The other gold fire-lizard, who cautiously followed Farli, looked at first glance to be Sebell’s Kimi, but when she settled on the branch of a tree, her eyes whirling amber in alarm, Piemur realized that he was mistaken: He’d never seen this fire-lizard before.
“Shh, shh, Farli,” Piemur said softly. “You don’t need to be afraid,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her to calm the frenzied images she kept showing him. Farli flexed her wings, chittering again and showing him the same image of angry dragons. She was mincing from foot to foot on Piemur’s arm, and her talons, usually sheathed so as not to hurt him, were digging painfully into his flesh.
“Here, now, Farli, settle yourself. Settle,” he crooned to her, tenderly rubbing her eye ridges. The soothing gesture had the desired effect, and Farli submitted just long enough for Piemur to remove the message from her leg. As he was unfurling it, she flew off to join the other queen on her branch, where she huddled, her eyes whirling an alarming shade of amber mixed with red.
The message read: The egg is safe! Stay put. I’m coming, S.
The egg was safe! Piemur looked at the little scrap of cloth again, worried that he might have misread it, but no, the message was clear. The egg was safe! The Oldtimers must have realized the huge mistake that had been made and returned the egg. Perhaps T’ron, as Weyrleader, had stood up to the troublemakers and forced them to take the egg back. Who returned the egg wasn’t important now, Piemur thought, relieved that a disaster had been averted.
“Woo-hoo!” he shouted, slapping one hand against his thigh. He tucked his thumbs into his belt loops and grinned from ear to ear as he rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet. This was great news!
However, it was hours later when J’hon, not Sebell, arrived, and his news wasn’t as good as Piemur had hoped. As soon as Mirth landed, Farli and the other queen darted off in a frenzy of wings and terrified screeches.
“Benden has mounted a full guard on the Weyr since the egg was taken and returned,” J’hon said, his tone grim as he handed Piemur a message from Sebell wrapped around a small pouch of marks, along with a satchel containing basic provisions and items of clothing better suited to the cooler, damper climes of Nabol.
A question had been nagging at the edge of Piemur’s thoughts throughout his long wait until J’hon returned: Which of the Oldtimers had actually been daring enough to return the egg? He asked J’hon.
“We don’t know,” J’hon said, frowning. “N’ton told me that after the theft there was a lot of confusion. Benden’s dragons were incensed, and the egg was returned during that frantic time.”
“But didn’t anybody see, for shells’ sake?” Piemur was astounded. “How could no one have seen an egg being put back on the Hatching Grounds?”
“So much was going on, and no one was looking at the spot where the egg had been! Ramoth was storming around the Bowl, bellowing, making all the dragons crazy for revenge, and then F’lar and Mnementh flew out of the Weyr with a group of dragons in search of the egg. He’d already called the other Weyrleaders to Benden when the egg was taken, so the extra dragons only added to the confusion.” J’hon wiped a shaky hand across his brow, and it suddenly dawned on Piemur how much of an impact the theft had had on the dragonriders—as well as their dragons.
“J’hon, I’m fairly sure the Oldtimers in Southern took the egg, but why is everyone in Benden also certain it was them?” Piemur asked.
“That was the first question on everyone’s lips, but Ramoth would know, of course. You see that, right? After all, she can speak with every dragon, in every Weyr. She would know! She tried to reach the dragons in Southern, but they aren’t there anymore.”
“They aren’t there? Where are they?”
“We don’t know. Southern Weyr’s empty. It’s like they just got on their dragons and…vanished.”
Piemur rubbed the back of his head, deep in thought. Why right a wrong—return the egg—and then go into hiding? With the theft of the egg, the Southern Oldtimers had put themselves in an impossible position, but disappearing into thin air only made them appear guilty of something more. What had they been thinking? Piemur knew exactly what it felt like to be on the fringes, part of something yet not, included and discarded, all at the same time. Shards! Didn’t the Oldtimers know they could never fit in if they stayed in hiding?
Piemur searched J’hon’s face and saw that the wingsecond was wrangling with his own ragged thoughts.
“Well, at least the egg is back,” he offered, trying to reassure J’hon.
“Tensions are still high at Benden, though. They’ve put additional dragons on guard with the watch dragon.” Watch dragons were always on guard at every Weyr, alert to the external threat of Thread, not internal threats—or threats from other Weyrs.
“Every dragon approaching any Weyr must immediately announce their arrival or suffer the consequences,” J’hon continued. “And Lessa is furious because the egg has noticeably aged since the theft—by about ten days! She fears the thieves may have exposed the egg to their own Candidates and it might not Impress any of the girls brought to Benden on Search.” Concern creased the skin around his eyes.
“I see,” Piemur said, unable to think of anything else useful to say.
“Lessa’s even put an all-out ban on fire-lizards,” J’hon added wearily.
“Why ban fire-lizards?” Piemur asked, thinking, in that silly part of his brain, how impossible it would’ve been for little fire-lizards to steal a queen egg.
“Because only fire-lizards could’ve alerted the thieves when Ramoth left the Hatching Grounds—it was when she went to feed that the egg was taken,” J’hon explained. Piemur looked at J’hon, his brows still furrowed in confusion.
“Shards, Piemur, you know how the Weyrs work: We all know one another, we live together, as a team, and if anyone else comes into the Weyr we know about it. The only explanation for how they grabbed the egg from under Ramoth’s nose is that fire-lizards were used to spy on the Hatching Grounds, waiting for the perfect time when the egg would be left unguarded.”
“Oh,” Piemur said, the one syllable word wavering on a downward note as J’hon’s meaning hit home. “That might explain why Farli is so scared—and why she has a crazy image in her head.”
“What of?”
“Darkness, a single egg, and flaming, angry dragons,” Piemur explained, shaking his head at his fire-lizard’s confused ravings.
“She’s right, harper. The dragons are angry.”
When J’hon made his departure a little later with a single, grim nod and a firm handshake, Piemur remained in the clearing, taking stock. Farli flitted back to his shoulder briefly, flashing her disturbing images to Piemur one more time before she and the other queen flew between. Piemur was concerned about Farli but, used to her occasional bouts of whimsy, he figured that the theft of Ramoth’s queen egg was probably the reason for her disturbing images and erratic behavior. It was probably just as well, he mused, that she had gone off on one of her jaunts: It would be easier to complete his mission in Nabol without her flitting around distractingly.
Piemur was thankful that J’hon had thought to stuff a parcel of food into the bag of supplies, and ravenously devoured the cold cooked tubers and slices of meat before consciously slowing down to drink from the small flask of water. He saved the hunk of bread and cheese for later; longingly, he eyed the smaller parcel that looked, from the sticky spots that had oozed out between the seal, as if it contained cooked pastry filled with soft, sweet fruits, but decided to save that, as well.
After he’d eaten, he changed into the nondescript clothing that would disguise him as a holder in Nabol, pulled the cloth cap firmly onto his head, and finally took his ease under a tree, unrolling the message from Sebell.
It read: Go west. Follow river. Cross footbridge, Marek 5th cot. All haste—J STILL AT RISK. S.
Piemur ha
d no difficulty finding the cothold belonging to Marek, where he was offered the use of loft space in an outbuilding with clean, dry bedding. Once he’d thanked Marek for his hospitality and settled his small bag in the loft, Piemur left the outbuilding and set to work finding out as much as he could about the men who planned to oust Jaxom.
Deciding it was easier to stick to a story that was close to the truth, he passed himself off as a herdbeast handler from Crom, hopeful of setting up a holding of his own. Knowing that the men he was seeking wouldn’t be in Nabol Hold proper, but rather on its outskirts, he concentrated his energies on the smaller cotholds in the populated areas outside the main Hold. With an ease that surprised him, Piemur drew on his harper training and worked quickly to talk with as many people as possible. He found that in Nabol everyone had time for chatter and gossip, so he made a point of lingering long over his evening meal in the main hostelry outside Nabol Hold, and by spending a few marks extra to stand a round of cider for the more tight-lipped denizens, he was able to loosen their tongues enough to glean even more information.
On the second night, Piemur struck up a conversation with a bandy-legged cotholder named Hedamon, who was happy to answer any of the casually posed questions he asked him, though he seemed intent on getting more than at least one free drink out of Piemur’s pocket. After they’d been talking for a while, Hedamon lifted his empty glass for Piemur to see, tilting it from side to side as he looked him up and down, before exclaiming with one squinty eye, “Yer a nosy liddle git, aren’t ye?”
Hedamon winked conspiratorially at Piemur and, even though he was already well in his cups, accepted the fresh glass of ale. After making short work of downing it, the holder insisted that Piemur accompany him to another location that specialized in making its own unique brews and was, in Hedamon’s opinion, where everyone in Nabol went to socialize.
Piemur was utterly unable to resist Hedamon’s urgings as the boozed-up man draped an arm over his shoulder, grabbed a handful of his tunic for better purchase, and clung to him as if he were a lifeline, jovially hauling him out of the hostelry and into the cool night where, a short walk away, Skal’s renowned brewhouse was located. As he got his bearings, Piemur realized that they weren’t far from Marek’s cothold.
An old woman, who was standing in her doorway as they approached the brewhouse, tut-tutted and made a shushing sound when the raucous Hedamon tottered past her, leaning heavily on Piemur, her disapproval settling on her shoulders like a shawl.
“Ah, shush yourself, Fronna,” Hedamon called loudly, adding, “ye frigid old cow,” and then belched to punctuate the insult.
Piemur strained against Hedamon’s immobilizing hold on the front of his tunic, casting a quick, apologetic look over his shoulder at the woman in the hope that she hadn’t heard Hedamon, but it was obvious from the resounding sound of her front door slamming shut that she had.
Hedamon stopped abruptly in front of the last house in the group of cotholds, tilting his head back to give it his full scrutiny. The effort of leaning back while he looked up had the effect of making Hedamon lose his balance, and he tottered backward a few paces, dragging Piemur with him. With a huge effort, Piemur, slightly tipsy himself—though nowhere near drunk—managed to halt Hedamon’s backward progress and they stood for a moment, taking in the nondescript, unmarked façade of Skal’s brewhouse.
“This, young lad,” Hedamon slurred, holding up one finger to stress his point, “is the finest brewhouse outside Nabol proper. Ye won’t get any bedder beer near here.” He guffawed at his choice of words. Then, with a huge lunge forward on one bandy leg, Hedamon marched onward purposefully, dragging Piemur with him. He pushed open the front door of Skal’s brewhouse and crammed them both through together as if the doorframe could in no way pose an impediment to their progress.
As his shoulder was bashed painfully against the stone, Piemur finally broke free of Hedamon’s grasp and pulled back a little, allowing the older man to precede him over the threshold and through to a narrow hallway with an open door on either side and another at the end. As they passed, Piemur could see that the room beyond the left door was empty of people, though it contained some chairs and tables, a padded seat under the deep window embrasure, and a fire burning invitingly in the hearth. The other doorway opened into a room where a group of older women were seated around a table, playing cards and holding glasses of amber liquid in their free hands as they laughed unreservedly at some comment one of them had made.
Hedamon ignored the women and continued down the hall to the far door, which he pushed through. Suddenly they were outside again, in the night air, surrounded by throngs of people.
Piemur quickly realized that Skal’s brewhouse was, in actual fact, his home. He used his rooms as demand dictated; one of them, the empty room they had passed by, could serve for smaller, more private parties, but when a large group of drinkers descended on Skal’s house, he opened up the courtyard area at the back to accommodate the extra guests.
At the far end of the courtyard a long counter had been set up under a lean-to shale roof. It was from here that Skal served his brews of ciders and ales to his guests. Two helpers, a man and a woman, were stationed alongside Skal, busily pouring drinks for the thirsty traders and other assembled folk.
Hedamon, obviously a frequent visitor to Skal’s house, called out to some of the men around the serving counter and was answered in turn with varying degrees of greeting, ranging from lukewarm hellos to icy-cold stares. A few men noticeably turned their backs when they saw Hedamon. It was at that point that Piemur thought it prudent to step away from the older man so he didn’t limit his options for gathering information. It wasn’t hard to distance himself from Hedamon: Piemur wasn’t even sure if the man was still coherent after their walk through the fresh evening air; his speech had degenerated noticeably, and he swayed continually from foot to foot as if he stood on an oceangoing vessel. When Hedamon bellowed out an order for drinks above the noise of the crowd, one of the servers behind the counter gestured with a nod of his chin toward Piemur who, sensing the perfect opportunity, made a shrugging motion with his shoulders, shook his head, stretched his lips wide over his closed mouth, and raised his brows in a sheepish expression; at the same time, he darted a glance in Hedamon’s direction as if to suggest that he hadn’t a clue about the identity of the man standing next to him.
His ploy worked and the server promptly placed a single glass of ale on the counter and then quickly moved away to take the next order. As Hedamon bellowed again, trying to attract the server’s attention for a second glass, Piemur ducked in behind a group of large traders dressed in heavy furs and slipped into an empty, snug little booth positioned out of Hedamon’s line of sight.
He sat in the enclosed space soaking in the sounds and trying to pick up on snippets of conversation that floated across the courtyard in his direction. The fur traders, talking in their deep, resonating voices about their next port of call, drowned out the chatter of the other patrons. Thankfully, they were frugal men and only stayed for the one drink before vacating the premises and freeing up the space for a new batch of drinkers. A server interrupted Piemur’s solitude to clear away several empty glasses and offered to bring Piemur a drink if he wished. But Piemur only ordered a small glass of cider, not wanting to risk getting drunk and missing out on any potentially noteworthy snippets of information.
Apart from the occasional curious patron who popped a head into the booth to see who its occupants were, it turned out to be the perfect hiding place from which to eavesdrop on nearby conversations.
His ears pricked up and he grew very still when he could’ve sworn he heard a voice say “Lord Meron.” Trying to quiet his breathing so he could hear better, Piemur leaned back against the booth’s partition, closed his eyes, and concentrated on listening. There it was again: the long-dead Lord Meron’s name!
“Meron said he’d behest me that parcel of
land near the high ground bordering Ruatha! But then the old bollox recanted.”
“I’ll bet he promised that same piece of ground to every single one of us,” another voice proclaimed bitterly.
“For certain he was no good at keeping his word, and far better at stringing us all along for his own use.”
“He’s wuined us all, is what he’s done,” a third voice piped up. “Why, I had the chance to take hold of land my mothuh’s bwother offered. But Lawd Mewon kept danglin’ his promises in fwont of me in that way of his, the malice-widden old git, telling me not to settle for less than I deserved. So I wefused my uncle’s offuh, and he gave the land to someone else!” The third speaker clearly struggled to pronounce R’s.
“Listen,” a deeper voice commanded. “We know too well what Lord Meron did to us all. We can talk it to death but it won’t change anything. We have to do something about it or give over the bellyaching once and for all. I don’t know about you lot, but me and Serra have had enough talk.”
Piemur nearly gasped. He had heard that name before! Toolan had spoken about his cousin Serra. Piemur quickly silenced his own thoughts, determined not to miss a single word the men uttered.
The deep voice continued: “If you’re in with us, say so now or stop wasting our time. We all worked hard to prove our worth, and little thanks we got for it. Nothing but empty promises, and then when that old fart finally died, we were cast aside and forgotten. No one’s going to give us land—as is our right—so we’ll just have to take matters into our own hands.”
There were a few low murmurs in response, and then the speech-impeded voice said something too low for Piemur to hear. Another man excused himself from the group, claiming he wanted to wait and see how matters panned out.
Piemur wished he could leave the safety of his little booth to see what the men looked like, but the need to hear more of what they had to say was far greater, so he remained where he was. With any luck, when they were leaving Skal’s he’d get the chance to follow them out of the brewhouse and match the faces to the voices.
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