The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  He found Sebell in his office, piles of odd-sized papers on his desk, held down by rocks.

  “Well, come to do your share of petitions?” Sebell asked, gesturing to the mess.

  Pinch groaned and looked away. “Bad timing on my part.”

  Traditionally all petitions presented at Turnover were forwarded to the Harper Hall and read by a special group of journeymen and masters who determined which were urgent enough to be submitted to the Council at Telgar on the first of the Third month. Some of the petitions should have been handled at Hold level. However, if there were sufficient complaints brought against major or minor Holders, the Council was the best place to decide if the matter should be investigated further. Pinch was often assigned to get specific information.

  “I’ll do my share. I always do. I’ll look at any in Keroon, Igen, or Bitra—I know most of the troublemakers there anyhow.”

  Sebell gave a little smile. “Not much from Bitra so far. Sousmal seems to be taking such good hold that everyone’s happy with him.”

  Pinch widened his eyes, moved one pile of papers to hitch his hip up onto the desk. “For now! How about those sketches I sent you? Any of that trio known?”

  “Woman’s from Tillek, rather a sour contentious sort, apprenticed to local healer hall but released prior to her third term as unsuitable to the Craft. Petitioned Lord Ranrel to be given her father’s hold in preference to the younger brother who had been named by their father, evidently with a specific instruction that she was not to be considered. She and the brother had a huge dispute and she left. Hasn’t been seen since Tillek’s autumn Gather last Turn.”

  “So she’s holdless?”

  Sebell shrugged, searching briefly in the wide drawer under his desk and finding the three sketches. “One of the Traders through here—a Lilcamp—recognized this fellow.” He tapped the one with the missing index finger. “Travels a lot. Does his share when asked, can put his hand to a lot of jobs, has a habit of asking questions. Funny sort of voice, too.” He paused. “Young Sev mentioned the questions were—how do I put it—provocative.”

  “Provocative? And he asked Traders?” Pinch was mildly surprised by such gall.

  “They see a lot of people and are smart enough to know what’s going on where and how folks are reacting. Better than Runners who can’t stay long anywhere.”

  “They’re helping though,” Pinch said. “Chesmic up at Circle Hold says he’s had strangers in, sending messages, and others leaving them at a Runner Halt, a half mark left to pay carriage.”

  Sebell raised his eyebrows. “Overpaying? Bribing?”

  “Not when Chesmic tells me.”

  “Does he know you’re Harper?”

  “Doesn’t ask.” Pinch’s eyes danced with amusement. “By the bye,” he added, his grin turning malicious, “did you know that the window glass that broke during the shock wave was all made by Master Norist? None of Master Morilton’s shattered! Another point for our new technology.” Then he cocked his head. “Do we know, officially or unofficially, if the—ah—exiles survived the Flood?”

  Sebell pursed his lips and regarded his companion. “Has there been a question about that?”

  “Not in so many words but it might be handy to know.”

  “And you’re curious?”

  “Part of it.” Pinch’s shrug was noncommittal.

  “As I understand it, one of the natural attributes of a proper exile is that no one, searching in a ship for dissidents, would find a beach to land on. Many of such islands are sheer-faced cliffs. The relevant ones were drenched but not drowned. What’s the other part of it?”

  “A snippet of conversation I overheard—misinformation, actually—that I’d like to honestly—” He put his hand over his heart.“—genuinely, sincerely, trustworthily repudiate. As I was saying, I suspect our plotters, and perhaps the ingenious scum who assembled the pamphlets, that so distressed Master Crivellan, lurk in the foothills of Keroon where dwell many with insufficient teachering to argue, and no interest in what happens to the rest of the planet. Did you identify that third chap?”

  “He looks slightly familiar but I can’t place him.”

  “Nor can I. He resembles half a dozen men I know, same age, same height, same general features, but he seems to have no morals or ethics. He does have some responsibilities that he has to attend to from time to time or a person he makes reports to. He may be a younger Holder son, not likely to succeed; he holds his nose a lot. You’ve seen the type, though he adapts to his surroundings better than Third and Fifth do.”

  “Third and Fifth?”

  Pinch made a face. “They go by the numbers. The one woman’s referred to as Fourth. I think the original second is dead. I got the distinct impression that they’re glad he is since he objected to some of their plans. Third’s the big one, Fourth the female. Seven in all or at least seven who come to the hill retreat from time to time. I’d suspected Sixth was from Tillek, with that flat nasal twang. Third’s traveled—as we know—and Fourth’s been in so many places I can’t tell where she came from. Definitely Third is in it for money and sport. I think Third is genuinely concerned about too much technology. Fourth uses Tradition as a reason to exist. Her thinking’s skewed. She wants to lead and she hasn’t got the personality for it. She’s too concerned about doing things the old way, the right way, the way she was taught that ought to be the way everyone does it.” Pinch paused. “Too hidebound to know the color of her pelt.”

  “Are they planning something?” Sebell asked.

  “They act like it, all this leaving of messages at Runner Halts so the sender can’t be identified.”

  “How do they collect messages, then?”

  “I suspect one of their docile hill folk do. I asked at Wide Bay—Stationmaster Arminet knows me—and he remarked, casual like, that a lot of hill folk were getting messages.”

  Sebell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They must know that now most healer halls lock away their stores—and use Master Morilton’s glass.” He gave Pinch a telling look. “The Glass Halls have shifted healer-hall work to more secure places, the SmithCraftHalls have started using digital lock systems …”

  “And Aivas scores another posthumous victory over vandalism,” Pinch said with customary impertinence, raising his hand in triumphant gesture. “Never know what we’ll need next because of them.”

  “Benelek’s delighted. The units are easy to build and attach to alarms. I’ve sent some handy apprentices down for a few weeks’ training with him.”

  “You’re not worried about them breaking in here, are you?” Pinch was genuinely alarmed.

  Sebell laughed, lightening his generally serious manner. “Not with the Fort Hold watch dragon!”

  “Who didn’t hear the vandals in the Healer Hall …”

  “Because they entered quietly and wearing healer green. Then there’re all the fire-lizards that live here—not just Menolly’s.” Sebell pointed a finger at the roving Harper. “You hear anything of their plans, even a whisper …”

  “My hearing’s excellent and Bista’s is better.”

  “Send word.” Sebell frowned a little, thinking. “Odd, isn’t it, that those who dislike the advantages Aivas gave us should force us to use his technology to thwart them!”

  “Ironic, too.” Pinch rose from his perch on the desk corner. “I’ve read enough in Aivas’s historical files to feel that Pern will never be in danger of becoming over-technical. Takes too long to develop the skills needed, except in special instances like the digital locks, and we certainly don’t have the production systems the Ancients had. As a population, we have been conditioned to this slower, more methodical rhythm of living and only a very small portion will ever feel the urge to aspire to Aivasian heights.”

  “A Pinch of philosophy, too, huh?” Sebell said, grinning. “I wonder would such reassurance suffice to content the dissenters.”

  “We all have a choice,” Pinch said and rubbed his hands together with an air of anti
cipation. “What petitions d’you want me to go over? I’m here overnight at least.”

  Just as Sebell was deciding which pile, the latch of the Master’s office door was being pulled down. Both men heard a child’s delighted laughter and then the door was pushed inward.

  “Da, I learnt ’nother tune. Perfect!”

  The child—and Pinch had no difficulty in identifying him by his tangle of dark curly hair as Menolly’s oldest son, Robse—swung in on the door handle, waving his wooden recorder over his head. “Ooops, sorry. Dint know anyone was here.”

  “No, come in, come in,” Pinch said, wondering if he could escape being lumbered with petitions.

  “Is by Aivas!” Robse announced as if the source made all the difference.

  “By Aivas, is it?” Pinch could not resist echoing the phrase.

  “By Aivas!” Robse affirmed with a nod that made the curls on his head bounce and his expression turn very stern indeed.

  “If it’s by Aivas, then it’s all right,” Pinch said.

  “These, Master Mekelroy, are for your perusal,” Sebell said, bowing as he held out one of the larger piles to Pinch.

  “Thank you, Master Sebell, thank you. You are always so generous to me. I can’t thank you enough for giving me something to busy myself with while I’m here,” and with such effusions, and a wink at the mystified Robse, Pinch backed out of the room. “A perfect tune really must be heard as soon as it’s learnt,” and he closed the door on that remark.

  He’d given Sebell the most important news, though he still had to discuss the problem of far too many people wanting to know “What were the dragonriders going to do about things that fell from the sky?”

  Benden Weyr—

  The watch dragon trilled the note that Weyrleaders were flying into Benden and Mnementh and Ramoth on their ledges rose to bugle a welcome, which informed Lessa and F’lar of important, if unscheduled, visitors.

  Tileth and Segrith, Ramoth said, raising her head from her front legs.

  “Really?” Lessa was as surprised as F’lar. “Did you forget they were coming?”

  “I wouldn’t forget something as unusual as that,” he chided her as he quickly slipped off the soft, fleece-lined ankle-boots he was wearing and pulled on leather ones warming near the heating unit, shrugged off the wool vest, and rose to his feet, straightening his collar and settling the deep cuffs of his wool shirt.

  With an air of not noticing his rearrangements, she wrapped her long braid into a more formal coronet and smoothed the creases out of her woolen trouser-skirt.

  “We have wines, don’t we? And perhaps Manora will send someone with fresh klah and whatever is freshly baked,” she said. “I wonder why they’re here!” she added.

  “No doubt they’ll inform us!” he said as he opened the thick curtain that kept cold air from leaking into their comfortable quarters. He frowned as he looked out. “They should have checked our weather first. It’s turned into a miserable day.”

  Did they ask, Ramoth?

  No, or I would have told you. I, too, do not forget anything. Ramoth turned lightly, whirling reproachful eyes on her rider.

  “Of course not.”

  She heard voices on the ledge and stepped around the curve of the wall to see Pilgra slipping, putting one hand firmly out to the stone to get her balance.

  “My dear Pilgra, you should have checked the weather,” she said solicitously. Pilgra was not her favorite of the Oldtimer Weyrwomen but anyone venturing out today would receive her concern. “Come to the heat. Let me take your coat. Ah, you’ve one of the new long ones! Is it warmer, d’you think?”

  “On a better day, it might be enough but I didn’t expect it to be so miserable here. It’s cold enough in High Reaches, but at least the sun’s out.”

  Holding the wet coat, Lessa noticed that Pilgra’s wool trousers were baggy at the knees and unattractively creased at the thigh.

  “Oh, how warm you’ve made your weyr,” the older woman said, her eyes taking in the heating units. “Good day to you, Ramoth,” she added, nodding formally to the queen who was observing the visitor with tranquil green eyes. Then she walked rapidly to the nearest source of warmth, giving a mock shiver. “How marvelous! We have heat now, too, but nothing seems to penetrate the cold in High Reaches.”

  Suddenly Lessa had an idea why the two Weyrleaders had come.

  The sun may shine on High Reaches, but it never warms, Ramoth remarked. I have told Tileth and Segrith to warm themselves on our Hatching Sands. It would be better than waiting on the ledge in this weather.

  How thoughtful! Lessa responded.

  Then she turned to greet M’rand and saw the pinched look on his face. Yes, definitely, they were here about stepping down. Not that they had to discuss such a decision with Benden since the Weyrs were autonomous, but M’rand was punctilious about such fine points.

  “Wine? Or some of Master Oldive’s liqueur?” she asked him.

  “That’d do fine, Lessa,” M’rand said, and a spasm of coughing shook him.

  Why hadn’t she noticed that M’rand was aging? When was the last time the Weyrleaders had seen each other? The queens exchanged messages from time to time but the riders had not visited. The mental image she had of the High Reaches leader, hearty, vigorous, straight, underwent a distressing revision: he was slightly stooped in the shoulder; his solid features—once handsome—were thinned and dry, his cheeks a network of red lines; the tip of his nose was mottled and the flesh sagged slightly under his chin and neck. Pilgra’s dark hair showed no glint of white but the density of the color suggested to Lessa that the woman made use of some of the personal products that had become available from Aivas’s files. There’d always been a red dye available from Pernese roots but the result was not as natural-looking as the new ones that had many shades to choose from.

  F’lar served the liqueur to all, and Lessa asked after friends in the Weyr and Lord Bargen who, she was informed, was still annoyed that three of his sons had abandoned him to find holdings in the south.

  “Hosbon’s done quite well,” Pilgra said. “Has a pier, a drum tower, and a sloop at Seminole.”

  “He got that much out of Toric?” Lessa said, exchanging surprised looks with F’lar who chuckled.

  “Must be a chip off the old block if he can wheedle amenities out of Toric,” he said.

  M’rand nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Well, Bargen brought ’em all up to work hard so that he’d have a choice when it comes time for him to quit holding.”

  “Which is why we’re here, Lessa, F’lar,” Pilgra said, sitting forward on the edge of her seat. “We want to step down.”

  “Four good Wingleaders who know every bit as much as I do about Threadfall,” M’rand added in a rush. “Weyr’ll follow any one of them. Three good strong queens and a young one not yet old enough to mate. So we want to go south. Found a place down there in Cathay, when we were helping after the Flood. Small bay, protected east and west, not a big holding but don’t want a big one. Got four to five weyrfolk want to warm their bones along with us. Wanted to ask you, can we?”

  “Can you?” F’lar regarded him with surprise. “Of course you can. You and Pilgra have done more than your share of flying, in this Turn and the old one.”

  “You don’t think we’re deserting?” Pilgra directed her question to Lessa, her face screwed with anxiety.

  “By the Egg, no.” Lessa leaned across the space between them and patted Pilgra’s hand, noticing the brown spots and the puffiness of her fingers holding the glass.

  “Segrith hasn’t had any of the old urgings to fly,” Pilgra went on, adding, “though she’s clutched every two Turns since we got here.”

  “With at least fifteen eggs and all living to fly. I wonder you’ve any space left in the Weyr.”

  “Well, it’s space another queen can fill from now on,” Pilgra said with a touch of asperity. “M’rand wants to see the Pass out but …” and she raised one hand in a helpless gesture.

>   M’rand cleared his throat, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Did hope to, F’lar, not many get the chance, you know.” His grin was a brief echo of his former vitality and charm. “But, after seeing the place in Cathay, what with R’mart stepping down, I thought maybe, with three queens available and I’ve got some fine bronze riders, we might … well … go south and get warm!”

  “You don’t have to ask our permission, you know,” Lessa said gently, smiling with genuine gratitude. “You didn’t have to come Forward from your own time to help F’lar and me during this Pass.”

  “ ‘That was twice decided,’ ” M’rand murmured softly, quoting the old Question Song. “We came because that was what we’d done, had to do, did.”

  “And, for thirty-one Turns, we’ve been grateful for your splendid generosity,” Lessa said.

  M’rand demurred with a chuckle. “Wasn’t having as much fun in the Interval. I was young enough to accept the challenge. Now I’m old enough to think R’mart was right. We got you started and now we can retire in good faith. Of course, he still wants to be in a Weyr. Ourselves, we’ve been in one too long and Pilgra and I’d like to be by ourselves. Not,” and he held up a hasty hand, “that you can’t call on us and our dragons whenever you need to!”

  “Now, if you’re trying to get us to argue you into staying in that cold Weyr of yours, you’ve come to the wrong ledge,” F’lar said, with an amused tilt to his mouth. He flicked one hand at M’rand. “Go, rider, and enjoy a well-deserved rest. May it take you into the next Interval.”

  “You mean that?” Pilgra turned to Lessa, eyes wide.

  “Who thinks this is wrong?” Lessa wanted to know. And when both exchanged uncertain glances, she went on. “Let me guess: G’dened.”

  “Well, he’s the oldest of us,” Pilgra said.

  M’rand cleared his throat. “Stubborn, too, won’t let go at Ista because he’s been at that Weyr—” He paused to guffaw. “—a half a hundred Turns and he knows all there is to know about leadership and Fall.”

  “One can appreciate such a sense of loyalty,” Lessa said after a moment, and smiled. “Tenacity, too, and dedication, sense of purpose, perfectionism.”