The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “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, Galter, 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?�
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  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,” Sebell 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.”