“Alert,” Sebell said, translating the initial beat and setting himself to hear more bad news, “from the Smithcrafthall.”
“Not Fandarel, too? He’s been extraordinarily conscientious in locking his Halls and stores against incursions. Ah, yes, I see …” Groghe’s face relaxed into a pleased expression as the drumrolls ended. “They tried! I wonder what he’ll find out from them. Oh, shards, everyone’s waiting!”
They could all hear the harpers playing a sprightly tune to a sparsely populated dance square. Around all four sides, knots of people were warming their hands at the braziers, murmuring among themselves, and anxiously watching the progress of their Lord Holder on his big mount.
“Father!” Horon’s shout reached their ears as he came down the wide hold steps at an almost dangerous clip. He rushed over, waiting till he was close before he gasped out his message. “Father, we’ve found something you have to see!”
“Later, Horon, later.”
“It’s extremely important.”
“Sharding Abominators! Thought we’d seen the last of their kind,” Groghe said impatiently. “Sebell, go see what’s so bloody important. I’d better deal with them.” His gesture indicated the waiting Gatherers. “Damnable way to start Turnover.” With that he kneed his mount to a trot all the way to the harpers’ platform. The tune was brought to a conclusion with a flourish that Sebell wryly approved, and the crowd flowed forward to hear what the Lord Holder had to say.
Sebell caught the eye of the nearest person in harper blue, an apprentice girl who rushed up to him.
“Worla, I’ll be at the Hold with Lord Horon. Bring me the text of all the messages coming in. I’ll send any replies directly to the Drummaster.” He summoned his gold fire-lizard, Kimi. Holding her to his shoulder, he and Horon jogged up the wide staircase to the freezing expanse of Fort’s upper court. He heard the cheers as Lord Groghe stepped up on the harpers’ platform.
“So what is so important, Horon?” Sebell asked once they were out of the wind.
Horon gulped. “The most—ghastly …” His face contorted with revulsion.
“Abominator cant?” Sebell was surprised.
Horon gave a shudder. He opened the door into the Lord Holder’s five-sided office. A table had been set up on which the vandals’ gear was spread. Grainger, the trusted steward of Fort Hold, was busy searching a saddle pack.
“That!” Horon pointed to a thin pamphlet with a dirty cover, its pages roughly fastened by crude stitches. His nostrils flared and it was plain he wanted nothing more to do with it. Grainger’s expression was similarly revolted.
Sebell bent over to examine the pamphlet: obviously a very amateurish effort. Why, Tagetarl’s youngest apprentice could have done a neater job. In bold block letters—similar to the single letter on the vandal’s map—the title of the pamphlet read Tortures of the Abomination. Yes, the same hand had made the B.
“Just—just look inside, Sebell!” Horon flicked his fingers, his mouth contorted with revulsion.
Sebell lifted the cover and only stern self-control kept him from slapping it shut. He could see what had made Horon squeamish. The picture was, indeed, revolting to look at. It depicted shapes, indecently colored, of unusual appearance and what looked like knives holding flesh back from what could be a long incision. A caption had been blacked out. Underneath, again in the black block lettering: “A body laid bare, pulsing in torture. It could be yours.”
“It’s all like that. Revolting pictures,” Horon said. “Where could they … get such things?”
Impassively, Sebell flipped several more pages and found one picture he actually recognized. The compound fracture of a human tibia, the flesh colored an unrealistic pink against which the ivory bone nauseatingly contrasted. He’d seen such an injury in a hill hold, Turns before. The printed caption read “Shattered by blows.” Sebell made out page numbers, almost obscured by the dirty finger marks, and, right by the margin of the picture, “Fig. 10” and “Fig. 112.” Checking, he found none of the pages were sequential and realized that the pamphlet was comprised of random photographs, undoubtedly removed from a perfectly proper medical text released from Aivas’s comprehensive records.
“Kimi.” Sebell turned his fire-lizard’s head toward him, one finger stroking her neck affectionately. He scribbled a quick note on the pad he kept with him and tucked it in her message cylinder. “Take this to Keita at Healer Hall. You know her.” He projected a vivid image of Oldive’s discreet journeywoman. The little queen made a throaty noise and disappeared from sight.
“Revolting to us, perhaps,” Sebell said, negligently pushing the pamphlet away from him, “but instructive to a Healer when not used as … disinformation.”
Horon shuddered.
“Those photographs are quite likely of surgical procedures. Those are not well understood as yet,” Sebell went on, looking directly at Horon. “Your own grandfather died of a burst appendix that the then Masterhealer could have removed. Such an operation was known—and successfully performed.”
Horon’s face was pale as he nodded his understanding.
“Healers have recovered much lost or imperfectly understood information,” Sebell said. “Master Oldive has been training his most skillful men and women to perform surgery that will greatly lengthen life and improve health.” He gestured disparagingly at the pamphlet. “That was deliberately produced to misinform people. To undermine one of the most basic rights of the Charter, the treatment of ills and wounds. You know,” he said, pointing at Horon, “that when Master Oldive offered treatment, that stupid female rejected him. She’s been well schooled in the delusion. No one is forced to accept healer help. Certainly no one’s bones are broken in torture! Not by Healers!” He dismissed the pamphlet with contempt.
There was a scratch on the door, which swung open. The burly minor holder who’d assisted with the prisoners peered round the door.
“MasterHarper, Lord Horon?” He entered at Horon’s wave. “I thought you’d like to know that they’re talking.”
“Talking?”
“The prisoners. Naming each other, at least. I thought you should know.”
“Indeed we should,” Sebell said. “That could be most useful.”
The half-open door hit the man in the back as someone else tried to enter.
“Master Sebell?” A man in proper Healer green with a master’s knot came in, breathless.
“Ah, Master Crivellan, just the person to explain what exactly we have here!” And Sebell slapped the dirty pamphlet in his hand. As Crivellan stared down at it with some apprehension, Kimi slipped into the room and resumed her perch on Sebell’s shoulder. “Crivellan’s particular skill is surgery. Do tell us what these pictures actually depict.”
Back at Landing—1.2.31
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—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’ll 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.
Fort Hold—late night—1.1.31
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 a
rranged 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?”
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