed in amazement.
Tai is in the sea, Golanth informed him. Shall we go there?
"By all means." Hearing that she was well enough to go swimming, F'lessan was annoyed with himself for having been so concerned. So concerned that he had left what would have been a fascinating session at Fort. He wondered if T'gellan had had better luck questioning Landing's captives.
Golanth went between and came out again, circling, skimming the brilliantly turquoise and blue sea. Dolphins immediately tail-danced to greet him, squeeing their welcome. He was as well known as Ruth was to the various pods along the southern continent. Golanth swung shoreward until F'lessan saw the swimmer: a black spot in the sea.
Swimming is good for aches, Golanth remarked.
"Quite likely," F'lessan replied with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
The swimmer was Tai. She seemed to be treading water as they overflew her.
"Come in!" F'lessan yelled through cupped hands. Then he pointed to the shore.
Craning his neck backward, he saw that dolphins accompanied her. Well, maybe she wasn't being so reckless, then.
Yes, she swims with Natua and her new calf.
Were you listening then, last night? He never knew when Golanth was. Last night seemed a very long time ago.
I like dolphins. Flo is with them. And here come others from the pod.
Close to land now, F'lessan could see Zaranth sitting upright on the shore, watching her rider. Golanth landed, dipping his head politely to the big green and managing deftly not to churn sand onto her. Draped on Zaranth's neck ridge were a towel, a shirt, and shorts. F'lessan slipped off Golanth's back and took a moment to shuck off his flying gear, wishing he could strip and swim.
You could, you know.
Golanth! F'lessan should have grown accustomed to his dragon's teasing.
Then he saw Tai limping out of the water and, grabbing the towel from Zaranth's back, he jogged down to the edge of the sea. Only because he knew that his flying boots would take a long time to dry did he resist the impulse to continue into the water. Her body, legs, and arms were covered by bruises. Persellan had done a neat repair of the gash on her right cheekbone.
"What's wrong, F'lessan?" she asked anxiously, splashing the rest of the way.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, looking but not looking-as was polite-at her long lean figure and her long, lovely legs.
"Admiring Natua's calf," she answered tartly, taking the towel from his hand and wrapping it about her. "There he is." She pointed to the dolphin heads, large and small, bobbing as they watched her safely landed. "Salt water's good for wounds, you know."
"And washed off all the numbweed." He reached for his belt pouch. He had seen her wince when the towel rubbed against one of the contusions.
"I brought some with me," she said, pointing to her clothes.
"And I suppose Zaranth can apply it?" He gestured to the bruises running down her back.
"Why are you angry with me?"
F'lessan let his breath go out in one exasperated sigh and glanced around him, looking for a good answer. Even the right one.
"I'm sorry. I was worried."
She gave him a little smile. "Thank you. Zaranth was doing all the worrying I needed." She shot a fond glance at her green dragon, who had been joined by Golanth, sitting beside her in much the same pose, an arm's length taller at the shoulder. "How bad was it at the Healer Hall?"
F'lessan blinked, time-disoriented. Landing was half a day ahead of Fort.
"Give me your numbweed and I'll apply it while I tell you."
He did tell her-in perhaps more detail than was possibly discreet, but she was a rider, already involved, and deserved to know.
On her part, Tai was grateful that he could spread on more salve. The salty water had stung the cheek cut and the scrapes, although it had been good for the bruises. The solicitude of the dolphins had been another balm. When dolphins went to the aid of humans in the sea, they didn't stop to consider the consequences: they acted. Everyone else had lectured her on how foolish she had been to burst in on the vandals. She didn't bother to justify her actions. Of course, she hadn't had any reason to suspect what she'd found: men swinging hammers and crowbars with such fervent expressions of enjoyment on their faces that at first she'd thought they'd gone mad. She had wrestled a bar from one man's grasp, her interference confusing him enough to loosen his grip. She poked him hard in the groin and then, once he'd dropped to his knees, she started swinging the bar indiscriminately around her. She'd been so furious that she really hadn't thought of the danger to herself. The very idea of someone destroying healer remedies-some of which might be needed before the night was over-had given her a strength, and an agility, she hadn't known she had. But what would have happened to her if that vandal had managed to complete the swing of his hammer? She flinched, remembering how close it had come.
"Didn't mean to be so heavy-handed," F'lessan said in quick apology. "I'm nearly finished."
"Not your touch, F'lessan," she replied. "It's the thought that there are still Abominators, causing willful damage for some perverted reason. You'd think that a healer hall would be the last place to be attacked! For any reason!"
He screwed on the cap of the numbweed jar with an angry twist, and then stared out across the sea, turning his head northeast, in the general direction of the islands where the first Abominators had been exiled after the abduction of Master Robinton.
"There's no chance, is there," she asked, following his gaze and dreading the answer, "that they've been rescued and are responsible for these new attacks?"
F'lessan shook his head, rolling up the sleeves of his rumpled Gather shirt. The sun wasn't up very high yet, but even here by the sea, the air was getting warm with the new day.
"I suspect riders will investigate. Do you know if T'gellan learned anything?"
Tai shook her head, her lips twitching in amusement. "Green riders are the last to hear. Besides, Persellan sent me to my weyr. I went, but I couldn't get comfortable."
"Hmmm. That's understandable, considering the number of bruises I just tended. Have you fellis to take?" He had returned her numbweed jar and now fumbled in his pouch.
"Yes, I do," she replied and rose to her feet. "I help Persellan, you know. I've all I need." She grinned. "Except my arms don't bend to reach the awkward spots. Thanks. I think I will be able to rest now."
"Promise?"
She cocked her head at him in mild reprimand. "You're the one who needs to rest, bronze rider. Thank you for your concern." She extended her hand toward Golanth. "Zaranth will take me back."
And I will take you, F'lessan, Golanth said, rising to all four feet, to Honshu.
For a confused moment, F'lessan looked after Tai's towel-draped body striding across the white sands to her dragon and saw her begin to dress.
It will make sense when you've had some sleep, Golanth remarked as rider and dragon watched the green make a graceful spring into the air, neatly down-winging to gain altitude and quickly reaching a gliding height on a sea thermal. Zaranth's a good size for a green. You're sweating. It 'II be cooler, and much nicer, in Honshu right now.
F'lessan rolled down his sleeves, shrugged into his riding gear, and jumped to his dragon's back.
"Then let's get there, please, Golly."
They were already airborne when a horrible thought crossed F'lessan's mind. What if yet another gang of Abominators had broken into Honshu during one of his absences and smashed some of the brittle artifacts?
You are silly-tired, Golanth said with exasperation. It takes days to walk there. Not even a runner trace to guide a stranger.
"Runners!" F'lessan exclaimed. "The Runners should be asked if they've seen any suspicious groups out on their tracks!"
Someone else will remember to do that. We're going to Honshu. With that, Golanth took them between.
The Benden and Fort Weyrleaders, along with Lord Jaxom and Lady Sharra of Ruatha Hold, joined Lord Groghe, his sons, Masterharper Sebell, and Master Healer Crivellan at a late private meeting in the small dining room. Not as lavishly decorated for Turnover as the Main Hall and located on the inside rank of the Hold's main reception area, the warm, comfortably sized room was partly wood-paneled, and hung with a mixture of tastefully arranged portraits and landscapes of varying styles and periods.
Since the possibility that the Abominators exiled in 2539 had somehow escaped their remote island occurred to others during the afternoon, N'ton had gone with one of Sebell's most discreet men to make certain that those men and women were all present and accounted for. The island was one of many in the long eastern archipelago, its precise location known only to N'ton; even the most diligent search by other dissidents would have been unlikely to find the inhabited one.
"At the time I wasn't all that certain everyone involved in the shameful business of abducting Master Robinton was apprehended," Groghe said brusquely after N'ton delivered his report.
"Those involved in the original attacks on Aivas and the Crafthalls were sentenced to labor in the mines," Jaxom said, his expression as bleak as Groghe's. "Do we know if they are still in custody?"
"Most are registered as dead," Sebell replied. "Of the two remaining, one escaped when that meteorite tore through the minehold. A search was initiated, of course, but it's believed he must have died. The terrain there is difficult to traverse-little vegetation, not much of it edible. He was deaf and not considered very bright. I don't think we have to worry about that one." He dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand.
"Then let's deal with today's atrocities," Lessa said, restlessly trying to find a comfortable position, her slender body taut with indignation at the scope of the destruction. Impatient as ever, she wanted answers before she could go back to Benden with an easy mind. She and F'lar had gotten some rest at the Healer Hall and had an excellent dinner in Fort's smaller dining room. However, the ability to sense people's thoughts-and sometimes to cloud their perceptions with the strength of her mind-could be useful in extracting or confirming truths. Aivas had said she was as much a telepath as any of the dragons. F'lar called it "leaning on people," though she had never been able to cloud his mind. Still, though it was an enervating process and one she disliked being required to use, she had leaned on people to advantage on a number of occasions. Tonight would probably be another. "How many in total, Sebell?"
"Benden, Landing, Southern, here, Southern Boll-trouble avoided at Crom because the healer was stitching a wound and the patient's relatives beat off the 'drunken louts.' Then caught them when they tried to sneak back in," Sebell said with wry amusement. "Bitra's healer chased two off, and Nerat was locked up too tight, though an obvious attempt had been made to break in. Haven't heard anything from Keroon. That makes twenty-three apprehended while damaging Healer property, and nine who were detained for damaging three separate Glass Halls. Master Fandarel says there were prowlers at the SmithCraftHall but no harm done. Benelek was working late. In view of the number of attempts, he thinks there may have been one on the Computer Hall, too. They're frequent enough."
"I hadn't realized there were so many," Groghe said, twisting his glass until the wine came dangerously close to the rim.
"Then there's less possibility that these were all random, local disgruntlements," F'lar said.
"If there hadn't been so many, and such emphasis on healer halls," Lessa said, frowning slightly, "I might attempt to understand their reasons for such attacks. Especially at this time of a Turn when petitions are part of the celebrations, a clearing away of grievances to start a new Turn in good heart. Nor would they give their hold and hall affiliations. I know there are still many who survive-quite well-as holdless. But that doesn't give them the license to attack halls and deny such services to others. Did I understand correctly, Groghe, that the prisoners became thirsty enough to talk?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." The success of that tactic briefly cheered Groghe. "Not having anything but bottled and abominated water worked well, though not quite as I'd thought. Zalla, the Scalp-" Groghe chuckled at the nickname she had acquired. "-was terrified that tunnel snakes would be drawn by the smell of blood and eat her alive. She got everyone else so worked up they dropped more information than we could have anticipated. Isolating their leader helped. No real discipline in the bunch." He harrumphed at such moral weakness before he went on.
"The 'B' on the map stands for 'Batim,' the leader's name. He comes from Crom, evidently served as a guard at Crom Hold, but he's been elsewhere, too, strictly for pay. Three are from Bitra, five from Igen, the others from Keroon, Ista, and Nerat. All have one thing in common." He gave an apologetic nod to Master Crivellan. "They have what they think are good reasons to mistrust healers. Viscula, the Itch, blames the Craft for not ridding her of her rash. Lechi is missing fingers due, he claims, to healer incompetence. Another blamed healers for not saving his family from fevers. They do not"-he held up his hand to forestall an obvious question-"know from whom Batim received his orders."
"How, or if, he received any at all is almost as important," Lessa said, her tone cross. "He can't have been acting independently. There were too many other such incidents to consider this a random event."
"Lady Lessa," Haligon put in, raising his hand. "The Runners have been asked to tell us what messages have been delivered to Crom, to whom and sent by whom. That will take time."
She gave a snort. "There're always fire-lizards to bring messages and no record of where they came from or to whom they belong."
"Even fire-lizards have scruples, my dear," F'lar said dryly. "Also, Turnover is a very good time to move freely."
"Was it just healer and glass halls that were attacked?" Jaxom asked.
"No, some of Morilton's were," Sebell said, tapping the pile of drum messages in front of him. "Those who specialize in making equipment for healer purposes. Anyone else who had break-ins would have drummed in by now. Only Landing and Toric's Hold were attacked in the south."
"Cove Hold?" Lessa asked urgently.
"Not with D'ram's Tiroth on watch, my dear," F'lar reminded her. "Has T'gellan made any progress questioning the ones he caught?"
"Again, all three men had grievances with healers."
"By destroying medicines and equipment, they achieve nothing but the enmity of the people who must now wait to be treated," Master Crivellan said, his tone distressed. "And delay our discovery of the cause and the cure for acute rashes. Or learn enough to repair crushed fingers. There is so much we don't know and then we're damned because we can't remedy all conditions." He gave his head a quick shake. "I apologize."
"No need to, Crivellan," Groghe said gruffly reassuring. "Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows how dedicated and loyal healers are. We cannot change minds and attitudes overnight or spread knowledge planetwide. It all takes time."
"And then something as vile as that," the Master added, pointing to the pamphlet in the middle of the table, "has no trouble getting spread around." He was still obviously shaken by the perverted use of the medical diagrams.
"All the more reason to be sure the truth-" Lessa paused to stress the word. "-is circulated. And countered when such perversions," she added, waving at the pamphlet, "are discovered."
"Such damage is easy to do," Sebell remarked, "and very hard to undo."
"Runners listen and are listened to," Haligon put in hesitantly. "They are welcome everywhere, too." All eyes were on him and he cleared his throat nervously. "People believe what they say."
"Harper Hall often hears of ... rumors, inconsistencies, minor problems," Sebell said, "but I wouldn't care to involve Runners too much. They are as vulnerable on their routes as healers."
"But faster on their feet," Haligon said with a little smile. "And able to deal with danger."
"If they would be willing just to listen a little harder right now," F'lar suggested, raising an eyebrow.
Haligon nodded. "I'll ask."
"Anything that will prevent a repetition of today's attacks," Lessa said firmly.
"Any assistance would be welcome," Crivellan added urgently, leaning toward Haligon. "Master Oldive is going to be terribly upset by that vileness. He's had such plans for the extension of healer services. If such untruths are circulating, healers may be discredited, or endangered. So often they travel alone and great distances."
"Any healer who requires the assistance of the Weyr need only let us know," F'lar said, looking to N'ton, who nodded vigorously in agreement.
"The problem often is that we can't know how serious an injury or a condition is when we're called to attend," Crivellan said.
"How many healers have fire-lizards?" Sharra asked, acutely aware of how useful hers were.
"Not many here in the north," Crivellan replied regretfully.
"I thought healers had priority on Master Bassage's little hand units." Lessa turned to F'lar.
The Weyrleader's expression was rueful. "They do and Master Bassage is working as diligently as possible, but the materials come from various sources and have to be handmade. Again, it all takes time."
"Oh, some have been delivered," Master Crivellan hastily admitted, "but not enough, and even then," he added with a little shrug, "the things don't work in deep valleys."
"The benefits of Aivas's technology are often ambivalent," F'lar remarked.
"They require work," Groghe announced bitingly, "determination, and application. Too few of this generation want to work."
"We know the problem, it's the solution that eludes us," Sebell said. He sounded and looked tired.
"Shall we deal with the problem of this Batim?" Groghe asked, regarding Lessa with a benevolent eye.
"For all the good it's likely to do," Jaxom remarked, hooking one arm over his chair back.
"He might just let some clue drop," F'lar said blandly.
Groghe gave a sharp nod to Haligon, who rose and left the room. "He's been cleaned up. He'll undoubtedly start claiming his 'rights.' His sort usually does."
"And the rest of his crew?" Lessa asked, frowning.
"And the-ah-Scalp's injury?" Sharra asked, not at all solicitous.
"Oh, you heard her reject Oldive's offer? Magnanimous of him when you think what she'd just done. However," Groghe continued with a malicious grin, "they've been fed, and washing took care of the dried blood and other dirts."
"You had them washed?" Lessa asked.
"They objected strenuously to being hosed down," Groghe said, "and Haligon said they complained that the food they were given was too salty."
Lessa grinned at Sharra, who also felt that some deprivation was very much in order, but Master Crivellan was dismayed by the news.
The door opened to admit Haligon, followed by the prisoner, propelled into the room by two guards. No longer in bogus Healer green, he was clad in a patched shirt and too-short trousers from which his hairy legs protruded. His feet were bare and his lank hair was still damp. His expression was both arrogant and sour, expecting the worst and prepared for it. When Batim realized who was present, he twitched his shoulders defiantly and strutted right up to the table. Involuntarily, his eyes darted to the bread, cheese, and fruit on the table and he licked thin, dry lips
"I want my clothes. I demand my rights," Batim said without preamble.
"Sorry about the clothes, Father," Haligon said, clicking his tongue apologetically. "I really couldn't present him in what he was wearing. Beyond cleansing."
"I have my rights," Batim repeated.
"Which do not,"-Groghe's fist came down hard on the table, bouncing plates and glasses-"include destroying the Healer Hall."
"Abominations! We destroyed abominations! I have rights."
"Not in my Hold you don't!"
"What is your Hold?" Lessa demanded, almost idly.
"If any would claim you," Groghe continued contemptuously. "We know you came down from Crom."
Batim twitched a lip derisively.
"Sometimes it's what's not said that speaks for itself," Sebell remarked across the table to Lessa, who shrugged indifferently.
Batim glared at the Harper, who took a sip of wine, ostentatiously savoring the taste in his mouth before swallowing.
"Holdless then, are you?" Groghe remarked. "Viscula left a Crom hill hold to follow you, didn't she? Minsom, Gaiter, and Lechi are Bitran. They're often so gullible, those Bitrans." He gave a pitying shake of his head. "Small wonder Zalla has such a great fear of tunnel snakes, coming from Igen Caverns. Bagalla, Vikling, and Palol-" He stopped naming the other prisoners as the sneer on Batim's face deepened. Leader he might have been, but he had no loyalty to those who followed him. That also was information-of a sort. "Ah, well, not that that matters. They chose to follow you."
F'lar pushed back his chair, impatiently cutting through the air with one hand. "This is such a waste of time, Groghe. Do let me take him for a short dragon ride. If between doesn't loosen his tongue, I'll just leave him there and that's the end of the matter."
That startled the prisoner. Master Crivellan stared in shocked astonishment at the Benden Weyrleader.
"Why bother Mnementh, F'lar?" Jaxom commented, flicking an indolent hand. "When we'll know by morning where those Runner messages originated?"
"Runners don't talk," Batim protested.
"They may not," Lessa agreed with a wickedly innocent smile, "but they keep records of acceptance and delivery, don't they? In case anyone wishes to trace the progress of ... important messages." Clearly Batim hadn't considered that at all: She could see his impudence wane. "Traders would remember where they sold enough green cloth to outfit fifteen people." He hadn't considered that either. "I hate to keep thinking that so much evil emanates from Bitra," she added artlessly and was not the only one who caught the glitter in the prisoner's eye. "Though I rather suspect," she said on the end of sigh, "that Nerat's partly responsible this time." He gave an involuntary twitch before she added with a patient smile, "and Keroon." No one missed his nervous swallow. "They're so hidebound in Keroon!" She sat back, smiling with satisfaction. "Really, Sebell, you must increase your efforts there to show the hill folk how to improve the quality of their lives."
Sebell held up one hand in a rueful gesture. "We would if we could. Hill folk are the most hidebound of all."
Inadvertently Batim's face mirrored the Harper's opinion.
"That narrows it down, doesn't it?" the Lord Holder said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Take him away, Haligon."
"I have rights! Chartered rights! You're all so big about that blinding Charter of yours," Batim cried hoarsely as Haligon called the guard in. The prisoner made a frantic surge toward the table but was thwarted by the quick-footed Haligon. Struggling, Batim reached straining fingers toward the glasses. "Water. I've had no water all day."
"Actually," Lessa said in a cold voice, "the Charter does not cite water in the list of rights."
"But it has to!"
Haligon and the guard hauled him out of the room and they heard him demanding water as the door closed. Lessa gave a shudder of distaste. Master Crivellan continued to stare fixedly at the Benden Weyrleader.
"Crivellan," N'ton said, touching the Healer's arm, "F'lar only threatened the man, no more. You know that dragons won't hurt a human."
"The threat is usually sufficient," F'lar remarked, resuming his seat, "but the culprit has to believe the threat will be carried out. Batim would have ignored any physical coercion-apart from a one-way trip a-dragonback. So we put him off balance." He grinned at Lessa. "And elicited some interesting reactions."
"Oh!" was the Healer's relieved response. "My pardon for doubting your methods."
"Considering what harm the man did your Craft, you are remarkably forbearing," Lessa said, dropping her pose of indolence.
"I am dedicated to saving life, Weyrwoman," Crivellan replied with great dignity, "not taking it."
"And learning all you can from Aivas to improve your skills. Whereas the Abominators seem to want to stop progress in its tracks," she replied coldly. "We found out as much from what he didn't say, though the thought of trying to trace him in Keroon, where the hill folk won't even discuss the weather, is daunting." She caught Sebell's eye and held it.
"Shall we enlist Lord Kashman's help?" Jaxom asked. "I know he's new in his Holding but, if his people are in any way involved, he should be consulted."
Sebell cleared his throat. "None claimed Keroon as their hold."
"Did we expect them to?" Lessa asked scornfully.
"Did you learn anything else from Batim, Lessa?" F'lar asked.
His weyrmate gave a fastidious shudder. "Only what was foremost on his mind-denying where he came from. He reacted more strongly to 'Keroon' than anywhere else," she said, giving him a trenchant glare. "He was very annoyed that they'd been caught and was steeling himself against the abominations that would be practiced on him to make him speak."
"The very idea!" Master Crivellan was appalled.
"Someone like Batim would probably enjoy being tortured," Jaxom remarked.
"Jaxom!" Sharra exclaimed.
"He's right, you know," Lessa said. "Don't deny that you would have liked to help, considering how distressed Master Oldive was."
"Then I would have," Sharra replied candidly, "not now. I'm sorry they don't know better."
"They're a grudging lot," Jaxom reminded her. "Look how that woman reacted when Oldive offered to treat her and went to the trouble of explaining that he would be using traditional materials! She didn't want to hear the truth. Is it possible that we," he asked, indicating all the leaders, "have not taken into consideration how hold and hall will receive Aivas's innovations?"
Sebell cleared his throat. "We do hear things now and then that suggest that some people are dubious about 'progress.' Often because they doubt they'll ever be able to afford it."
"Or don't fully understand the benefits?" Lessa asked, thinking of her own quarters, warmed by an Aivas improvement. Cold seeped through the stone floor under the table and chilled her feet halfway up her shins.
"It'll take more than the few Turns we've had since Aivas died to explain to all who need to know," Sebell said.
"For that matter," Groghe remarked, "I've a significant number of small holders who won't believe dragonriders diverted the Red Star, because Thread is still falling."
"Some will never understand," Jaxom said wearily.
"We certainly make it as clear and to as many holds as possible," Sebell said, trying not to sound defensive. The burden of explanation was the Harper Hall's responsibility. "But the understanding of some is limited."
"And those are happy to believe easy lies rather than complicated truths," Jaxom said, shifting in his chair. "Most of my Hold has at least had basic lessons but even so, we are constantly having to dispel misconceptions."
Groghe brought both hands down on the arms of his chair. "That is not the question tonight. We have to decide what to do with this lot and, if at all possible," he added, nodding toward Sebell, "find out who planned such widespread raids. There had to be a central person or persons for so many to have acted as simultaneously as they did."
"And see what can be done to prevent any more," Jaxom said.
"Possibly we can find out more from the Keroonian," Se-bell said, checking the pile of notes in front of him. "Tawer, by name. He's a tanner, judging by the calluses and dye stains on his hands."
"He could be a hide-binder, a bookbinder," Lessa muttered, "badly done as it was."
"Is Tawer the one who lost his family to fever?" Crivellan asked. "Our healer hall at Wide Bay keeps meticulous records."
"Good point," Sebell said. "I'll also find out what Tagetarl does with blurred or damaged pages."
"Unless Wide Bay healer hall is missing some of their medical texts," Sharra added.
"Yes, we must find out where and who issued that filth," Crivellan urged.
"I doubt we will," Sebell said. "But, if you'll pass the word of such things to your healers, we'll have harpers keep their eyes open. Runners, too." He glanced at Haligon, who nodded. Then he began to tick off more points on his fingers. "Right now we've enough to make some discreet inquiries in Keroon, trace the Crom runnerbeasts, see if anyone else saw them on the way here, or perhaps crossing Telgar and Keroon, find out where they got the fabric for their clothing, and pass around sketches of Batim, Scalp, and Itch."
"And suggest that all Halls keep guard at night," F'lar said.
"You're within your rights, Groghe," Jaxom said, pausing to smile ironically, "to keep them as long as they might be needed."
"Needed?" Groghe was offended. "I'll have them out of my Hold as soon as possible." Scowling, he glanced around the table, assessing all. "I know what I want to do with them. What I firmly believe should be done with all these dissenting Abominators." He brought his fist down again on the table. "Exile 'em!"
Crivellan jumped at the crack of fist on wood. "I thought that required a trial and jury," he said, surprised.
Groghe gestured to include those present. "Masters, Weyr-leaders, and Lord Holders. Adequate judges. The vandals were caught in the act. Plenty of people saw what they did. Destroyed valuable property, depriving others of medicines and services. And not just in Fort." He waved an encompassing arm. He focused narrowed eyes on the irresolute Healer. "Ordinarily, I'd send them to the mines. However, the notion of being exiled might make others think twice. I wouldn't want anyone to think the healer halls can be attacked with impunity. Right, Master Crivellan?"
"Yes," the man admitted hesitantly. "It will be hard enough to replace what was spoiled and broken today. Though stopping that sort of travesty," he added, pointing to the pamphlet, "is even more important!"
"I thought you'd see it our way," Groghe said. "We'll proceed accordingly."
Sebell rose. "I shall have many messages for Kimi."
"Meer and Talla can help if you wish," Sharra offered.
"Tris, too," N'ton said. He got to his feet, stretching stiffly.
"You know, exile is a just punishment for them," Lessa remarked. "They can't escape it or each other. Don't make it a large island, will you, N'ton." She took F'lar's hand to get to her feet and retrieved her heavy fur-lined riding jacket from the back of her chair. "We shall all keep our ears and eyes open during Fall two days from now."
"How soon can you get any information from the Runners, Haligon?" F'lar asked.
Haligon shrugged. "They've first to spread the word. When I explained the matter to Torlo at the Fort Station, he wrote messages for every pouch being forwarded."
"Pern has relied on the Runners for much," F'lar stated.
"It always will," Lessa added on her way to the door.
Sharra wondered if she was the only one to see Haligon's delighted reaction to Lessa's reassurance. She was as eager to get home as Lessa. It had been a very long and trying day.
"We'll sort this out," Groghe said at his heartiest. "Thank you one and all for assistance in this vexing matter. Let's hope the new Turn improves from here on out!"
"I'll second that!" Jaxom replied fervently.
"We've no word from Crom yet," Torlo said the moment Haligon walked into the Runner Station. Torlo had just finished dispatching the day's runners, laden with Crafthall messages, resulting from a very busy Turnover. "Hard frost makes a hard trace."
" Weyr, Hold, and Hall are indebted to you, Torlo," Haligon said courteously, wondering now why he had proffered services last night that he might not be able to secure. Runners had unassailable ethics.
"No more than our duty to trace letters," the old man replied with a careless flick of his hand, "especially after all that dirty business at the Healer Hall." Then he cast a shrewd look at his early morning guest. "Too early, too, for you to be looking for Tenna, bearing in mind you should know by now how long it takes her to make a run back. You got to spend most of Turnover with her."
Haligon cleared his throat, not sure how to state his real business of the morning.
"Oh? Something else, is it?" Torlo, who was a perceptive man under a brusque manner, pointed to the corner of the empty hall of the Runner Station. "Fresh klah, Lord Haligon?"
Maybe this should have been done more informally, but Torlo had called the tone by using his title. Hiding his chagrin, Haligon accepted the hospitality and slid onto a settle seat at the end table while Torlo filled cups and brought a breadboard with some of the morning's bake on it. Everyone would have known about the meeting in the Hold's private dining room. That Batim had been questioned. Certainly the fire-lizard traffic out of the Harper Hall last night would have been noticed. The Runners had never objected-in so many words-to fire-lizards carrying messages. They appreciated that speed could be a critical factor that had not, yet, interfered with their craft. In the very early days, while clutches were still being found on the beaches of Boll, Ista, and Keroon, Runners had used fire-lizards, too.
The young Lord sipped the klah-it was always excellent here-and deliberated exactly how to approach Torlo. He had several very good reasons for not antagonizing either the man or the Runners and for carrying out last night's request, not the least of which was his firm regard, although his brother called it an obsession, for Tenna.
"The Abominator who led the vandals let drop some information," he began, choosing his words carefully.
"He's one of them?" Torlo's contempt was deep. "Same as who abused Master Robinton?"
"Similar but this time turning their spite on the Healer and Glass Halls."
"Glass Halls, too?" Torlo's spiky brows shot up on his lined forehead, his deep-set eyes fast on Haligon's face. He leaned forward slightly across the tables. "What about SmithCraftHalls?"
Something in Torlo's manner suggested to Haligon that they would have been legitimate targets. Haligon wondered why.
"SmithCraftHalls set up tighter safeguards after the first raids on their Halls ten or more Turns ago," he said.
"Hmm. Yes. Recollect now." Torlo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That Aivas guarded itself, didn't it?"
"A Hall shouldn't have to protect itself," Haligon said.
"True."
"Especially Healers, the one Craft that's benefited most from the knowledge Aivas left behind."
"Agreed." Torlo motioned for Haligon to help himself to the sweet rolls on the board. He broke a piece off himself, pushing the crumbs into his mouth.
Delaying, Haligon thought, so he continued.
"Stationmaster didn't Master Oldive remove that growth from Grolly's leg? Couldn't have been able to do that before. I believe Grolly's running again. And the cataract film from Tuvor's eyes? He's got clear sight now. I heard they can keep guts from popping out of a man's belly. And they're not niggardly with their help. Didn't they show Beastmaster Frawly how to reduce the wobbles in that fine colt?"
"Aye? So what're you driving at, Lord Haligon?"
"Some are spreading evil untruths about the Healers, with vile pamphlets ... "
"Runners burn the ones they're given."
"They've seen some?" Haligon was jolted so badly he spilled klah on his hand.
"Runners won't spread filth like that."
"But where? When? Does it happen often?" So Crivellan was right to fret over the matter.
Torlo gave him a long stare. "Runner business. We take care of it."
"But where? We must stop it. Do Runners know where it comes from?"
Torlo shrugged. "Runners stop it going further."
"Yes, but not all of it," Haligon said, becoming more agitated. "The vandals had a particularly grisly copy. Master Crivellan was distraught."
"He's not the only one."
Haligon stiffened at the satiric tone of Torlo's voice. "What quarrel do Runners have with the Healer Hall?" he asked in a low voice though there was no one else in the dining room just then.
"None." Torlo was surprised by Haligon's query.
"With whom then?"
Torlo paused, then a slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth and his eyes met Haligon's squarely. "You're not what you seem, Lord Haligon."
"Runners are as essential to us all as Healers, Station-master. What's the problem?"
Torlo considered that and then, making his decision, leaned forward.
"We've no objection to Healer Hall improvements: they benefit all. When 'improvements' threaten an entire Craft, now that's a different track altogether."
"Who would threaten Runners? Weyrwoman Lessa said last night that Runners would always be needed."
Torlo gave an ironic bark. "Did she? And who'll be needing the dragons if the truth is told about the Red Star?"
Haligon reassembled his thoughts. He'd never thought to step among so many verbal snakes.
"Red Star? You don't believe the Red Star was moved? But surely you saw it happen, here in the North?"
"Saw the light in the sky, but what did that mean to someone ground-tied?"
Haligon tried another tack.
"All right, usually a Pass is fifty years. This time Aivas definitely said it would be less. We know from our own Records that that has happened several times before. So there're sixteen more Turns to go till the end of this Pass. If it ends in sixteen Turns, then grant that Aivas knew more than we ever could: that when he gave a definite answer, it'll be proved truth. He said the dragonriders accomplished what he set them out to do-alter the Red Star's orbit so it can never come close enough to Pern to drop Thread on us again."
Haligon was rather surprised by his own intensity. He'd only been on the fringes of the massive effort that had occupied the planet for nearly five Turns. But, in his own heart, he'd believed in Aivas's solution to Pern's cyclical problem. He'd wanted-needed-to believe in it.
"I may live another sixteen Turns to the end of this Pass," Torlo replied. "So will you, but it'll take another two hundred to be sure that Aivas was right."
"The point is, Stationmaster, there are so many smaller miracles available to us right now to give Aivas credibility."
Torlo's cynical smile was lopsided. "Like making dragons-and Runners-unnecessary? If dragons won't be needed against Thread, they'll be looking for other things to do. Runners'll be unnecessary!"
"Runners unnecessary?" Haligon exclaimed, throwing up his hands in dismay. He knew the dragonriders were working hard on their own future but Runners had an assured one. "Why, your Craft started serving a need before the dragons had their first Weyr. Right now, Runners're making traces and Stations in the south. Your Craft, like all the others, is expanding."
Torlo leaned forward across the table, his eyes sparking with anger. "Not when there are dragonriders taking messages and packing people and parcels."
Haligon countered quickly. "How many small halls and holds can afford to hire a dragon? Running a message costs only a thirty-second of a mark. There are currently six thousand two hundred and forty dragons, and half of them are brown, bronze, and gold who wouldn't consider running messages. You've that many Runner families working all the hours of a Turn and using youngsters on the short runs to keep up with the demand, not to mention what'll happen when the traces are laid in the south. The queens aren't flying to mate as often or clutching as many, scaling down now that the end of this Pass is in sight, so I don't really see greens and blues in competition with Runners. You've never been upset about fire-lizards."
Torlo snorted. "Only a few of them can be trusted to deliver messages."
"That's true enough," Haligon agreed, though his father's queen, Merga, having been exceedingly well trained by Menolly, had always proven reliable. "And no Runner has ever failed to bring messages through." His thought went to Tenna, out on the frozen traces at the moment.
Torlo regarded him thoughtfully. "Nor will we ever."
"So what is really bothering you, Stationmaster?"
"Those SmithCraftHall thingummies ... " Torlo made a cradle of his fingers, scowling as he tried to find the exact word.
"The comm units?"
"Them! Seen one myself. People'll be able to 'talk' to anyone. Won't need Runners to take messages then."
Relief made Haligon laugh. "No, Torlo. Can't happen."
"Why not?" Torlo's sharp question was tinged with a belligerence he rarely displayed.
"Too expensive," Haligon blurted the words through his laughter. "Simple as that. Takes Master Bassage and his Hall months to make the things. Have to get the elements from several other Halls. And they have a short range here in the north because there isn't a satellite relay."
"A what?"
"Like the Yoko to relay the signal. Healer Hall has to put up the relay for this part of the west and one up at Tillek, possibly a third at Telgar. Two in the east, 1 heard. They'd work better on the southern continent because of the Yoko, but with so many starting out holds and halls down there, it'll be a long time before they have marks for that sort of gadget. My father will use Runners for a long time. He trusts you. For all he's forward looking on many issues, he trusts people more than machines. No, Stationmaster, Runners'll be necessary for as long-as long as they've legs to run with. They were the first Craft Fort Hold supported. Turns before the first Weyr was established. We'll never not need you, Master Torlo."
Torlo's expression had cleared as Haligon enumerated the problems to be surmounted by the new technology.
"Aivas is like that, isn't it? Shows how to do things better and that takes time all in itself. Perhaps that's the best way. No need to have things when we don't know we really need 'em." Torlo rose, tactfully bringing their dialogue to an end.
As he got to his feet, Haligon wasn't sure whether or not the Stationmaster had agreed to help the Hold.
"We support healers road and trace, Haligon," Torlo said with an emphatic nod of his head as he escorted the young Lord across the big long-ceilinged room. "Those as hears will give a word to the wise to them as is too badly informed to know what's what!"
"That's what's needed, Torlo."
"Myself, or Tenna, will tell you." The Stationmaster tipped two fingers in a salute, leaving Haligon no option but to leave.
How could the Runners think, for even a moment, Haligon wondered, as he made haste in the cold weather to tell his father of this conversation, that their services would ever be redundant? But the Weyrs would be. His step faltered as his eyes went instinctively toward the distant Weyr in the hills above Fort Hold. Weyrs, but not dragons! There would be a reason for dragons to remain in Pern's skies. Doing something. Why, it was ludicrous to think of Pern without dragons!
The air froze the hair in his nostrils. Was it warmer down near Boll where Tenna was running? He hoped so. His much-respected sire had been somewhat dubious about Haligon's keen interest in Tenna, but it was proving a very useful connection. Haligon wished he could persuade Tenna to make it a lasting commitment. There were enough children of the Fort Bloodline to carry on, short of another plague. Maybe she'd like to go south, once he'd been released from his filial duties to Lord Groghe.
He should also tell Sebell about his interview with Torlo. The Masterharper should know about their fears. And so much to be done. So much! He had all those petitions to sort through, to find those that did merit his father's particular attention. Well, today was a good one to stay inside and be warm. He took the steps to the Hold two at a time.
Tagetarl squeezed tired eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his long nose, wondering at the same time why he thought that would restore his eyesight. Sleep would help, but he had to get through the corrections to the dictionary; some old harpers with too little to do were challenging definitions and deploring the new technological ones, which were vital if young students were to understand the language in which manuals were written. Being able to print many copies of the same material was a vast improvement on hand copying. Any Harper apprentice who had had to do his hours in the Archives Hall blessed the introduction of printing presses, but there must be a trick to finding all the mistakes that could creep into typeset lines. In his apprenticeship, if he made a mistake, he was able to scratch it out with a knife blade and rewrite, preferably before Master Arnor caught him at it.
It wasn't as easy to correct a mistake after several hundred copies had been printed. So many printing runs were technical and had to be accurate: explanations and instructions crystal clear. Rosheen was particularly good at this, and her fast fingers could set up a page quicker than he could. But they were both learning how to manage the complexities of this new Hall, and Tagetarl was particularly determine to honor Master Robinton's faith in him by making this project the most successful of all that had been initiated by his Master and Aivas.
The slight creak of the office door sounded overloud in the still night. He jumped to his feet. Night? A glance at his eastern-facing window told him that it was nearly morning.
"It's me!" a whisper announced.
"The correct grammar is 'It is I,' or It's I,' " Tagetarl told Pinch wearily. "How did you get in? The gate's locked."
There had been no more Abominator attacks after the spate at Turn's End, but that didn't mean there weren't more being planned. Tagetarl had never figured out just how discards from the medical texts he'd printed a Turn ago had gotten into their hands. To be on the safe side, the Printer Hall now shredded all imperfect sheets.
"True, and it's a fine strong gate," Pinch said, coming forward into the pool of light from the desk lamp.
He was not tall and his angular face, blurred now with dirt and fatigue, had no distinguishing features. His present apparel was Keroon hill folk, and smelled it. His ability to blend into his surroundings, to imitate the accents and manners of speech in any quarter of Pern, north and south, along with his keen ears and sharp eyes, made him the ideal observer. His very active, cynical mind allowed him to interpret what he heard. Pinch cocked his foot around a stool and pulled it to him, sitting down as if he hadn't a care in the world. An engaging smile showed very even teeth, and there was a clever twinkle in his brown eyes.
"I didn't use the gate. Didn't really expect you to be up at this hour so I came in-"
"Across the roof again? One day you'll fall through the weaver's roof."
"Oh, it's safe enough. Rosheen's Ola came to investigate, by the bye, but when she saw it was me-"
"It was I," Tagetarl mercilessly corrected.
"-and Bista, she went back to bed." Pinch clicked his tongue. "Say hello to the MasterPrinter, Bista." The little gold creature, who looked like an extra scarf around the harper's neck, cocked her head and blinked her green gemstone eyes at the Printer. "So why are you up?"
Tagetarl jerked his thumb at the proofs he'd been correcting. "If you ever encounter someone in your travels who can spell and who recognizes proper sentence structure and syntax, I've a job for him, her, preferably them."
Pinch gave a sharp nod. "I'll keep my eyes open."
"I know you will. So what brings you over my roof at this time of night?"
"It's nearly day," Pinch corrected kindly. "I've been checking a few things, snooping about isolated holds and trader sites, sitting in Runner stations. Keroon has all sorts of hill folk, you know, the kind that don't want their kids Harper-taught or Healed. Then there're the ones who aren't really hill folk. Who get too many visitors and have had very interesting indoor occupations."
He reached into his jacket and removed a square of much-folded paper. Carefully he opened it to reveal small sketches: full face and profile.
"Mind you, I wasn't exactly an invited visitor, but I found me a spot to watch and make a few notes. I can flesh these out better with some decent paper and a carbon point." He looked inquiringly at Tagetarl. "Paper, Master? Pencils? Aivas's latest improvement on ink?"
"Hill folk?"
"No, people living in the hills. Paper? Pencil?" He hooked the stool closer to the desk.
Immediately, Tagetarl gathered up the pages he was working on, swiftly rearranging them into a neat stack out of Pinch's way. From a drawer, he pulled fresh paper, as well as a collection of different drawing tools. "Sit! Sit! D'you need klah, food, wine?"
Pinch grabbed a sharp carbon stick with one hand as he turned the sheaf of paper to his right-he was left-handed-and began sketching. "Thanks, yes, yes, and yes. And something for Bista. We came straight here without a stop, using Runner traces. They let me, you know. Give me tips. Good folk, Runners. Get me some food and drink, man, just don't stand there gawking."
When Tagetarl returned, lugging a heavy tray along with a bowl of fresh meat for Bista, Pinch continued speaking as if the Printer hadn't left the room.
"Told the Runners not to worry about mechanical things. Wouldn't want one of those things squawking about my person, I can tell you. It'd make folks notice me, and I don't need to be noticed. Anyway, I'll always trust legs over spare parts." He gave Tagetarl a sideways grin, full of malice. "Have a traditional outlook on life, you know." And when the Masterprinter snorted at such a remark from such a source, he added, "Well, I do. It's why I risk life and limb on Harper business."
Bista finished her meal and curled up on a shelf. By then, Pinch had completed one sketch and tossed it to the side, making the first line of the next sketch even before Tagetarl could pick up the first one.
Tagetarl examined the drawing. It was economically drawn, but it vividly depicted a big man, his right shoulder cocked up, a high forehead, black brows, a zigzag scar from his right temple and down the side of his nose to a gouge on his cheek, a thick, wide-bridged nose, gaunt cheeks, a thin mouth, a narrow chin, and a scrawny throat with a pronounced larynx. The left hand, which he was holding up as if to warm at a fire, was missing the first joint of the index finger. His clothes-the usual heavy leather tunic and trousers-were worn and patched. Thongs just under his knee in typical hill-style tied leggings, and his boots were long and thin, the leather cracked from wading through too many streams or bogs.
Using his right hand, Pinch pushed some bread and cheese into his mouth and washed that down with a long swallow of beer, while the left kept drawing. A real gift, Tagetarl thought, especially for someone involved in discreet surveillance. But then Master Robinton, the late MasterHarper, had had the ability to command the talents of many unusual men and women. Before the Present Pass and the awakening of Aivas, when dragonriders had been denigrated and even the Harper Hall in jeopardy, Master Robinton had made use of rare talents-harpers, men and women, who knew their way about most of the settled holds and halls, large and small. Tagetarl had met Nip, the first roving harper who had nonspecific assignments and rarely sang. What Nip's real name was, no one remembered now. Nip had trained Tuck, another nonconformist, and had taken Sebell along for some projects as Sebell, in turn, had made use of Piemur's unusually quick mind and abilities. Now Pinch had been added to the roster, along with two others Tagetarl knew about but was not sure that he had met.
Tagetarl concentrated on committing the first face to memory. Rather pugnacious all totaled, the Printer thought: the sort that would worry a crack in a cliff until it became a cave.
The next one Pinch finished was of a man who looked vaguely familiar. Younger than the first man, he was taller and well-fleshed, with a darker but not weathered skin and short fair hair. A pinched mouth suggested selfishness and obstinacy, and the eyes had a sly cast to them. His expression was both amused and supercilious.
A woman was the third: her stance-her left hand holding her right elbow-was awkward, her eyes wide and avid as if listening to instructions that she would strive to carry out. She, too, was clad as a hill woman, but the clothes did not fit either her body or her manner.
"These three were visitors, received with much fuss and fawned over. Stayed several days and talked most earnestly in low voices. Plotting probably. What, I couldn't hear, though I tried. I'd like these to get to Sebell as soon as possible. D'you think Ola would oblige? Bista's exhausted."
"Of course," Tagetarl said with gratification. Menolly had helped Rosheen train her queen. This wouldn't be the first time Ola had flown discreet errands.
"I'll do the others when I've had a rest," Pinch said. He popped more bread and cheese into his mouth as he rose to his feet. His abrupt movement startled a chirp out of sleeping Bista. Absently, his left hand stroked her. "Can I indulge in a bath? I have to keep to these clothes." He held a fold away from his body with repugnance. "But I'd enjoy sleeping one night-or rather a full day-smelling clean."
"Yes, of course. I'll see no one goes banging about under you," Tagetarl said with a reassuring grin.
Pinch often made use of the loft above the outbuildings where paper and other supplies were stored. When the Print Hall expanded, as Tagetarl earnestly hoped it would, apprentices would sleep up there, but right now, it made a handy lair when Pinch wished to make inconspicuous visits.
"That would be appreciated." Pinch took another wedge of cheese and the last of the bread and left.
Tagetarl prepared a message cylinder for Ola, saw her off, and went to his own room. Rosheen sighed when he lay down beside her and, sleepily, she turned toward him for comfort.
With the other Wingleaders, F'lessan attended a pre-Fall meeting in one corner of the Lower Caverns.
"It's the Ten pattern, so we meet it over the Eastern Sea and Igen joins us for the last hour over south Lemos," F'lar said, his eyes making a quick keen appraisal of each of the eighteen Wingleaders sitting around him. "Weather's cold and dull, but the visibility is good."
Out of the corner of his eye, F'lessan noticed that everyone was trying to look as alert as possible. The entire Weyr had been turned out to search for the four men involved in wrecking Benden's Healer Hall. The details the injured journeyman recalled about his attackers would have described half the male population of any hold; the only thing he was certain about was that they were not from Benden. Runners had agreed to spread word of the attack and ask isolated holds to report strangers. G'bol had scrupulously followed up one report, but the men had been honest traders.
Two of the oldest Wingleaders had not been called to fly this Fall, and F'lessan wished that F'lar would take a Fall or two off now and then. While he was more apt to listen to G'bol than anyone else, F'lar ignored the merest hint of letting anyone else lead his Weyr. No one would fault him, but the Weyrleader made no exceptions for himself, bar the very few occasions each Turn when Mnementh had taken a score or strained a wing.
F'lar assigned the levels and F'lessan jerked his attention back to the business at hand. His wing was high again: a measure of F'lar's trust in his leadership.
"Warn your younger riders that dull conditions can blur Thread in the higher reaches," F'lar continued. "Measure the wind as soon as you can. We'll know how the Thread falls, when it falls. We gather on the Rim in ten minutes. Good flying!"
As they filed out, closing their jackets, settling their helmets, and pulling on their gloves, F'lessan felt the air of anticipation that always gripped him, speeding his pulse, deepening his breath.
On the ledges of their weyrs, green and blue riders were already mounted, firestone sacks on either side of dragon necks; some brown and bronze riders were still collecting sacks, launching from the Bowl to the Weyr Rim. Wingleader bronzes were drifting down to meet their riders in an orderly confusion. Golanth hovered above the ground to his left. F'lessan, judging the distance neatly, ran and vaulted to his back.
Golanth pumped his wings skillful ly and circled, dropping down to his position on the Rim, between the wingseconds and in front of the twenty-two strong wing.
The green reserves are ready and will bring us sacks when you call them, Golanth reported.
As he fastened his safety straps and pulled up the fur-lined tops of his boots-his knees were always cold by the end of a Fall-F'lessan thought of Tai, wondering what it would be like to have her in his wing.
Zaranth is bigger than any of the others, his dragon remarked, turning his head slightly so that the left many-faceted eye reflected a view of his rider in the mid-planes. Firestone, please! He twisted his head to his rider's leg and dutifully F'lessan supplied him from the bulging sack.
Deftly Golanth tipped his head back, positioning the rock on his thick grinders. Then, exercising great care not to bite the edge of his tongue, he began to chew-as did every other dragon on the Rim. Five pieces F'lessan fed his bronze, sufficient for Golanth to work up a proper flame.
From the bowl rose the four Benden queens. As they circled up, all eyes on the Rim turned to the Weyrleader and Mnementh. F'lar's arm was raised; F'lessan held his high. The queens completed their last circle up, above the Rim, heading north-northeast.
You know where to go? F'lessan formally asked his dragon.
We all know! Golanth answered.
Mnementh roared and sprang forward just as F'lar's arm came down in the command to take wing. As one, dragons leaped upward. Then, as every one of the four hundred and eighty-four Benden dragons was a-wing, they went between.
They came out again in an air almost as cold as between. It hadn't been bright at Benden, but here, above the Eastern Sea, the sky was grayer: a shade that would make the silvery strands of falling Thread more difficult to see. Benden Weyr faced the probable entry of Thread, glad to have the wind behind them as the wings sorted themselves to their assigned levels. Far below, F'lessan could make out the queens' wings, small dots against the gray of snowy land and pewter sea. Ahead of him, almost motionless, was F'lar, he and Mnementh as ever leading them by several dragon-lengths.
This was the worst part of a Fall, F'lessan felt, and, with a glove-thickened finger, he pushed the thick new scarf against his goggles. He tucked his left boot top against his inner leg, and then checked the firestone sacks dangling down Golanth's withers before peering at the sky for any trace of Thread. Sometimes blinking helped.
It comes! Golanth told him and stroked his wings forward.
Mnementh's flame spouted brilliant orange and accurately seared the first Thread to fall.
There was nothing wrong with the Weyrleader's eyesight, F'lessan thought as he squinted to see the first Threads slanting down. He felt a primitive surge of elation as he and his dragon once more attacked their ancient adversary.
Sunlight woke Tai-hot sunlight. She kept her eyes closed as her mind roused to awareness. If the sun was on her face, it was almost noon. She was in her hammock between two big frond trees whose great draping leaves usually shielded her very well. The sun must now be close to its zenith. As usual, her face was turned toward the wallow that Zaranth used as a weyr. The green dragon was in full sun-just as she liked it, head between her forelegs, wings slightly drooping from her backbone so that their folds would absorb the heat. Many dragonriders had pondered the question: did dragons store heat in their bodies for their forays into between"? Zaranth had one eyelid open. By the gleam of the slit, she was watching something very carefully.
One of the disadvantages of living in the open was the insect population, in myriad forms: some scratched, even burrowed in flesh if possible; some merely moved in straight lines, like the trundlebugs that were the object of Zaranth's current inspection. A straight line for a trundlebug could also be perpendicular to the ground. They had been observed maneuvering up to the crown of a frond tree and down the other side. Right now, a very large trundlebug-the creatures could become quite large if no natural hazard ended their existence-was under intense draconic surveillance. This one had no fewer than five young still attached behind it, in various stages of maturation in the trundlebug's peculiar reproductive process. Their bodies collected pollen from low-growing shrubs and vines-also the occasional tree-and shed it in their progress to whatever unknowable goal trundlebugs had. What other purpose they served Tai did not know, but they were less of a nuisance than some crawlies and rather curious to watch. Single-mindedness was exemplified in the trundlebug. It had been suggested there was only a female of the species.
Trundlebugs were a good reason to sleep in a hammock. Humans used sticky-goo tapes around the trunks of hammock trees and the base of any living accommodation. Most buildings were on stilts as another deterrent to invading creepy-crawlies; in low-lying coastal areas, stilts also kept dwellings above high tide floods. Tai's little house was just beyond her hammock: all its shutters were open to let in what wind there was, the fine-net screens preventing the entry of airborne insects. The afternoon breeze generally wafted away those clinging to the material. The diurnal ones departed at dusk; the nocturnal ones were noisier but photosensitive. A tall spire of solar panel provided Tai with what power she needed: for lights, the warmer plate, the cold box, and for the occasional hot air during the worst of the cold weather-which, to her, was never as cold as it had once been in Keroon's foothills.
In the Southern hemisphere, some dragonriders preferred to live in companionable clusters or with their mates, but Tai loved seclusion. She had handcrafted such furnishings as she had, shelves, bedstead, worktop, hooks, and the chest where she kept her clothing.
Zaranth knew Tai was awake, but the green dragon was watching the trundlebug. Abruptly the inexorable path of the trundlebug-which would take it into Zaranth's left nostril-ended. Tai blinked. Had Zaranth exhaled from the victim nostril, tumbling the trundlebug and her offspring away from her? Movement out of the corner of her eye showed her that the trundlebug was now marching in an easterly direction, an exact forty-five degrees from its original course and at least a full dragon-length from its previous path.
How'd you do that? Tai asked, not sure she had seen what she had seen.
I did not care for it to crawl into my nose. I moved it.
Just like that?
Just like that.
Do you do it often?
Now and then. That ... and Zaranth moved her chin slightly toward the redirected trundlebug, does not belong where it was going. The dragon lost her pose of indolence; her eyes were wide open, and she was magically on her feet. Felines! We're needed!
Tai scrambled from the hammock, leaping into her quarters, pulling on trousers, stomping into boots, shrugging into her riding jacket-and bother a sleeved shirt-and carrying the dangling safety straps out to slip the harness over Zaranth's eager head. It was as dangerous to hunt felines as to fly Thread. Zaranth shrugged the leathers to the base of her broad neck and lifted her leg for Tai to clip them together.
Who sent for help?
Cardiff. Fire-lizard message. T'gellan's called half the wing.
Tai vaulted between the last two neck ridges, and clipped the safety harness onto her broad belt.
I know where, the green dragon said and took off so quickly Tai's head snapped. They were barely above the trees when Zaranth went between.
They were back in the moist southern air, a half dozen other dragons erupting nearby.
Cardiff herder spotted the pride. A big one.
They had come out low above the rolling highland plateau where the Ancients had turned loose their grazers and ruminators, unable to transport more than breeding stock to the north. The herds had multiplied over the centuries and mutated slightly from their northern relatives, affording them some protection against the local parasites and poisonous plants. The MasterHerder had found the alterations "fascinating." Right now, a huge herd of mixed varieties was stampeding from the edge of the jungle where the predators lurked to ambush the unwary.
As a relatively new southern Hold, Cardiff did its best to oversee its grasslands, but the hundred or so herders could not always protect the far-ranging stock. Watched by no more than three or four men or women, the beasts covered wide tracts in their search for edible grasses. Thunder, lightning, or the occasional jungle fire could send them into terror-stricken stampedes, which occasionally ended with masses of them falling over cliff edges or into ravines. Now they had been spooked by felines. The southern continent had a lot of problems with the big predators, the product of an ill-advised zoological experiment by one of the Charterers. Like the abandoned herdbeasts, they had flourished, too, and ranged freely through the jungles, grasslands, and up into the southern foothills. Humans avoided the felines whenever possible; dragons were thrilled by the challenge of hunting them.
Zaranth was gliding silently and speedily toward the nearest herdbeasts, which had obviously been split off from the main herd by the canny felines. The predators were as apt to injure beasts, rendering them lame enough to attack later, as to kill outright. Tai had seen the result of such tactics, a wide pasture dotted with bleating, moaning animals, awaiting the pleasure of the cubs that the felines hunted for.
There! A tawny spot, one of the fast ones, Zaranth cried.
Tai caught the merest glimpse of the yellowish-brown form, bounding after the terrified herdbeasts. She grabbed her straps instinctively as Zaranth turned on a wing tip that just cleared one of the stunted trees that dotted the grassland. A shape leaped from its shadow, barely missing Zaranth's wing, and in spectacular leaps, made for the cover of the jungle. To flush a feline was unusual. Neither dragon nor rider would have seen it lurking in the shade. Of course, neither would the herdbeasts who were obviously the intended prey.
Zaranth hissed at so close a swipe; a small flame, residue of the most recent Fall, escaped, spurting after the beast.
Watch it, love! The hide's worth more unsinged, Tai cried.
Despite being large for a green, Zaranth had lost none of the agility that was her color's most valuable characteristic. She dove, with a burst of speed that took the breath out of Tai's mouth. Matching the rhythm of the feline's bounds, she caught it mid-leap. Tai felt Zaranth's heavy shoulder muscles convulse, then relax. She had a glimpse over her shoulder of the limp spotted body stretched out on the plain, its back broken.
The other one! Zaranth cried, spinning obliquely to her left and heading back up the plateau toward the first predator they had seen, who was now closing in on a herdbeast and unaware that its hunting partner had just been taken down.
The most successful-and safest-tactic was to come up behind a feline as Zaranth was now doing, keeping their shadow from warning the carnivore of pursuit. Now, just as the feline swiped its front paws at the herdbeast's galloping hindquarters, Zaranth's claws made contact and snapped its neck in one clean jerk.
Not bad hunting, Tai said, well pleased with a bag of two, both prime specimens and, unless Zaranth had singed the first one, quite saleable. Shall we continue?
Monarth says it is all in hand. A big pride, but a half wing is sufficient, Zaranth said as she circled back with her second kill, depositing it with an almost disdainful negligence beside the first. These, and Zaranth's tone was possessive, are mine!
No one will dispute it, but I get the skins.
And skinning was hard work. Tai's brief elation departed.
I'll help, Zaranth said.
If you promise not to drool all over me or lick while I'm working, Tai replied with mock severity. In the heat of the day, in an open field, there was no shelter at all from the pests that would smell blood and come for their share. However, she told herself, two pelts would be worth the discomfort.
She debated throwing the bodies over Zaranth's neck and taking them up to the cooler, swarm-free foothills to skin.
Once she was on the ground beside them, she discarded that idea. They were big brutes. She was strong, but these dead weights would be impossible to shift onto her dragon. The first one was smaller, of a different mix, with a mottled hide; the other was a tawny yellow-brown, with striped markings on its legs. Both were females with engorged dugs, and Tai sighed at the thought of yet more of these monsters maturing to savage herds.
She removed her jacket and hung it on a low bush, taking a well-honed knife from her boot.
"Lift the first one up, please!" she said, "and remember, you get the carcass faster if you hold still-and don't salivate all over me."
I know, I know, but Zaranth's mouth was very wet as she lifted the feline by the head so Tai could make the first incision at the base of the thick throat. One zip down, slit the legs. Zaranth did drool as she helped. Tai quickly worked up a sweat. To distract herself, she pondered once again about meeting F'lessan and his interest in astronomy. Was he going to make that his career After? Maybe she'd meet him again. Then she reproved herself. He was a Benden Wingleader, son of Lessa and F'lar, and despite the fact that he had quite earnestly said that green dragons were essential for every wing, their paths were unlikely to cross again. She concentrated on her task. Helpfully, the green idly moved her wings to deflect the swarms of insects drawn to the smell of blood and raw flesh. The most persistent attacked between wingstrokes.
It was dry work, too, in this heat and Tai regretted that she hadn't grabbed up her water bottle in her haste to answer T'gellan's summons. She took a deep breath as Zaranth rotated the feline so Tai could strip the pelt from the limp body. A mass of flying insects covered skin and skinners as Zaranth, fanning furiously and growling, lifted the carcass a length away.
Without Zaranth's wings, clouds of insects attached themselves to the blood on Tai's arms. She broke a wide leaf off a low-growing shrub and, beating the air about her, walked up the slight incline to see how the rest of the wing was faring before she started the backbreaking task of skinning the second feline.
Shading her eyes, she saw that two dragons were still aloft, chasing felines away from the safety of the thick vegetation bordering the plateau. She counted eight dragons on the ground, waiting for their treats to be skinned. Three more were already eating. Dust settling off to the northeast indicated that the herdbeasts, stupid as they were, had stopped running. It was a good-sized herd. Then she caught sight of bright-colored shirts and galloping Runners streaming down toward them: the Cardiff herders catching up with the stampede. Brave of them, she thought, since they could still be attacked by any of the remaining pride. One of them hailed Tai on the hillock and turned his mount toward her. Slung across his back were a short bow and a weyrhide carrier full of the sort of barbed arrows that would be needed to bring down felines.
"Our thanks for such a prompt response," he said, halting beside her and swinging down. "Tai, isn't it? And Zaranth? We been following the herd since dawn. Got stampeded by last night's heat lightning, and with the smarts only such dumb critters possess, they headed right toward the thickest congregation of felines anywhere in Cardiff. We keep huntin' 'em, but they keep producing. And you got two. Big mothers!"
"You said it. Both were nursing cubs."
He cursed under his breath, wiping his forehead on his red sleeve. "More of the sharding killers to get. And getting smarter all the time."
"Dragons're even smarter," Tai said, grinning with pride. But quickly she shut her mouth tightly so as not to inhale any of the fresh insect clouds that zoomed in on both of them and the sweaty mount. She swept her frond in a wider arc to discourage the swarm.
"Miserable things, ain't they?" he commented with a rueful smile, using his broad-brimmed hat as a fan and tugging a big, dirty cloth from a leg pocket to mop his sweaty, sun-weathered face. She didn't recognize him, but she wasn't surprised that he knew who she was; Cardiff holders were punctilious about knowing the riders who weyred at Monaco Bay.
"I'm Rency, Cardiff Hold Journeyman," he said, squinting against the sun glare. "Ain't easy to bring down two," he added, impressed.
"We flushed the first by chance," she said easily. "Zaranth's fast."
"Obviously."
"The other didn't see its partner go down and we came up behind her."
He chuckled appreciatively, but her disclaimer did not lessen his respect for her double kill.
"Heard tell you're as good bringing down vandals," he said, touching his own face to indicate he had noticed her healing cheek. He untied the water bottle from the back of his saddle and handed it to her. As she drank, he kept fanning.
"Thanks," she said, refreshed by the cool water. His canteen must have been one of the new thermal types. She coveted one for herself. They were expensive, and the waiting list was long. Still, the price of the two pelts would bring that wish closer.
"Drink up, Tai. We're not far now from water. Can I help you skin the second one?" He gave her a broad smile. "Won't take two of us long."
She nodded, her smile appreciative. As he divested himself of the bow and arrow sheath, she took a second, longer drink, carefully replaced the plug, and handed it back to him.
"Would you know yet how many the dragons brought down?" he asked as she led the way down to the second feline. Zaranth didn't raise her head from her meal.
"I saw eleven dragons on the ground. T'gellan brought half the wing, and a couple are still hunting."
"And you accounted for two!" he said again. She skinned up the front leg as he deftly did the hind one. "We'd been trying to catch up with this part of the herd," he explained in a rueful tone through clenched teeth. "Wanted to get 'em turned before they got this close to the jungle. Felines don't usually hunt so late in the day, but if there were two with litters, they'd be hungry and more apt to attack when they saw so much food on the hoof."
He gave a resigned sigh, swiveling to look at the dense forest with its multiple shades of green leaves, fronds, and spikes that bordered the plateau, the light breeze ruffling the taller, more flexible branches. He mopped his forehead and cheeks and shook his head. "Well, if we didn't have so much on the hoof nearby, it'd save us to track down and finish the cubs before they start hunting." He paused. "As it is, they'll have to take their chances like the rest of us."
"Can we help you turn the herd back out of immediate danger?" Tai asked as they flipped the hide from the legs and wrestled the carcass over. Rency was almost as good as Zaranth as a helper.
"We'd sure appreciate it," Rency said.
Herdbeasts were as terrified of dragons in the air as felines on the ground, so herding them merely required the dragons to keep their shadows on the beasts.
"Sure. Dragons have to fly straight with full stomachs, you know," she said. "No reason we can't help you spook the herd in the right direction for now." Today's feed would last Zaranth a sevenday.
"Just need to set them in the right direction, Tai," he said. "There's a ravine"-he pointed in a northwesterly direction-"and water. Whooshing 'em that way is all we'd need."
"No problem," Tai said. If you'll be kind enough to stop eating long enough to tell Monarth what's needed, she said to her dragon.
He just told me, Zaranth said, sucking the tail into her mouth and licking her lips.
"Makes short work of it, doesn't she?" Rency remarked approvingly.
Tai grinned. "Monarth says we'll be glad to help. Half the wing has fed today."
I am the only one who has two. Zaranth, her faceted eyes flickering with orange pleasure, strolled indolently over to them to await her second course.
Rency and Tai pulled the skin cleanly off the flesh. Once they had rolled it up, he went back to his mount, which stood far enough away from the dragon to feel safe. Tai, letting Zaranth move in on her bloody kill, followed him, hoping to get away from the worst of the insect swarms. Rency handed her the water bottle and a towel.
"Take a good swig and then we can wash off some of the gore. Like I said, I'm not that far from water," he said and Tai was grateful to be able to rinse herself.
Feeling somewhat less sticky, they walked to the top of the incline. Though they had washed off most of the blood, the swarms began a renewed assault in waves so that they clenched their teeth and kept their eyes narrowed. Fanning vigorously with his hat, Rency watched with satisfaction as they could see other riders heaving pelts to their dragons' backs. Suddenly the mass was whisked away. Zaranth had finished eating and was sweeping her wings broadly, scattering the insect cloud.
I'm ready to leave when you are, Zaranth announced with a final lick of her lips.
"D'you need the loan of my rope?" Rency asked.
"That'd be real welcome," Tai agreed. Her riding harness would secure one ... but two?
"Be sure to check no nits burrowed into your skin," he said.
"I most assuredly will," she told him through clenched teeth.
Deftly the two humans roped the pelts on either side of Zaranth's second neck ridge. Flying straight was time-consuming, but Zaranth could fly high enough-once they'd helped move the herd-to be cool and escape the insects. Tai held out her hand to Rency to thank him for his help and the loan of his rope, and swung onto Zaranth's back.
"My pleasure, dragonrider," Rency said, stepping back, fanning with his hat as swarms tried to settle to the hides.
Get us out of here before I eat bug, Zaranth, Tai said, wind-milling her hands in front of her face.
I ate very well, Zaranth said smugly and Tai could feel a satisfied belch rumbling from her chest, to her throat and out. Inelegant, Tai muttered with mock severity as Zaranth leaped skyward.
Courteously, Zaranth dipped her wings, causing Rency's mount to back away from him in sudden panic.
Out of here. The man doesn't need to be chasing his Runner. Then they were out of range of bloodsuckers and into cooler air. Zaranth circled, looking for Monarth and the rest of the dragons.
Monarth is aloft, and so is Path, Zaranth told her and headed in their direction. We are to swing wide behind the beasts, she added.
It's not the first time we've herded, Tai said grumpily. She wished she had more in her belly than cold water; she'd had no lunch.
At this altitude, she had a good view of the bright-shirted herders, stringing out over the grassy plain, starting the beasts back the way they had stampeded.
It would be good to have a swim when the herd is turned.
It most certainly would. There were plenty of hospitable coves on the way back to Monaco Weyr, and trees full of ripe fruit.
Altogether, Tai thought, apart from the insects, the day had been profitable. It would take time to clean and stretch the pelts, but once word got around to the traders of today's kill, she might even get to sell them raw. One day she might keep a particularly fine one-she fancied a clouded fur with ghost stripes but in the meantime, northerners prized whatever was taken.