The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Spare her! Spare her! Away, abomination,” cried several of the prisoners, lifting their hands in entreaty.

  Oldive gave a slight nod of assent. “Her healing is now in your hands.” He turned from them, outwardly composed. Sebell stepped solicitously to his side, and he acknowledged the tacit support with a little nod.

  Just then, Journeywoman Keita came storming out of the Hall, other healers behind her, all shaking their heads, visibly devastated by what they’d found.

  “They’ve smashed every piece of Morilton’s last shipment!” she cried, glaring at the culprits, hands clenched at her sides. “It’ll take months to replace our supplies. The stillroom’s a complete shambles! Every sack, canister, and bottle in the treatment rooms have been emptied, and what they didn’t burn—” She paused in her telling to take a deep breath before she could continue. “—they urinated on!”

  Before Groghe could intervene, a holder launched his club at the prisoner nearest him, whacking the man to his knees.

  “No!” Groghe roared. “No!” The crowd wavered but its forward surge aborted. “I am Lord Holder. I mete out punishment. And they shall be punished!” His face was livid with fury that anyone would usurp his prerogative. He legged his big mount forward. “You!” He jabbed a finger at the leader, who skittered to one side on his knees as the runnerbeast’s hooves came very close to stamping on his feet. “Name! Hold! Craft!”

  “Notice that they’re wearing dark green, Lord Groghe,” Keita said in a taut voice. There was an angry murmur for the additional insult.

  “No rank knots or hold colors,” Sebell said, walking around the vandals, closely observing them.

  “I’ll ask you once more!” Groghe said. “Names? Holds? Crafts?”

  He—and the crowd—waited with brief patience. The prisoners looked more obdurate than ever.

  “Search them!” Groghe said with a wave of his hand. More than enough erupted from the crowd to obey. “I said ‘search them,’ not strip them,” Groghe added when he observed the force used.

  “Why not? Maybe the cold will loosen their tongues,” suggested a burly holder wearing Fort colors and a journeyman’s knot.

  The vandals found their tongues only to protest vehemently against such handling.

  “We have rights!” the leader cried, surrounded by willing searchers.

  “You just lost ’em. Not answering the Lord Holder!” the holder bellowed, roughly turning out the leader’s pockets, scattering a few quarter marks on the frozen ground.

  Suddenly Keita pointed to one of the women, whose shirt and jacket were opened to expose a red and inflamed chest.

  “I recognize her,” the journeywoman said. “She came to the Hall for ointment to ease a rash.”

  “Come here!” Groghe gestured to the woman.

  “You will not touch her with your abominated hands,” the leader said, shaking himself loose of his searchers.

  “You had no problem with my abominated hands when you wanted something to stop the itching,” Keita said as she pulled the woman out of the group. “And from the look of it now I’d say you didn’t even use the salve. Well, I hope you itch forever!” She released her and the woman sidled hastily back to her companions.

  “Keita,” Oldive asked, “can you remember exactly when she was here? If she gave a name or any details?”

  Keita nodded and dashed up the stairs to the Hall.

  “No doubt she had a good look round the Hall, as well,” Sebell said.

  Nothing more significant was discovered on the vandals’ persons. Groghe ended the search and the prisoners adjusted their rumpled clothing.

  Sebell spoke up. “The clothes and boots they’re wearing will tell us where they were made, and we’ve weavers and tanners enough at the Gather to make such identification.”

  Then Sharra gave a bark of laughter, pointing to travel stains and scurf on the worn boots. “They’re not dressed for the Gather, are they? In fact, they’ve done some hard riding. Could they possibly have stabled their runners in the Hall’s beasthold for a quick escape? And left interesting items in their saddlebags?”

  She saw several of the vandals flinch and laughed again as Groghe roared for Haligon to check. The Hall’s stabling was to the west of the main entrance. A half-dozen holders accompanied Haligon on the search.

  “Stuffed in here, Father!” Haligon shouted back. “Still saddled. Eating their heads off.”

  “A gallop to the harbor and a ship to sail away in?” N’ton asked.

  “It’s been done before,” Sebell said, his eyes narrowing with anger, his expression grimmer than ever.

  “Would you be kind enough to check Fort Harbor, Weyr-leader?” Groghe asked N’ton.

  “My pleasure, Lord Holder.” Pivoting, N’ton singled out four riders, standing by their dragons. As soon as the dragons were aloft, fire-lizards appeared, shrieking glad cries and following them in graceful fairs.

  “Rather stupid, really,” Groghe said, easing himself in his saddle and staring down at his prisoners. “Never considered the possibility of discovery, did you? Thought you’d do the dirty and get away without being seen?”

  The leader looked arrogantly in another direction, but the rough body searches had considerably subdued the others; most of the bluster was drained out of them. Two looked dismayed as Haligon and the others led the mounts out for inspection. Willing hands emptied the saddlebags onto the ground, spilling out the usual camping gear.

  “Fifteen of them, aren’t there?” N’ton said, rubbing his jaw. “One of my sweepriders saw such a group camping in the Trader clearing by Ruatha River a few days back.”

  “He didn’t report it?” Groghe demanded, offended.

  “To me, Lord Holder, as he reported all those heading toward all the Turnover celebrations,” N’ton replied with a diffident shrug. “He mentioned them wearing Healer green.”

  Groghe harrumphed at that detail. Who’d know these were not legitimate folk, braving the discomfort of winter travel for the magnificence of Turnover feasting and dancing? Who’d have thought the Healer Hall would be attacked?

  Sharra, standing close to Oldive, could feel the man beginning to shake. The cold was penetrating her boots, and he was only wearing soft leather shoes.

  “You must go in, Master. This has been a terrible shock to you,” Sharra murmured and began to withdraw him from the scene.

  “No, I must stay. It is my Hall they have defiled.” He hunched into the wrap, pulling it tighter against him.

  Sebell stepped close, offering Oldive a small flask.

  “It’s some of that fortified wine of yours,” the Masterharper murmured. Oldive gratefully took a hefty swig.

  “Father!” Haligon’s cry was triumphant as he held up a thin wallet. He hastened to put it in Groghe’s hands.

  As the crowd watched in anticipation, the Lord Holder made an exaggerated inspection of the wallet’s contents.

  Groghe held up a piece of paper by an edge. “What? You make use of abominations?” he cried, eyes glinting with malice as he turned to the leader. “No less than a map printed by Master Tagetarl’s abominable press. Useful things, abominations!”

  Sharra tried not to grin at Groghe’s style; he’d always appeared so pragmatic. Mockery was unusual for him, but today the gatherers loved it. Dancing and singing was all very well, but this was the most unusual diversion! They must remember every detail to tell missing friends and kin in hold and hall.

  “B?’ ” Groghe read by dropping the single sheet to eye level. “That’s you?” He fixed the leader with an inquiring look.

  “One of ’em comes from Crom, Lord Groghe,” shouted a holder busy examining a runnerbeast. “Brand on this one’s rump. Under the mud!” He shot a disdainful glare at the prisoners for such shoddy animal care.

  “This one’s Crom, too,” a harper reported.

  “They could have been stolen,” N’ton remarked. “But even that’s significant enough to start a search there for stolen runnerb
easts.”

  “B?”

  “Father,” Horon began, “if there’s a B, could there also be an A and C, and Abominators raiding other healer halls today, when they’re apt to be empty?”

  The sound of distant drumming echoed down the canyon, startling everyone. As one, heads were turned toward the Harper Hall Drum Heights.

  “I’m sorry you’re right, son,” Groghe said with a weary sigh as he, and the others familiar with the drum messages, identified the source—Boll—and the message: vandalism.

  Sharra became rigid with renewed anger as the message provided crisp details. “Janissian sending. Healer hall destroyed. Two journeymen and one apprentice injured!”

  “Don’t hold with hurting healers!” Groghe cried and his mount danced as he tightened his legs in angry reaction and barely missed knocking into the intruders. The Lord Holder began to give crisp orders.

  “Use the cart. Take ’em to the Hold. Horon, put them in one of those rooms on the lower level.” His expression was malicious. “One without abominable lights. No contact with anyone for any reason. Give ’em only water. Bottled water!”

  The onlookers cheered.

  “Him!” And Groghe’s finger jabbed at the leader. “Take B to the small room. N’ton, Sebell, we’ll question him there. Will you attend, Master Oldive?”

  “I must oversee …” The Healer waved vaguely at the Hall. Sharra moved to support him.

  “Yes, yes, of course, you’ve better things to do with your time, Master,” Groghe agreed, circling his mount while he decided what else needed organizing.

  “But she’s unconscious,” cried the woman with the rash, pointing to the wounded one who was still in a heap on the ground.

  “Then she can’t object to being handled by abominable hands,” Groghe said dismissively, motioning to the nearest men to put her in the cart that had been backed up to receive its load of prisoners. There were certainly enough hands and clubs to ensure that the prisoners quickly obeyed.

  “Take all that gear up to the Hold, lads,” Groghe told the men still inspecting the saddled runners. “Bring me that bony-backed Crom nag. Haligon, throw B over the beast and tie his hands. I’m not about to stay here in the cold any longer. I’ve other duties today.” He made his mount pivot on its hindquarters, for a final survey of the scene. He kneed it to the stairs as Master Oldive, with Sharra and Sebell beside him, started to ascend.

  “Dreadful display of ignorance. Dreadful,” Groghe said bending from the saddle to sympathize with the Healer. “You took no hurt, Master Oldive? I shall deal with that rabble to the full extent of my power as Lord Holder. They expected to wreak their worst and disappear to the pits they came from. Ha!” The runnerbeast sidled, sensitive to his rider’s anger. “Abomination! I’ll show them abomination! I will find and punish all who perpetrated these outrages.”

  Oldive shook his head sadly. “I doubt they will be the last.”

  Sebell shot him a wary glance, pursing his lips tight.

  Groghe scowled fiercely. “I thought we’d got rid of the lot of ’em after … after … the problem at the Ruatha Gather. Didn’t I see Ruth here?” he added, looking about.

  “He’s probably gone for Jaxom,” Sharra replied.

  Groghe cleared his throat and reined his runnerbeast back to where B was being trussed aboard the nag. Haligon, bareback on his gray, held the lead rope. Standing up in his stirrups, the Lord Holder addressed the crowd.

  “Any of you who care to help the healers restore order to their Hall will be well rewarded,” he shouted, circling again to be sure all heard his message. “Let’s clear the way, then. Thanks for your help, every one of you.”

  He led the way back to Fort Hold, Haligon just behind him while those not tempted by his reward followed at the brisk pace he set.

  The dragons and riders who had not gone on search sweep sprang off into the air and, with great wings working, made the short flight back to the square.

  They were halfway up the canyon when the air exploded with new arrivals of dragons, from several directions. Surprised, Meer and Talla set their talons into the cloth on Sharra’s shoulders.

  “What else can have happened?” she cried in alarm. She recognized not only Ramoth and Mnementh, but also Golanth carrying F’lessan, and Heth with K’van.

  “I fear Master Oldive may be right,” Sebell murmured, “that the attacks here and at Boll were not isolated.”

  Ruth, the last to arrive, uttered a squawk of surprise and agilely winged in under the others who were still hovering. He dropped precipitously to the ground, a maneuver that sent a sharp current of air up to lift the skirts of Sharra’s coat. Her compulsive shudder was stilled when Jaxom’s arms encircled her.

  “Did they attack Ruatha, too?” she cried, horrified by the thought of all her carefully prepared and preserved medications destroyed.

  “No, no,” Jaxom hastily reassured her, hugging her tight.

  “But Boll was attacked.”

  “I heard the drums.” He held her tighter.

  Alerted by the arrival of more dragons, Groghe came galloping back, his cloak flying and his expression fiercer than ever. He dismounted very agilely for someone his age and joined the newcomers. In that brief interval, Sharra fretted that Ruth had inadvertently alarmed too much support. F’lessan might not be annoyed by a needless summons, but she doubted the Benden Weyrleaders would be so charitable. Not when they were close enough for her to see their stern expressions. They both looked tired.

  “The Healer Hall, too, huh?” F’lar said in a far too accurate assessment of the scene as he strode over toward Sharra, Oldive, and Sebell.

  “What d’you mean by that, F’lar?” Groghe demanded.

  “The same sort of thing has happened at Benden Hold and Landing,” F’lar said.

  “And Southern,” K’van said, nodding courteously to Lessa and Sharra.

  “We had just got Toronas calmed down when F’lessan contacted us,” Lessa said, her voice as weary as her face.

  “This can no longer be considered random damage,” F’lar said, “but a planned and coordinated attack!”

  “Let’s go inside,” Oldive said, his voice low with fatigue.

  “The dining hall is warm—and wasn’t touched,” Keita said encouragingly, appearing on the top step.

  “We could all use something hot,” Sharra said, urging Oldive to lead the way.

  “These incursions were far too widespread not to have been planned,” Lessa said when they had all been served klah fortified with the Healer Hall’s restorative liqueur. “Making too much good use of the laxity everywhere at Turnover.”

  “Not well-enough executed or timed, though,” F’lessan remarked sardonically. “One of T’gellan’s green riders investigated the sound of breaking glass and forestalled a more comprehensive destruction.” His usually amiable expression was harsh. “T’gellan is questioning the three that were caught.”

  “The Benden Healer was not as lucky,” F’lar said, “though his journeywoman says he’ll recover. Our wings will search until full dark.”

  “Sintary got just a glimpse of the vandals,” K’van said, and added in an apologetic tone, “The jungle’s too thick to hope we’ll find them easily.”

  “We’ve got this lot,” Groghe said with great satisfaction as his fist came down on the table in emphasis.

  “That leader looked an obstinate sort,” Sebell remarked. “The kind who might die for a principle.”

  “I doubt the others are of similar fortitude,” Sharra said wryly. “Scalp Wound is a moaner.”

  “Itch’s rash is going to spread all over her body,” Keita said, passing around a tray of tiny, hot Gather rolls.

  Sharra tsked-tsked in mock pity. “Let them get thirsty, too?”

  “Thirsty, Itchy, Scalp Wound?” Lessa asked pointedly.

  Sebell explained and Lessa’s grin of understanding turned into a wide yawn.

  “My apologies, but we didn’t get much sleep last night,�
� she said.

  “There are guest quarters here, Lessa,” Oldive offered quickly.

  “We’re not that decrepit,” F’lar said stiffly.

  “Maybe you’re not, F’lar,” Lessa said, rising slowly to her feet, “but I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep eight hours ago. And I would be grateful for some of it. Anywhere.”

  “Of course, of course,” Groghe said. “You’re always welcome at Fort.”

  “And Ruatha,” Jaxom and Sharra said in unison, knowing how much Lessa liked to visit at her birthplace.

  The Benden Weyrwoman shook her head with a rueful smile.

  “Ramoth and Mnementh are already ensconced in the sun on Fort’s fire-heights,” she said, rising. “I’m for a quiet room. Here.” She pointed downward. “No Gather noise.”

  “Shards! I have to get back to the Gather. Explain this mess and collect petitions,” Groghe said, getting his feet under him to stand. “Those Abominators can bloody wait. Do them good.”

  “If anything will do that wretched lot any good,” Sharra added bleakly.

  Keita hurried forward, to escort the Benden Weyrleaders to guest rooms.

  “I must return to report to Lord Toric,” K’van said ruefully, pushing back from the table. “I doubt he’ll appreciate that he’s only one of many targets.”

  “Toric does indeed prefer to be singular,” F’lar said, lifting a hand to acknowledge K’van’s uneasy truce with the Southern Holder.

  “We’ll keep him informed,” Groghe promised with a curt nod of his head. He had his own quarrel with the testy man. “Landing, Benden, Boll, Southern? How, ah, many targets could there be?”

  “I wonder did they count on blizzards at High Reaches?” Lessa asked drolly and followed Keita out of the dining hall.

  F’lar paused briefly. “F’lessan, are you coming with us?”

  “No, sir, though I’m tempted. I want to see if that green rider’s all right. They messed her about before her dragon arrived.”

  As the meeting broke up, no one was tactless enough to voice the customary Turnover good wishes.

  Before Groghe, Sebell, and N’ton reached the Gather Square, more drum messages came rolling in.