“Those are two of the main things to listen for. The third, which is the most important in some ways, is which of Lord Meron’s male heirs would be most acceptable to craft and cot.”
“He is dying then?” He’d been sure that the message to Master Oldive was spurious.
“Oh, yes, a wasting disease.” Sebell’s grin was malicious, and there was an unpleasant gleam in his eyes as he met Piemur’s astonished gaze. “You might say, a very proper disease to fit Lord Meron’s . . . peculiar ways!”
Piemur would have liked to have particulars, but Sebell rose.
“I must be away now, Piemur. You’re to rest, without getting into any mischief.”
“Rest? I’ve been resting—”
“Bored? Well, I’ll ask Rokayas to give you drum measures to learn. That ought to ease your boredom without taxing your strength.” Sebell laughed at Piemur’s snort of dismay.
“As long as it’s Rokayas.”
“It will be. He’s of the mind that you learned a great deal more than Dirzan believes.”
Piemur grinned at the subtle question in Sebell’s words, but before he could retort, the door was closing behind the journeyman and Kimi, who fluttered above him. Piemur hugged his knees to his chest, rocking slowly on his tail bones as he thought over all that Sebell had confided to him. And tried to figure out what it was Sebell hadn’t told him.
One thing Sebell hadn’t mentioned was how cold and how dark it would be when N’ton collected him before dawn. Menolly with Beauty and Rocky had roused him from a fitful sleep, for he’d been afraid he’d oversleep and consequently spent a restless night. He could sense Menolly’s amusement as the two of them, guided by the encouraging chirrups of the fire lizards, stumbled across the dark courtyard toward the Gather meadow. Then Lioth turned his brilliant jewel-faceted eyes in their direction, and they moved more confidently forward.
Menolly giggled as she boosted Piemur up to catch the fighting straps, and then he felt N’ton’s downstretched hand and was aided into position. He heard her softly wish him luck, then she blended into the shadows, her actual position discernible only by four points of light that were fire lizard eyes.
“D’you want the fighting strap about you, Piemur? Night flying unnerves a lot of people.”
Piemur wanted to say yes, but instead took a good hold on the leathers that encircled Lioth’s neck. He replied that since this was only a short trip, he wouldn’t need them. Then clutched convulsively as Lioth sprang upward. They were above the rim of Fort Hold’s fireheights before Piemur caught his breath. N’ton gave the bronze dragon the audible command to Nabol, and Piemur knew he screamed into the nothingness of between. He choked off the noise as he felt the change from intense cold and blackness to frosty chill and the faint lightening in what must be the eastern sky.
Two whirling points of light danced above N’ton’s left shoulder, and a fire lizard’s complacent chirp informed Piemur that N’ton’s bronze, Tris, had turned to look at him. Then Lioth swerved and Piemur’s fingers became numb as he increased the pressure on the straps, unconsciously leaning backward against the angle of descent into darkness. Tris chirruped encouragingly, as if he were completely aware of Piemur’s internal confusion. Piemur prayed fervently that Tris wouldn’t inform N’ton of how scared he was. Abruptly the bronze dragon backwinged and settled with the lightest of bumps in black shadow.
“Lioth says there are people not far down the road, Piemur,” said N’ton in a low voice. “Give me your flying gear.”
“Isn’t it Sebell?” asked Piemur, shedding helmet and jacket and thrusting them blindly toward N’ton.
“Lioth says no, but Sebell is not far behind. He hears Kimi.”
“Kimi?” Piemur’s surprise made him speak louder than he intended, and he winced at N’ton’s warnings.
“You forget,” whispered N’ton, “Sebell can bring Kimi because fire lizards are so common here in Nabol. Or so we’re led to understand.” Displeasure colored the Fort Weyrleader’s amendment. Then Piemur felt the strong gloved hand curl about his wrist, and he obediently threw his right leg back over Lioth’s neckridge, sliding down the massive shoulder, aware as he slipped beyond N’ton’s guiding hand, that the dragon had cocked his leg to allow an easier slope of descent. He let his knees take the shock of his landing and patted Lioth’s shoulder, wondering as he did so if that were bold of him.
“Good luck, Piemur!” N’ton’s muted voice just reached his ears.
He stepped back, turning his head against the shower of dust and sand as the huge bronze launched himself skyward.
Once his eyes were accustomed to the variations of black and dark gray, Piemur located the winding road and whistled softly as he realized how accurately the dragon had landed in the one flat area big enough to accommodate him. Piemur’s respect for draconic abilities rose to new heights.
He heard now the occasional sound of voices and saw the erratic wavering of light from the glowbaskets of the leading file. A creaking of wheeled carts and the familiar sluff-sluff of plate-footed burden beasts reached his ears. He looked about him for a place to hide. He had a choice of boulders and ledges, and found a shielded spot that faced the track but gave him a clear view of the dimly seen exit. He curled up small, hugging knees to chest, secure in the belief that he couldn’t be seen.
A chirrup disabused him of that notion and, startled, he glanced up and saw three pairs of fire lizard eyes gleaming at him.
“Go away, you silly creatures. I’m not even here!” To prove this, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the awful nothingness of between.
The fire lizards responded with an agitated chorus.
“What’s the matter with them?” a gruff male voice called over the creaking of cartwheels and the shuffling sound of the burden beasts.
“Who knows? Who cares? We’m most to Nabol now!” Piemur redoubled his efforts to think of nothing, and heard the faint flutter of fire lizards taking flight. To think of nothing took more effort than to concentrate on something. A great many carts, too, Piemur thought, for a Nabol Gather when there was another, better one at Fort Hold. He opened his eyes now and saw the flicker of winging fire lizards in the gathering daylight, and the point-lights of their eyes in gloom. And these were carters? Small holders? The anger that injustice roused warmed Piemur long after the caravan and the comfort of their glowbaskets passed from his angle of vision.
The cold dawn wind rose, and Piemur wished that Sebell would put in his promised appearance. He ought to have asked N’ton if Lioth had seen Sebell as he glided to his landing. Then Piemur chided himself that this was scarcely the first time he’d waited on his lonesome in the dark of dawn. He’d done his watches with his father’s herds. Of course, there’d usually been someone sleeping in the cot within voice range during those long, slow hours. What if something had happened to Sebell? Or he was delayed? Should Piemur go on to Nabol by himself? And how was he to return to the Harper Hall? He’d forgotten to ask N’ton that, presuming it was the Fort Weyrleader who’d collect him. Or was he to be collected? Did Sebell plan to sell those suitable beasts of his during the Gather? Or would they have to herd them back whence they’d come? There was a great deal that Sebell hadn’t told him in spite of the journeyman’s candid explanation about their surreptitious appearance at Nabol Hold.
Piemur relieved his anxieties by remembering that he wasn’t going to have to attend the Fort Hold festivities, or listen to Tilgin sing music that Domick had written for him. He sighed, depressed that he wasn’t going to be singing the role of Lessa, that he wasn’t still comfortably in his bed in the senior apprentices’ dormitory, waking to anticipate the applause of Lord Groghe’s guests, the accolades of his friends and Domick. And quite likely Lessa’s approval, since the Weyrwoman was Lord Groghe’s special guest today.
Here he was, cold, miserable, and uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t had so much as a cold cup of klah before he was bundled onto a dragon’s back and dumped here to await a man
who might not arrive for hours if he was walking a herd of beasts in from Ruatha Hold all by himself!
And when they found out what they’d come to discover and returned to the Harper Hall, what would Piemur do tomorrow?
He grinned, hugging his knees in smug satisfaction, remembering Rokayas’ surprise the day before when he had perfectly dead-sticked the complicated message Rokayas had thought up to test his knowledge of the drum language. Piemur was almost sorry he wouldn’t be—
He groped on the ground beside him and found a rock, gave it an experimental whack against the boulder that sheltered him. The resultant sound echoed about the small valley. Piemur found another rock and, rising, went to the now visible track. He beat the rocks together in the monotone code for “harper,” adding the best for “where,” grinning as the sharp staccato sounds reverberated. He repeated the two measures, then waited. He beat his measures again to give Sebell time to find his own rocks. Then in the pause he heard distantly a muffled reply: “journeyman comes.”
Immeasurably relieved, Piemur was wondering whether to proceed down the track and intercept Sebell when he heard a “stay” as the message was repeated. He was a bit daunted by the “stay” and restlessly scuffed at the loose gravel on the track. Surely Sebell wasn’t far away. What did it matter if Piemur did go to meet him? But the message had been clear—“stay”—and Piemur decided that Sebell must have a reason, other than obedience to Master Oldive’s instruction about Piemur’s dented head.
Sullenly, Piemur resumed his position behind the boulder. And none too soon. He heard then the sharp clatter of hooves against stone, the jangle of metal against metal, and a rumble of encouraging shouts. A fair of fire lizards arrowed out of the graying southern skies, heading straight up the track. Piemur thought of cold between’s nothingness, as the fire lizards, intent on keeping ahead of the swiftly pacing riders, swept on. The ground beneath Piemur’s rump trembled with the runners’ passage.
There was so much dust raised that Piemur couldn’t be sure how many rode by, but he estimated a dozen or more. A dozen riders with a full fair of fire lizards escorting them?
Again anger consumed Piemur. He knew that he wouldn’t have resented this latest concentration of fire lizards, obviously companioning holders prosperous enough to own fast pacers, if the earlier caravan hadn’t been just as well favored with the creatures. It wasn’t fair. He agreed wholeheartedly with Lord Oterel! There were many, too many fire lizards abroad in Nabol.
He was so incensed over such inequity, since the caravaners obviously hadn’t appreciated the capabilities of the little creatures, that at first he didn’t hear the shluff-shluff of the approaching herd.
Kimi’s quizzical cheep nearly frightened him out of his wits. She cheeped again, apologetically, and her eyes whirled a little faster as she peered at him from the top of the boulder.
“Well?” asked Sebell, appearing around one side. “You took me too literally.”
“They all have fire lizards,” cried Piemur, too indignant to make polite greeting.
“Yes, I had noticed.”
“I don’t mean that lot,” and Piemur jerked his thumb in the direction of the riders. “There was a caravan that had two or three full fairs—”
“Did they see you?” asked Sebell, suddenly wary.
“The fire lizards did, but no human paid any attention to their alert!” Then Piemur caught sight of the beasts that Sebell had herded and whistled.
“So? They meet with your approval?”
The leader had ambled past, eyes half-closed against the dust, and the rest, nose to the tail in front, with eyes fully closed, followed. Piemur counted five: all were well-fleshed, with good, thick, furry hides, moving steadily without a stumble, which meant their feet were sound.
“You’ll sell them all right,” said Piemur.
“Happen Ah will!” said Sebell in proper accent and, passing his arm about Piemur’s shoulders, urged him ahead of the herd. “Here,” and Sebell passed Piemur a padded flask. “It should still be hot. I only broke camp when Kimi told me Lioth had flashed by.”
Piemur mumbled his gratitude for the klah, which was hot enough to warm his belly. Then Sebell handed Piemur a dried meat roll of the sort that was standard journey rations, and Piemur began to view the imminent day in a much improved frame of mind.
As soon as he’d finished eating, he voluntarily dropped back to the apprentice’s uncomfortable position at the end of the single file. He’d be properly coated with dust by the time they arrived at Nabol Hold.
The first thing Piemur did when they got to the Gather meadow was head toward the nearest watering trough, fighting against his thirsty charges for a space at the edge. He also remembered exactly where to pinch their noses to make them turn from him.
“Ar, lad, let th’beasts drink deep farst!” Sebell unceremoniously hauled him away, his voice angry, though his eyes twinkled as he warned Piemur to play the proper part.
“Ar, sor, tongue that dry can’t move.”
Two young boys were approaching the trough with pails, but they waited, as custom dictated, until the beasts had drunk their fill and the cold mountain water flowed clear again. Piemur and Sebell then herded their charges toward the area of the meadow set aside for animal sales. The Hold Steward, a pinch-faced man with a runny nose, all but pounced on them, demanding the Gather fee. Sebell immediately protested the amount, and the two set to haggling. Sebell brought the fee down a full mark before he surrendered his token, but he didn’t protest when the Steward waved them contemptuously toward the smallest enclosure at the end of the rank. Piemur was about to object when Sebell’s hand closed warningly on his shoulder. Looking at the journeyman in surprise, Piemur saw the imperceptible jerk of his head over his shoulder. Piemur waited a few discreet seconds and then casually glanced about him. Three men had started to follow them toward their allotted space. A thrill of fear made Piemur catch his breath until he recognized the umistakable herder gait and knew these were prospective buyers.
“Tol’ya Ah’d suitable beasts, di’ Ah no?” drawled Sebell under his breath.
“Ar, an yull drink th’ profit again, like as not,” replied Piemur in a sullen tone, but his shoulders shook with the effort to control his amusement. He hadn’t a single doubt in his mind that Sebell would also play the happy drunken herdsman to perfection. And manage to say without offense what would be impossible for a sober man any-place.
They got the beasts enclosed, and Piemur was sent with a worn mark of the Herdsman’s Crafthall to haggle for fodder. He managed to save an eighth on the dealing, which he pocketed as any apprentice would. Sebell was already deep in bargain with one of the men while the others were examining the beasts with pinch and prod. Piemur wondered where under the sun Sebell had managed to acquire such proper mountain-bred creatures, with rock-worn hooves and shaggy coats. He could no more account for the good flesh on them after this long winter than the prospective buyers, so he hunkered down and listened to Sebell’s explanation.
Trust a harper to weave words well, and Piemur’s respect for the journeyman increased proportionately to the elaborations of the tale he told. Sebell would have his audience believe that he merely used an old trick handed down from grandsire to grandson: a combination of herbs and grasses sweetened with just the right amount of berries and well-moistened dried fruits. He also said that he and his did without sometimes to improve their beasts, and Piemur promptly sucked in his cheeks to look suitably haggard. He saw the eyes of the men linger on his bruises, showing yellow on his chin and cheek, while Sebell rambled on about his holders scrambling up and down the southern face of his hold hill to find the sweet new grasses that produced such spectacular results.
The earnest knot of listeners attracted more who stood respectfully back but close enough to hear. What Piemur couldn’t figure out was that, while the beasts had very old marks of Ruathan breeding, the secondary marks were also well-worn. Then he was annoyed with himself: Sebell must have pull
ed this sort of stunt before. Undoubtedly somewhere in Ruatha was a cotholder who kept a few special beasts for the Harper Hall’s convenience. He began to relax and enjoy Sebell’s tale-spinning thoroughly.
The sun was well over the mountains by the time Sebell had struck hands on the bargains—for there were three. One man bought three of the beasts, and the others one apiece, at what Piemur knew was a bloody good price. He wondered if that had covered their original purchase and their keep. Appropriately sober-faced during the bargaining, Sebell permitted pleasure to glow on his dirt-smeared face as he carefully stowed the mark pieces in his belt pouch while the beasts were prodded away by their new owners.
“Didn’t think I’d make that much, but the trick always works!” said Sebell in a low mutter to Piemur.
“Trick?”
“Sure,” said Sebell softly as he patted dust from his clothing. “Arrive dusty, early, with the well-fleshed beasts, and they’re on to you fast, hoping you’re tired enough to be stupid.”
“Where did you get ’em?”
Sebell flashed Piemur a grin. “Craft secret. Get along with you now,” and he gave Piemur a wink and a rough shove. “See t’Gather!” he added in a louder tone. “Ah find thee when Ah wish to go.”
This wasn’t much of a Gather, Piemur decided when he’d done one round of the small nestle of stalls. They didn’t even have bubbly pies at the baker’s, and the Craft-halls had obviously sent very junior men to represent them. Still, a Gather was a day to be enjoyed, and not many were held at Nabol even when restdays were Thread-clear, so the Nabolese were making as much of the occasion as they could.
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