But his mind, working overtime in anxiety over the success of his new program, refused to be caught up in the music. Among other things, what was he going to do about Bitra Hold? The last teacher he’d sent there had left, voiding his contract with Chalkin—not that Clisser blamed Issony when he’d heard the way the man had been humiliated and threatened by unruly Holder children—but children had to receive rudimentary education. You couldn’t afford to let one whole province lapse into illiteracy.
To be sure, children learn at different rates: he knew that, and learning should be made as interesting as possible, to lay the foundations for further study, and for life itself for that matter. That was the purpose of education: to develop the skills required to solve problems. And to utilize the potential that existed in everyone—even a Bitran, he added sourly.
Maybe he should reappoint Sallisha to that area. Then he chuckled. Not much chance of that. She had enough seniority to refuse point-blank.
He made up his mind then, with the lovely phrases of Bethany’s song soothing him, to bring the problem of Chalkin, Lord Holder of Bitra, up in the next Conclave. Something had to be done about the man.
During the final evening meal in which all three groups joined up on the Fort court for a dinner featuring three whole roasted steers, Clisser heard Chalkin’s name come up and homed in on the group discussing the man.
“That’s not all,” M’shall was saying, a deep frown on his usually amiable face. “He’s put up guards at the borders, and anyone who wants to leave can take only their clothes with them. Nothing else, not even the animals which they may have raised themselves.”
Clisser had not realized that the Benden Weyrleader had arrived, but his presence was certainly fortuitous.
“You’re speaking of Chalkin?” he asked when the others acknowledged his presence and made room for him in their circle.
M’shall gave a scornful laugh. “Who else would turn folks out of their holds right now?”
“I’ve just heard from one of my traveling teachers, Issony, and he’s quit and nothing would persuade him to go back to Bitra. But even they have to grow up literate.”
“Ha!” M’shall’s scoffing was echoed by the others.
“School hours keep Bitrans from other jobs which earn their holder more marks. What did he do to Issony?”
“He’ll give you chapter and verse if you ask him. In fact, it would do him good. I understand one of your riders rescued him.”
“We do a lot of rescue work in Bitra,” M’shall said, not at all pleased by the necessity. “But only non-Bitrans,” he added.
“Now, look,” and Bridgely seemed about to explode, “I will not succor all his refugees. And I will not lift a hand to help him when his hold is overrun by Thread.”
“Ah,” and M’shall raised one finger in a sardonic gesture, “but you see, he doesn’t believe Thread’s coming.”
“Wouldn’t we feel silly if he was right after all,” said Farley, one of the other minor Fort holders. “Oops, wrong thing to say,” he added when coldly repressive stares rejected his witticism.
“Chalkin has always been contrary by nature,” Clisser said. “But never such an outright fool.”
“Well, he’s exceeded even ‘damned fool,’ ” Bridgely said. “Is your teacher, Issony, here now? Well, then, bring him up to Fort. We’re about to do something definitive about Chalkin.”
“Right now?” and Clisser couldn’t help looking over at the roasting carcasses and sniffing at the succulent odors they were producing.
“I expect to eat, too,” Bridgely said, relenting.
“I just finished eating at Benden,” M’shall said, but his nose was twitching at the aromas. “Ah, well, we could have a slice to allow you to enjoy your meal.”
“Timed it just right, didn’t you?” Farley said, with a grin for their obvious interest in the roasting meats. “Can something be done about an irresponsible Lord Holder?”
“Read your copy of the Charter, Farley,” Clisser said.
“And how long have border guard . . .” Paulin paused, made indignant by such a measure. “. . . been in place?” He’d assembled those concerned in his office at the hold when they’d finished eating. Issony was on call if his testimony was required.
“As near as we can figure out, about seven days,” M’shall said. “As you know, we’ve been canvassing all the holds, to see who, if any, of Chalkin’s people has been told about the imminence of Thread.”
“Surely they’d have heard that much at Gathers—” Paulin began.
“Ha!” Bridgely said. “Very few of his folk hear where or when Gathers are being held, much less attend them.”
“That isn’t right,”Paulin said, shaking his head.
“Frankly, Paulin, I’d say his tithing of them is punitive. None of them ever seem to have a mark to spend even when they do bring work to sell at a Benden Gather. Not that they’re encouraged to travel at all.”
“Even to Gathers?” Paulin answered his own query. “No, he wouldn’t encourage them, would he?”
“Not if he’s afraid they’ll compare conditions in another hold. Also he doesn’t like Bitran marks to go past his borders.”
“And gets every one those high rollers have when they attend those friendly little games he runs,” M’shall said.
“I must confess I hadn’t known how restrictive he is,” Paulin said in a very thoughtful tone of voice.
“Well, how would you?” Bridgely replied, absolving him. “You’re West Coast. We know because we see so few Bitrans at East Coast Gathers. Oh, his gamesters attend every one . . .”
“Hmm, yes, they’re ubiquitous, you might say,” Paulin murmured under his breath. “So, if he’s had to close the borders, it would appear that some holders panicked when they learned Threadfall is indeed expected?”
“Indeed,” Bridgely said with a grim expression, “and when a delegation got the nerve to approach him, he had them beaten out of the hold. I saw the lash marks so I know they aren’t lying. They said they’d never seen him in such a temper. He announced that the dragonriders are trying to get extra tithing on false pretenses by spreading such rumors. He was also quite damning about the new mine being opened above Ruatha when good Bitrans could have worked the Steng Valley ones.”
“The world is against Bitrans?” Paulin asked in a droll tone.
“You got it,” M’shall said.
“Chalkin also refused to accept delivery of HNO3 tank . . .” Kalvi said.
“Wouldn’t pay for them, you mean,” M’shall said. “That’s what Telgar riders told mine.”
“Either way, there’ll be no groundcrews. I think he’s gone far enough to warrant impeachment,” Paulin said with slow deliberation. “As a Lord Holder, it’s his duty to inform, and prepare his folk, for Threadfall. That’s why the Holder system was adopted: to give people a strong leader to supply direction during a Fall and to provide emergency assistance. By closing his borders, he’s also abrogated one of the basic tenets vouchsafed in the Charter: freedom of movement. He’s turned autonomy into despotism. I’ll send all Lord Holders and Professional Heads particulars . . . Oh,” and he glanced at Clisser in dismay, “we can’t make quick copies anymore, can we?”
“One dragonrider could contact all the other Lord Holders,” M’shall said. “Or one messenger on this coast and another on ours. That makes only two copies needed.”
“I’ll request a rider from S’nan,” Paulin said, reaching for a pad.
“That’ll please S’nan no end,” M’shall said. “He’s not been the least bit pleased with Chalkin’s defiance. Simply isn’t done, you know,” and M’shall grinned as he mimicked S’nan’s rather prim tones.
“We must take action against Chalkin now,” Paulin said, “rather than leave it until the next formal Conclave at Turn’s End. Time’s running out.” Then Paulin turned to Clisser. “Which reminds me. Clisser, any luck on finding some method of irrefutably determining the return of Thread?”
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br /> Clisser jerked himself into alertness. “We’ve several possibilities,” he said, trying to sound more positive than he was. “What with the loss of computer access, it’s taking longer to sift through ways and means.”
“Well, keep at it . . .” and then Paulin touched Clisser’s shoulder and smiled, “along with everything else you’re doing. By the way, the teaching songs are very good indeed.” Then he put a finger in his ear, drilling it briefly as he grinned more broadly. “The kids sing ’em all the time, not just in class.”
“That’s what we intended,” Clisser said with droll satisfaction. “Shall I wait for your message?”
“No need for that, my friend, but thanks for offering. This I will take pleasure in penning.” Fort’s Lord Holder grinned. “And I’ll remember to keep a copy for the Archives. By the way, wasn’t there some ancient way of making copies . . . something that would transfer the writing to the next page under?”
Clisser bowed his head briefly in thought. “Carbon copying, I think you mean. We don’t have it, but Lady Salda might have some ideas. We’ve got to figure a way to make multiple copies or spend hours copying.” He gave a heavy sigh of regret.
“I’ll leave it to you then, Clisser,” said Paulin. “Thank you all. Now get out of here, the lot of you,” and he grinned at the Benden leaders and Kalvi, “and enjoy the rest of the evening while I get on with this task. Not that I won’t enjoy it in some respects,” he said, picking up his pen and examining the tip.
At that polite dismissal, they all filed out of the office. Clisser thought that Issony looked disappointed at not being able to recite his catalog of complaints against Lord Chalkin. So Clisser made sure that Issony had as much of the good wine as he wanted.
CHAPTER VIII
Telgar Weyr
IANTINE ASKED to be allowed out again on the next sunny day, so he was in the Bowl when the traveling traders arrived. The entire complement of the caverns flocked out to greet them. Iantine furiously sketched the big dusty carts with their multiple teams of the heavy-duty ox-types which had been bred for such work. They had been one of the last bioengineering feats from Wind Blossom, whose grandmother had done such notable work creating the dragons of Pern.
Iantine had seen traders come and go on their routes since childhood and fondly remembered the stellar occasions when the Benden trading group had arrived at their rather remote sheephold. More specifically, he recalled the taste of the boiled sweets, flavored by the fruits that grew so abundantly in Nerat, which the traders passed out by the handful. Once, there’d been fresh citrus, a treat of unsurpassed delight to himself and his siblings.
For a remote holding, having travelers drop by was almost as good as a Gather. To Iantine’s surprise, Weyrfolk were equally delighted. Despite the fact they could usually find a dragon to convey them wherever they wanted to go, the arrival of the traders was even better than tithe trains. (The tithe wagons were a different matter, since everyone had to pitch in to store the produce given to the support of the Weyr.) And traders brought the news of all the holds and halls along the way. There were as many clusters of folks just talking, Iantine noticed, as examining goods in the stalls the Liliencamp traders set up. Tables and chairs were brought out from the kitchen cavern: klah and the day’s fresh bread and rolls were being served.
Leopol, always on hand for Iantine, brought over a midmorning snack and hunkered down to give the journeyman the latest news.
“They’ve been setting up sheltered halts,” he said between bits of his own sweet roll, “along the road to here. They won’t stop doing their routes just because Thread’s coming. But they gotta prepare for it. Half of what they got on those big wagons right now is materials for safe havens. ‘Course, they can use what caves there are, but no more camping out in the open. That’s going to cramp their style,” and he grinned broadly. “But if ya gotta, ya gotta. See,” and one honey-stained finger pointed to a group of men and women seated with the two Weyrleaders. They were all hunched over maps spread out on the table. “They’re checking the sites over so’s everyone here’ll know where they might be if they’re caught out in a Fall.”
“Who trades through Bitra?” Iantine asked with considerable irony.
Leopol snorted. “No one in their right mind. ‘Specially now. Didja hear that Chalkin’s closed his borders to keep his own people in? Didja know that Chalkin doesn’t believe Thread’s coming?” The boy’s eyes widened in horrified dismay at such irreverence. “And he never told his holders it is?”
“Actually, I got that distinct impression while I was there,” Iantine said, “more from what wasn’t said and done than what was. I mean, even Hall Domaize was stocking food and supplies against Threadfall. They’d talk enough about odds and wagers at Bitra, but not a word about Thread.”
“Did they sucker you into any gaming?” Leopol’s avid expression suggested he yearned for a positive answer.
Iantine shook his head and grinned at his eager listener. “In the first place, I’d been warned. Isn’t everyone warned about Bitrans at Gathers? And then, I didn’t have any spare marks to wager.”
“Otherwise you’d have lost your commission fer fair,” Leopol murmured, his eyes still round with his unvoiced speculations of the disaster Iantine had avoided.
“I’d say Chalkin’s gambling in the wrong game if he thinks ignoring Thread will make it not happen,” Iantine said. “Shelters are going to have to be huge,” he added, gesturing toward the solid beasts who were being led to the lake to drink.
Either the great beasts were accustomed to dragonets, or they were so phlegmatic they didn’t care. However, the dragonets had never seen them before in their short lives, so they reacted with alarm at the massive cart beasts, squealing with such fright that dragons, sleeping in the pale wintry sun on their weyr ledges, woke up to see what the fuss was about. Iantine grinned. He did a rapid sketch of that in a corner of the page. At the rate he was going, he’d use up even this generous supply of paper.
“Well, they’ve had to use a lot of sheet roofing, I know,” Leopol said. “The Weyr contributes, too, ya know, since the Liliencamps have to detour to get up to us.”
Iantine had never given any thought to the support system required to serve a Weyr and its dragons. He had always assumed that dragons and riders took care of themselves from tithings, but he was acquiring a great respect for the organization and management of such a facility. In a direct contrast with what he had seen at Bitra, everyone in the Weyr worked cheerfully at any task set them and took great pride in being part of it. Everyone helped everyone else: everyone seemed happy.
To be sure, Iantine had recently realized that his early childhood had been relatively carefree and happy. His learning years at the College had also been good as well as productive: his apprenticeship to Hall Domaize had proceeded with only occasional ups and downs as he struggled to perfect new techniques and a full understanding of Art.
Bitra Hold had been an eye-opener. So, of course, was the Weyr, but in a far more positive manner. Grimly, Iantine realized that one had to know the bad to properly appreciate the good. He smiled wryly to himself while his right hand now rapidly completed the sketch of the Weyrleaders in earnest collaboration with the Liliencamp trail bosses.
That Bloodline had been the first of the peripatetic traders, bringing goods and delivering less urgent messages on their way from one isolated hold to another. A Liliencamp had been one of the more prominent First Settlers. Iantine thought he’d been portrayed in the great mural in Fort Hold, with the other Charterers: a smallish man with black hair, depicted with sharp eyes and a pad of some sort depending from his belt, and—Iantine had of course noted them—several writing implements stuffed in his chest pocket, and one behind his ear. It had seemed such a logical place to store a pencil that Iantine had taken to the habit himself.
He peered more closely at the trail bosses. Yes, one of them had what looked like a pencil perched behind one ear—and he also had an empty pouch at
his belt: one that probably accommodated the pad on the table before him.
But even with such wayside precautions, would such traders be able to continue throughout the fifty dangerous years of a Pass? It was one thing to plan, and quite another, as Iantine had only just discovered, to put plans into operation. Still, considerable hardship would result in transporting items from Hall to hold to Weyr during Threadfall, especially since dragons would be wholly involved in protecting the land from Thread. They could not be asked to perform trivial duties. Dragons were not, after all, a transportation facility. They had been bioengineered as a defensive force: conveying people and goods was only an Interval occupation.
He wondered if the traders had any paper in their great wagons. Not that he had even a quarter mark left in his pouch. But maybe they’d take a sketch or two in trade.
As quick as he neatly could, he filled his last empty page with a montage: the train entering the Weyr Bowl, people rushing out to meet it, the goods being exhibited, deals being made, with the central portion the scene of the trail bosses discussing shelters with the Weyrleaders. He held the pad at arm’s length and regarded it critically.
“That’s marvelous,” a voice said behind him, and he twisted about in surprise. “Why, you did it in a flash!”
The green rider, her dragon lounging beside her, smiled self-consciously, her green eyes shining with something akin to awe. Leopol had pointed this new rider out to him the other day and related the circumstances of her precipitous arrival at the Hatching.
“Debera?” he asked, remembering the name. She gasped, recoiling from him in her startlement. Her dragon came immediately alert, her eyes twirling faster with alarm. “Oh say, I didn’t mean to—”
“Easy, Morath, he means me no harm,” she said to the dragon and then smiled reassuringly up at him. “I was just surprised you’d know my name . . .”
“Leopol,” and Iantine pointed his pencil to where the boy stood in earnest bargaining with a trader lad about the same age, “used to tell me everything that happened in the Weyr while I was recovering.”
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