“Right, yes! You’d better stay put then, Cramb, and get that work done. We need those sketches ready first thing tomorrow. On you go, now!” Toolan said, flapping one hand at the artist.
Toolan stomped off in search of dry kindling and made a great deal of noise on his return as he set about making a fire, finally placing unlit, moss-covered torches to either side of Cramb’s stool for later use. Piemur noted with a grin that Cramb remained intent on his work as Toolan crashed and harrumphed around the campsite. Either Cramb was so absorbed that he was completely oblivious to his colleague’s efforts, or—more likely, Piemur mused—he was a master at ignoring him.
Finally, when darkness began to fall, Toolan lit the torches next to Cramb, illuminating the artist’s face as he worked. Of course, Piemur couldn’t see the drawings, but he watched in fascination as Cramb made deft brushstrokes on the vellum, adding one or two final touches to his work.
The delicious smell of brewing klah wafted through the campsite, tantalizing Piemur as he sat on his perch, reduced to sipping the warm water from his flask to help wash down the hunk of dried meat he had to chew on. As night fell, the daytime birds and animals slowly ceased their calls and chitters, and nocturnal creatures began to fill the air with their cries. Cramb had finished his drawings and set them in a safe place to dry, and he ate the meal Toolan had prepared in silence, as Toolan sulked, seemingly put out, in Piemur’s view, that his companion didn’t appear more grateful.
When the meal was finished, they both stretched out in front of the fire and after some time settled down for the night. Piemur waited until he thought Toolan and Cramb were soundly asleep before he dropped quietly from his perch to stretch and relieve himself. He’d decided to move out of the tree for the night, and hide among some dense sedges several paces away, so he could be more comfortable and remain undetected. If luck was with him, when T’reb returned in the morning he might learn more of what the dragonrider was planning.
Piemur wished he could call Farli to keep him company, but he didn’t want to risk being discovered, and anyway she was better off with Stupid, keeping him quiet.
Too bad, he brooded, because he could’ve coaxed her to bring him one of the juice-filled red fruits that grew in abundance along the coast; it would’ve been a welcome addition to the warm water and dried meat. Ah well, he thought ruefully as he settled himself under the tree, I’ve had harder nights before and it hasn’t hurt me yet.
The morning calls of birds roused Piemur before Toolan and Cramb. He watched, from his position back on his branch, as Cramb woke first and then stood up, stretching his arms skyward, tilting his head to his left shoulder and then to his right. Then, with an expression that looked like a malicious grin, he walked over to Toolan’s sleeping form and poked him sharply in the butt with his boot.
Without warning a small flock of birds flew out of Piemur’s tree, crying raucously. He tensed up, willing himself to become invisible as Cramb turned to look in his direction.
“What’s all the commotion?” Toolan called to Cramb as he walked toward him.
The birds’ shrill cries clanged in Piemur’s ears as he felt the change in air pressure that signaled a dragon emerging from between. Cramb and Toolan also obviously noted the change: Both looked skyward. Piemur watched as T’reb and his dragon appeared out of nowhere, flying on a path that would pass directly over Piemur’s tree. Fearful the dragon might spot him, he eased as quickly and quietly as he could from his position against the tree trunk, slithering and stretching until he clung along the underside of the branch. Dismayed, he heard the sound of the leaves rustling with his movement. And then, both Toolan and Cramb peered in Piemur’s direction as he hung, clinging like a lizard to the tree.
“Is something in that tree, Cramb?” Toolan asked, but Cramb had no time to reply as the green dragon made her descent toward the sandy beach, her wings beating powerfully as she drew closer to the ground, her forelegs and haunches stretching downward in preparation for landing. Toolan and Cramb stood stock-still, seemingly unable to move, the huge draft of air created by the green’s descent swirling sand up and whipping it all around them.
They mustn’t be used to dragons, Piemur reckoned, or they’d surely have moved far enough away so they wouldn’t get hit by all that sand. He frowned as he watched them. He’d gingerly dropped from the tree while the two men were distracted by Beth’s arrival. He looked on as the dragon landed, all four feet finally touching the ground. Shards, but she looks in poor condition, Piemur noted critically, observing from close quarters the lack of luster in the color of her soft hide and the slight hollow just above her rib cage. Her eyes looked dull, too, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Beth furled her wings and then daintily extended her right foreleg so her rider could dismount. As soon as T’reb’s feet hit the ground, Beth turned and, making a deep rumbling noise as she coughed, walked across the hot sands toward the clear waters of the ocean.
T’reb was no taller than Piemur and he had a hard, lined face. He removed his flying helmet, revealing a heavy peppering of gray hairs on his head that mingled with the brown and made his hair appear as if it were metallic in color. The fringe was cut blunt and straight across his brow, and his eyes, set too close in his face, appeared to look smaller because of the dark circles that ringed them. He looks worn out, Piemur reflected, even for an Oldtimer.
The dragonrider turned to watch his green as she walked to the water’s edge, and then, swiveling around, he lifted his chin, assessed Cramb and Toolan briefly, and pointed a gloved index finger in their direction, peering down his nose at them. The two men were still knuckling sand out of their eyes and spitting it from their mouths, so they didn’t see the summons.
“You there, Tortle!” T’reb called imperiously, flapping one hand before he removed his gloves and opened his flying jacket. The dragonrider’s voice, Piemur noticed again, was high-pitched, shrill, and unpleasantly nasal. Piemur puckered up his mouth at the sound.
“Ah, pardon, Dragonrider T’reb,” Toolan said, offering a rather clumsily executed bow. “My name is Toolan. This is Cramb.”
“Yes, yes,” T’reb said dismissively as he walked toward the two men. “Do you have what I want?” Straight to the point, Piemur mused: There’s no messin’ around with this one, nor time wasted on good manners.
“Yes, the sketches are complete,” Toolan said, bowing again, deeply. Cramb regarded his colleague with one raised brow and then dipped his body slightly in an elegant, though less obsequious, show of respect. He handed the two drawings to T’reb, who took them with a sniff.
“Hm,” the dragonrider said reluctantly, scanning the paintings, “this isn’t bad work.” His tone suggested that he hadn’t been expecting anything of such quality.
“Thank you, Dragonrider,” Cramb said. “It’s a beautiful place. I wish you great pleasure from my works.”
T’reb looked at Cramb sharply for a moment, as if he didn’t know what he was talking about, and Cramb tilted his head to one side, frowning, his unspoken question in the gesture.
“Yes, well, they look accurate and will serve our purposes well,” T’reb said with an insincere smile. “The night sky has been copied with absolute accuracy, Toober, as I instructed?”
Toolan made to protest again at T’reb’s failure to recall his name properly but desisted at the last moment with a little sigh. Cramb nodded in affirmation at T’reb’s question.
T’reb looked edgy, Piemur noticed, watching as the dragonrider glanced quickly at Toolan, who shook his head in a tight, quick movement.
Then, without any regard for creases or folds, T’reb roughly stuffed the two drawings into his flying jacket, ignoring the shocked intake of breath from Cramb. The dragonrider chucked a small cloth pouch at Toolan, nearly hitting him in the face, and, without a farewell or final word, turned and walked toward his dragon as she waddled from the water’s edge to
the shore.
Piemur looked from Cramb to Toolan and then to the dragonrider, wondering what he’d missed.
As T’reb and his dragon took to the air, climbing high into the sky, Cramb closed the distance to Toolan and grabbed him by the arm. A second later, as T’reb and Beth blinked between out of the sky, Cramb roughly turned Toolan to face him.
“What the shards was that really about?” he demanded. Toolan pulled his arm from Cramb’s grasp and walked away from the campsite toward the open beach.
No, no! Piemur thought in desperation, as he watched the two men. Don’t go that way—I won’t be able to hear what you’re saying!
Cramb pulled at Toolan’s shoulder, making him stop dead in his tracks.
“You told me the dragonrider wanted a painting of this place because it held great sentimental memories for him. You said he wanted to put it someplace prominent in his weyr. Then you told me he wanted a nightscape of the same scene as well! Just what the shells have you gotten me mixed up in, Toolan?” Cramb’s voice was tight, and although he kept his anger under control it was obvious he was furious at the deception.
Toolan’s expression turned devious, and Cramb crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring at his companion.
“He plans to use this place as a secure hide—from what I can guess,” Toolan said finally, with a smirk on his lips. “Probably more of the goods he and that sorry group of Oldtimers have been trading. It’s why he chose this particular little cove, I reckon. It’s hard to reach, and nestled among so many other coves that look exactly the same, it’d be easy to bypass or overlook.” Then he turned and flounced away from Cramb, who hastily followed. They continued talking, though Piemur caught only snippets of what they said, and not enough at that to make his long day and night of surveillance truly worth the while.
As the two men walked away from him, deep in heated conversation, Piemur debated whether to follow them. He could cut his losses now and relate what he’d seen to Master Robinton, or stay on in the hope that the men would reveal more of T’reb’s scheme. He hastily decided against leaving with such scanty information and carefully crawled through the undergrowth, drawing level with the two men.
Cramb had stopped Toolan midstride, one hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t need to know any more than that, Cramb!”
“Oh, yes, I do, Toolan! You don’t honestly expect me to believe that the dragonrider is going to put valuable goods out here? In the middle of nowhere?” Cramb lifted one hand, gesturing around him at their remote location. “Unless, of course, what he wants to hide would be safe here, in this heat, where any curious animals could find it.”
Toolan shrugged his shoulder out from under Cramb’s hand, his face contorting in anger.
“I can’t tell you any more, Cramb! My cousin sent me down here because I’ve done a few trades with T’reb before. Serra thinks the Oldtimers should honor the connection they once had with our great-uncle. We all want land of our own, and Serra’s convinced the dragonriders can help us take what we want.”
“So you and your kin are going to hold land of your own?” Cramb asked, shaking his head. Piemur gasped and then quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. Cramb knew, Piemur thought, just as everyone did, that lands fit for holding were not easy to come by. They were handed down from kin to kin or, in the rare case of Lord Toric of Southern Hold, earned from many Turns of brutally hard work. He could only hazard a guess about Cramb, but he was full certain now that Toolan was from Nabol.
“And what are you giving the dragonriders in return?”
“That’s all I can tell you, Cramb, because it’s all I know,” Toolan said, a stubborn note creeping into his voice.
“I bet you know more, Toolan,” Cramb said slowly, his voice taking on a threatening edge as he stepped closer to Toolan. “Spit it out!”
“Serra thinks they can get land across the border from Nabol. That’s all they told me!” Toolan’s tone was final, his right hand cutting through the air like a flat blade.
Piemur’s mouth fell open. Crom, where he was born, where all his kin lived, was across the border and not far from Nabol. Were they planning on ousting some unsuspecting smallholders in Crom? He sat up in alarm, banging his head against an arching branch of the bush he was crouching under.
Toolan and Cramb heard the thunking noise as Piemur’s head connected with the branch and looked in his direction as the bush shook violently.
“Hey!” Toolan yelled. “Who’s in there?”
Piemur crouched lower, trying to disappear into the ground as Toolan and Cramb marched toward him.
“You! You in there! I can see you!” Cramb called.
Swallowing hard, Piemur clamped his jaws together and scuttled out from under the bush on all fours, then stood up, quickly scanning around for the best escape route. Hoping he could outrun them, Piemur darted through an opening in the forest, threw his head back, and ran for all he was worth, allowing all the tension he’d stifled while spying to propel him away from Toolan and Cramb. He ran fast, covering the ground easily, dodging around trees and swaths of dense bushes and ferns. As he ran he could hear the sounds of the two men as they pursued him. Faster! Piemur urged himself on, checking over his shoulder to see if they were close. Toolan, with his lanky legs, was ahead of Cramb and looked to be about ten meters behind Piemur. Too close!
Piemur pressed on, propelling himself forward as the adrenaline he’d been dampening was finally let loose into his bloodstream. His arms pumped at breakneck speed and he ran on and on, darting and ducking through the forest until his lungs felt like they were on fire. He took a quick look over his shoulder, checking to see how close Toolan was, but the path behind him was empty. Slowing his pace, he checked in all directions, but there was no sign of Toolan anywhere.
Piemur stopped behind a huge hardwood tree, panting heavily.
The muscles in his legs quivered from his prolonged dash and he forced himself to concentrate on his breathing.
All those Turns of voice training were coming in useful now, he thought wryly, as he took in a huge lungful of air. He could feel his diaphragm fall and rise with each deep inhalation and exhalation, and his breathing steadied quickly. He straightened up, scanning the sky above for the sun.
“Pooly shoots,” he muttered, realizing he had a long hike ahead of him to reach the clearing where he’d tethered Stupid. He reached up to pull his hat down firmly on his head, but it was no longer there. It must have flown off during the chase. There was nothing he could do about that: He would just have to go bareheaded all the way back to the hold. He clipped his thumbs around his belt loop, checked the sun’s position once more, and then turned forty degrees eastward. Piemur sighed, looking all around at the dense tropical forest. He had a long trek ahead of him.
Piemur arrived at Southern Hold hours later, exhausted, thirsty, and sunburnt. He brought Stupid directly to the runnerbeast corrals where there was shade and a huge trough of fresh water. Toric, the accepted though unconfirmed Lord of Southern Hold, crossed the compound to greet him.
“ ’Day, Piemur. You look scorched, lad. Lose your hat?”
Piemur nodded briefly, then scooped up a handful of water from the trough and splashed it over his head and along the base of his neck before he stooped to drink. He felt like he’d spent the morning on a fry griddle.
Toric wasted little time with pleasantries, getting right down to what had clearly been foremost on his mind. “The Oldtimers sent word yesterday: They’re no longer permitting anyone from outside to enter their Weyr.”
Piemur jerked upright, sending droplets of water flying from his hair. He stared at Toric, his thirst forgotten, a frown creasing his burnt brow as he wondered if this latest development had anything to do with T’reb and the two men he’d been spying on.
“Can you believe it? Mardra and T’kul say that we’ve brought
illness to their Weyr,” Toric spat, and Piemur had no trouble hearing the disgust in the Lord Holder’s tone. “Not a word from T’ron, though. His opinion on this matter is anyone’s guess!” T’ron was Southern’s Weyrleader; T’kul, though he had been the Weyrleader of High Reaches before going into exile with the other Oldtimers, now acted as T’ron’s wingsecond. More and more, though, Piemur reflected, T’ron seemed to be leaving the talking to T’kul.
Toric paced as he spoke, swinging his heavily muscled arms and huge hands as he moved. Those impressive arms, Piemur guessed, must have been the result of his younger days as a fisherman at Ista, before he agreed to take hold of lands on the Southern Continent. Berry brown from his Turns in the hot climate, the skin around his light-green eyes was marked with a fine web of lines, and like most folk who lived on the Southern Continent, Toric wore his hair cropped close to his head.
Piemur shook his head, feeling slightly dizzy. It was a dreadful shame, he thought, that the Oldtimers were isolating themselves further. Even though the Southern Weyrfolk were no longer in favor with Benden Weyr, Piemur didn’t think they were all such a bad bunch. He reckoned only a small group of the Southern Oldtimers were actually troublemakers, and that the other members of the Weyr had stayed on with them out of loyalty.
“I’ll have to send a message to the Masterharper,” Piemur said absently as he searched the rooftops for Farli. “I wonder where Farli’s gone.”
“It’s nigh-on impossible to keep track of all the fire-lizards around here, Piemur,” Toric said, gesturing with a flick of one large hand. “She could be with the fair nesting at the back of the Hold, for all I know. But there’s no need to send a message to the Masterharper—I sent word to him myself. N’ton should arrive with him soon enough.”
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