“I think now would be best,” Masterminer Britell said, nodding firmly. He looked at Toldur, adding, “There’s an extra hour of sun at High Reaches—it would give you a better chance to get settled today.”
D’gan hissed but said nothing, stomping off toward his wing, circling his arm over his head in an ancient gesture. Over his shoulder, he shouted to Fenner, “Start the victory ceremonies.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Fenner said with a bow. Turning to Kindan, he said, “Kindan, place the banners in their order.”
Kindan first picked Fort Weyr’s banner, raised it high, waved it from side to side, and then placed it in the fifth-rank stand. The Gather crowd clapped politely. Kindan next picked High Reaches Weyr’s banner and, after the flourish, placed it in the fourth-rank stand. The crowd again applauded politely.
As Kindan reached Benden Weyr’s banner, Fenner raised a hand and told him, “Wait a moment, lad. Some of the bettors are a bit drink-fuddled.”
A momentary look of puzzlement crossed Kindan’s face to be replaced by a smile of understanding—not everyone of the Gather crowd would have figured out the final rankings, so Lord Fenner was giving the gamblers a bit of suspense.
After a long moment during which the noise from the crowd changed from one of excitement to one of confusion, Fenner waved a hand at Kindan, saying, “I think now will be good enough.”
With a nod, Kindan picked up Benden’s banner, to the murmured approval of the crowd, waved it overhead, and placed it in the third-place stand. The crowd clapped approvingly. Their applause grew when Kindan repeated the performance with Ista’s banner.
“Now watch them go really wild,” Fenner said as he nodded to Kindan to proclaim the winning Weyr.
As Kindan raised the Telgar Weyr banner, the crowd erupted in a huge roar of approval that seemed to go on forever. Only when it finally died down could the sound of the crowd’s clapping hands be heard. Slowly the applause died away, only to rise again to a new crescendo as all the dragons of Telgar Weyr, in fighting formation, flew a low circuit of honor over the Gather grounds, while the dragons of the four other Weyrs kept station far above them. When they completed their circuit, the dragons from fifth-placed Fort Weyr vanished between.
The dragons of Telgar Weyr continued their circuit three more times; at the end of the second circuit, fourth-placed High Reaches vanished between, at the end of the third circuit, third-placed Benden Weyr went between, and, finally, at the end of the fourth circuit, second-placed Ista Weyr departed.
The dragons of Telgar Weyr performed one final lap and then, they, too, went between with a huge, resounding explosion of sound.
As the last echo died away, Cristov felt as though he’d woken from a dream.
“Well, that’s that,” Lord Fenner said, “at least until the next Turn.”
As dawn broke over the surrounding hills, the unmistakable sound of dragons coming from between erupted over the remains of firestone mine #9.
Tarik looked up at the sound and was not surprised to see a full wing of thirty dragons descending toward him. He identified D’gan in the forefront. Wearily he raised an arm and waved at the dragonriders as they landed. He swallowed nervously when their dragons took station on the hilltops and valley exits, but then schooled his expression to project a calm he didn’t feel.
As D’gan strode directly toward him, his wingriders arrayed themselves in a circle, cutting off any chance for Tarik to escape. D’gan’s hand hovered over his dirk.
“Your son knows that you’re dead now, Shunned one,” D’gan said, his eyes looking hard for Tarik’s reaction.
Tarik merely grunted, in a response that grated on D’gan’s nerves.
“Where’s the firestone?”
Tarik bowed low, gesturing behind him with one arm. “Over there, Weyrleader.”
D’gan nodded to one of his men, who strode off and quickly located a mound of filled sacks.
“Two hundredweight of firestone,” Tarik added, rising slightly from his bow, his eyes just avoiding D’gan’s.
“Two hundredweight?” D’gan exclaimed derisively. “No man can mine two hundredweight in a single day.” He drew his dirk and advanced on Tarik. “You’re a liar just like your son.”
“Weyrleader!” the detailed dragonrider shouted. “There’s over two hundredweight of high quality firestone here!”
D’gan halted, his menacing look replaced by one of surprise. With a curt nod to Tarik, he said, “Explain.”
Tarik straightened some more, still careful to keep himself slightly hunched in obeisance. With a wave of his hand around the ruins, he explained, “My lord, I could not find a suitable site for a new mine. However, I was able to recover some firestone from the ruin of the mine and the storage shed.”
D’gan pursed his lips, his brows furrowed in angry contemplation of the useless man standing in front of him. With a lunge, he swung, hitting the Shunned miner with an open backhand. Tarik recoiled, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anger.
With a wave to his riders, D’gan ordered, “Take the firestone.”
“My lord?” Tarik inquired obsequiously. D’gan favored him with a glare. Tarik licked his cut lip before continuing. “I know where you can get more firestone.”
D’gan gave the Shunned miner a considering look and frowned. “Where?”
“Near Keogh,” Tarik said quickly. “Still in Crom lands, but high up in the north hills.”
“And how do you know this?”
Tarik looked to the ground, acting subservient while hiding the triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I came across it when I was looking for more coal mine sites,” he muttered.
“Coal and firestone are never found together.”
“As I discovered, my lord,” Tarik quickly replied. “At the time I hadn’t seen firestone, but I learned that any prospect that included it was not a good prospect for a seam of coal.”
He risked an upward glance to gauge D’gan’s response and continued, “I know exactly where it was. And it was a large site, a full valley.”
“Hmm,” D’gan murmured. “In Keogh, you say?”
“Near it,” Tarik said. “It was difficult to locate—barely accessible—but I’m sure I could find it again.”
“And you’d have to be on foot to find it, wouldn’t you?” D’gan asked suspiciously. “And the ranges over there are so steep that anyone could get lost without much trouble. Is that what you were hoping?”
“No, my lord,” Tarik protested quickly, waving his hands in supplication. “Nothing of the sort. I couldn’t find the site on dragonback, but once found, you’d have no problems flying in.”
D’gan snorted. Cocking an eyebrow at Tarik, he said, “So you’re asking us to trust you.”
“If you please,” Tarik said, lowering his head once again.
“And what is your price, nameless one?” D’gan demanded, knowing very well what the miner would ask.
Tarik straightened and looked D’gan square in the eyes. “My name and life.”
D’gan shook his head. “Your life you left when you were Shunned and marked with the blue ‘S.’”
“My name, then,” Tarik responded, slumping once again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And to be foreman.”
“Ah!” D’gan exclaimed, tossing his head. “Now we see your true price. You would want to be master to others.”
“I was a miner, my lord,” Tarik said. “If I could mine your stone, I’d be a miner again.”
D’gan gave Tarik a long searching look. The miner was hiding something, he was certain. Still…the notion had possibilities.
“If you desert us, the dragons will be able to hunt you down,” he warned.
“I had guessed, Weyrleader,” Tarik replied.
D’gan nodded slowly, his lips still pursed thoughtfully. “And how many men would you need?”
“It would depend upon the richness of the vein, and of your needs,” Tarik told him, knowing that D’gan already knew that
. Seeing D’gan’s eyes narrow angrily, he added hastily, “With eight men, I could have a mine producing a hundredweight of firestone every day within two sevendays.”
D’gan snorted. “I’ll give you four men, and a sevenday.”
Tarik bit off an angry protest, let out his hastily drawn breath in a slow sigh, and nodded. “As you wish, Weyrleader.”
“Yes,” D’gan said, steel in his voice. “As I say.” He wagged a finger at Tarik. “And remember, nameless one, that if I wish, I can leave you to the wild, or take you to the sea and let you swim for your life. For you’re Shunned and no man will lift a hand to help you.”
Tarik swallowed angrily, his eyes lowered, and nodded in resignation.
“I’m glad that we understand each other,” D’gan responded with the cold of between in his voice.
Tarik kept his head lowered until he was ordered onto the back of a green dragon. He looked up only once the dragons rose into the air, and his eyes were gleaming in triumph.
Even though he had two purses filled to near bursting, Tenim’s earnings weren’t enough. Especially if he was to share them with Moran and the harper’s starving brats. Sure, Moran had fed him and reared him ever since he’d found him, but the price had been paid; he was ready to move on. Large numbers attracted attention, and too many might remember him with Milera.
No, it was best, Tenim decided, to finally part ways. He glanced around to be certain that none of Moran’s brats were in sight, particularly the nosy Halla, and started to fade into the deepening night.
He had no idea where he would go next, not that—with both purses so full—he would have to worry about food or lodging.
He was about to set his course when he noticed a disturbance over the hills in the distance. North of Keogh were the unmistakable signs left by dragons’ coming from the cold of between into the warmer moist evening air.
Why would dragons head there? Tenim wondered. They would have to be Telgar dragons; D’gan would permit no interlopers. Tenim frowned, wondering what could be keeping the Telgar riders from their victory celebrations.
What, Tenim decided with narrowing eyes, but finding firestone?
Word of the disaster had fanned throughout the Gather and the drums had spread the word throughout Pern. Tenim guessed that the dragonriders, particularly D’gan, would be desperate to found a new mine immediately. From all he’d heard after the disaster with the firestone and the weyrling, Tenim knew that the Weyrs stored only the barest minimum of firestone—no more than that needed for a sevendays’ worth of training.
If the Weyrs were without firestone, what would they pay to get it? His musing look grew more contemplative. D’gan had been stingy with the rations. What would the other Weyrs pay for extra?
Certainly far more than for coal at the start of a cold winter. With a calculating frown, Tenim set off in the direction of the dragon sign.
“He’s gone,” Halla told Moran as the last of the small ones reported in to her. “We should be going soon.”
Moran turned slowly around the churned field that had earlier that day been thronged full of spectators recovering from their revelries of the night before. Gone? Moran had never considered that Tenim would leave. What would the lad do without him?
“Moran,” Halla said urgently, “we have to find a place for the small ones to sleep soon.” She waved at hand toward two of the toddlers. “They’ll fall over soon enough, and the ground’s too cold and moist.”
Where had the lad gone? Moran wondered again, ignoring Halla’s pleading tone. He made another long, slow, scan of the grounds. In the far distance, he spotted a pinprick of light—a wood fire in the distance, toward Keogh.
Tenim had been evasive when asked about Milera, and violently abrupt when questioned about his whereabouts. Moran had known that the lad had spent the time since then attempting to locate Aleesa’s wherhold. As long as Moran controlled the purse strings, Tenim stayed close by. And that was as Moran preferred it. He needed the lad’s greater speed and strength to protect the small ones, just as he needed Tenim’s quick fingers to provide the marks needed to feed these small outcasts of Pern. If Tenim were gone, Moran worried, how would the children be fed?
What if—and Moran’s stomach shrank in fear—Tenim had decided to find the wherhold, and had left him with the children in order to slow him down? Would Moran find the wherhold a ruin littered with shattered remains? He shuddered. Aleesk was the last gold on Pern. If anything happened to her, there would be no more watch-whers.
He turned to Halla. “I have to go.”
“Go?” Halla repeated, alarmed at the harper’s tone. “Go where? What about the children?”
Halla was still a child, Moran told himself, glancing down to meet the challenge in her upturned eyes. Her brown eyes blazed at him, full of determination.
A child, yes, Moran thought to himself, but she’s been mother to so many that she’s a child only if measured by Turns.
A part of Moran shrank at that assessment. Well, no matter. He would not let Tenim’s greed destroy the dragons’ cousins.
“You can take care of them, I’m sure,” he told her. “You’ve always done so.”
“And where will you be?” Halla demanded.
“I’ll be back in a sevenday, not much more,” Moran responded evasively. He unhitched his purse and tossed the sack to her. Halla caught it easily. “That should be enough until I’m back.”
Halla weighed the purse in her hand. “There’s more than a sevenday’s worth here.”
“Extra, just to be sure,” Moran replied lightly, hoisting his sack to his shoulders. As he strode away, he called back over his shoulder, “Anyway, it’s safer with you.”
Halla glared at the harper’s back, her mind full of guesses at the reason for his sudden desertion. Then one of the smaller children started whining, and Halla found herself engulfed in the issues of dealing with eight small ones all by herself. She hefted the purse once more and scanned the now empty field. The lights of Crom Hold burned bright in the cliffs above her. Decisively, Halla started chivvying the children toward the Hold’s walls.
“What are you doing out this late?” a voice called from in front of her an hour later. Halla’s feet were sore from stomping on the hard-packed road that led up from the foothills into Crom Hold proper. She had one of the smallest perched on her shoulders, another held to her side, and a third dangling off her free hand.
“We’re looking for lodging for the night,” she said, working to deepen her voice. The effect was not quite what she’d hoped.
“Where are your parents, lad?” the guard asked, angling a glow-light down to shed its eerie glowing green light on them. He peered closely at Halla. “Why, you’re just a girl!”
Just a girl! Halla bristled and bit back a quick retort.
“Where are your parents?” the guard asked suspiciously, glancing at the small children draped around her. “What are these young ones doing out so late?” he added with a shake of his finger, “You’re sure to get a tanning, missy.”
“If you please, we’ve lost our parents,” Halla said, picking up on the guard’s guess.
“You have, have you?” The guard bent over to peer more critically at Halla. With one hand he reached down and swept her hair off her forehead, looking for the telltale blue “S” of the Shunned. Halla suppressed a shriek, the image of the outraged holders from two Turns back suddenly in her mind.
“Maybe you have at that,” the guard allowed. He stood upright, drew his dirk, and beat a quick tattoo with it on his shield.
“We’ll let the guard captain deal with you,” he told Halla, sheathing his dirk once more. “If you’re lucky, he’ll let you go with no more than a scolding.”
“I hope so,” Halla said fervently.
“You’d better,” the guard agreed. “Elsewise you’re likely to be seeing Lord Holder Fenner himself. He’ll not appreciate being disturbed this late at night.”
Halla was not lucky. An hour lat
er she found herself wrapped in a blanket with a mug of warm milk, perched on the far end of one of the great tables in Lord Holder Fenner’s Great Hall, small children nestled all around her.
When Lord Fenner entered the room, dressed in his nightrobe, Halla’s heart skipped at the sight of his angry, stiff expression.
“Out at night!” he bellowed, waking the smaller children who started whimpering fearfully. He stormed up to Halla and wagged a finger down imperiously over her.
“Your parents must be frantic. My captain has told me that you’ve refused to name them. That’s all the worse for you, for now you have not only them to deal with but me as well.” He paused to see how his words registered with Halla, and then his expression changed to one of confusion. “I’ve seen you before,” he declared. “Where was it?”
“I was at the Gather, my lord,” Halla mumbled, her insides shivering as the Lord Holder’s angry intensity overwhelmed her.
“I know you were at the Gather,” Fenner barked, waking up the rest of the children. Startled, and sensing Halla’s fear, they began to cry quietly.
Tears started in Halla’s eyes. Tears of fear, tears of sorrow, tears of rage.
“Wait a minute,” Fenner said, kneeling beside her and peering close at her dirt-stained face. “You’re that girl Cristov pointed out. The one that found the bubbly pies.”
He looked past her to the sobbing youngsters. He raised a hand and told his guards, “Get someone to settle them in a guest room.”
The children’s wails rose as the guards tried to remove them from Halla, and Halla grabbed at them impulsively.
“No, no, no,” Fenner told her irritably. “No one’s going to hurt them.”
“Where are they going?” Halla demanded, rising to her feet, her eyes flashing a challenge at the towering guards and darting around the Great Hall searching for avenues of escape. But it was futile. The guards were too many, too big, and Lord Fenner stood directly in her way.
“Halla!” Fenner declared, his face brightening in memory. “That’s your name. I remember now.” He noticed that Halla was still resisting the guards’ attempts to pick up the other children.
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