The Renegades of Pern (6 page)

Ah, that was it, she realized. There were always more holdless during a Pass. Holders, with absolute authority over those within their walls, made sure that everyone they supported in such parlous times was efficiently worthy of his or her keep. A holder, major or minor, could withhold shelter from travelers even if the leading edge of Fall was close. In such times, people worked harder and obeyed right sharp, or they lost their sanctuary. As it should be, Thella thought with complete approval.

If she had only had a little more time before the Pass had started, she would have been able to exercise such time-honored options. She still would, or die in the doing. In one way, the Pass might work to her advantage. For the promise of shelter within stone walls, there would be those eager to work even in a high isolated hold. She began to scrutinize the holdless with an eye to the shoulder knots of their crafts, assessing their strength and desperation. Her holding might not be much yet, but it had possibilities. She wandered around the stall square again, keeping an eye on the progress of her third pair of boots and listening for any news or helpful information.

What she heard was better than a harper’s tale. A lot had happened since Thread had started falling on Pern again. Benden Weyr had tried desperately to cope with the Falls. Then, in an act of heroism unparalleled even for Pern’s legendary heroes, Lessa, rider of Ramoth, Benden’s only queen, had risked her own life and the life of her dragon in order to bring the five lost Weyrs of Pern forward, going back 400 Turns to a past time when there had been six full Weyrs and persuading them to assist the seemingly doomed present.

Thella found the mechanics of the feat hard to believe, but the fact was clearly demonstrated by the appearance of swaggering dragonriders wearing the colors of Telgar, Ista, and Igen Weyrs, as well as Benden. And all too clearly, Hold and Hall deferred to them in everything.

On a later circuit, when she saw the apprentice in an ingratiating pose with an Ista dragonrider, she gave him a stern glare. The young man blanched, apologized, and returned to stitching her half-finished boot. The very idea of his deferring work for a Telgar. . . . Reluctantly Thella realized that she no longer had that Blood advantage and stalked away in a savage mood.

Those dragonriders! Acting as if the Gather had been put on just for their benefit. She saw girls surrounding most of these dragonriders, and juveniles hanging on the words of the others! Insidious group! And yet, despite her disenchantment, Thella noticed a definite difference between riders from Benden and those of the other three Weyrs. The—what was the term she had heard? Oldtimers?—the Oldtimers walked with the unmistakable swagger of those totally assured of their eminence, while equally obvious was a certain eager, almost apologetic deference in the Bendenriders. Thella approved of neither stance. Without the Lord Holders’ support, the Weyr—Weyrs, she corrected herself, though she still found it difficult to believe in the restoration—could not have continued to exist.

It was becoming stuffy in the tented square, but by the time she had eaten her nooning under the canopies that had been raised near the firepits, her boots were receiving a final polish. The Mastertanner stamped his approval on the finished product, and she paid over the second half. Her boots were handed to her, neatly encased in a rough cloth bag that she hung with the other packages.

During her circuit of the Gatherstalls, Thella had purchased seed for late-maturing root vegetables, guaranteed by the Masterfarmer in attendance to give a good yield. She also purchased spices; a few small sacks would not weigh down her runners and would be very welcome to season wild wherry meat. The noon sun was pouring down on the tents, making the air within uncomfortably hot. People were beginning to look for places in the lounge areas to wait out the worst of the heat. Though she had not yet hired any workers for her hold, Thella had half a mind to leave, but it was an impossible time to travel. So she found a space in the western course of the Gathertent and, despite some long moments brooding about possibilities, made herself as comfortable as possible, her new boots forming a pillow. Then reassured by the sight of guards patrolling to protect the nappers, she fell asleep.

A sense of movement near her outstretched hand awoke her. She had become sensitive to the slightest sound, even the near-silent approach of tunnel snakes, in the past Turn or so. Opening her eyes, she saw a small figure bending over a sleeping man just beyond her, a dirty hand reaching with a knife to cut the bulging pouch. Stupid of him not to conceal such a temptation, she reflected. Her knife was instantly in her hand, jabbing at the bent back. She shoved the blade deftly into the fleshy part of a thigh, heard a stifled intake of breath, and the figure bolted, slipping under the tent flap. She looked back at the owner of the pouch, whose round wide open eyes were on her bloodied blade.

“You’re quick indeed,” he said, shoving his pouch into his shirt and rearranging his clothing to hide the bulge. His Craftknot, Thella saw, identified him as an Igen herder.

“You should have done that before you slept,” Thella muttered, disgruntled. She hated being aroused, and she had been sleeping deeply. She wiped her knife on the tail of someone else’s cloak, aware of the almost suffocating blanket of heat even though a little breeze stirred the tent flap. She would never get back to sleep again, and it was still too hot to think of returning to her runners.

“I had it under me. I’ve turned in my sleep,” the herder replied, equally disgruntled. He waved one hand over his face, courting the breeze. “I’m not that green, I’ll have you know. I chose my spot among honest men and women,” he added in a querulous aggrieved tone. “Look at the guard, fast asleep on both feet.” But even as he spoke, the guard could be seen eyeing them. “It’s getting so honest folk”—he gestured to their sleeping mates, who were indeed a prosperous-looking lot, wearing the brand-new knots of minor Igen and Keroon holds on their best Gather clothes—“can’t be protected at Gathers with so many holdless about. It’s time to complain about this shocking disregard for privacy. Make some examples. Should be stopped. The more of us who speak out, the sooner there’ll be a remedy to such behavior. You’ll speak, of course?” His voice had grown louder with each sentence, and some of the sleepers stirred. The guard warned them with a hand gesture to be quieter.

“Speak?” Thella was briefly astonished at the man’s audacity. “No.” Then, seeing that she had offended him, she added, “I must be on the road at dark. Shocking problem, I agree.” It cost her nothing to be conciliatory.

He seemed suddenly indecisive. “A long way to go?”

She nodded, ostentatiously settling herself to resume her rest.

“North, perhaps, along the western bank?”

Thella gave him a long look of surprise, quite forgetting for the moment that she wore rough guise and was tall enough to be mistaken for a man.

“For a ways.” She thought of that pouch, bulging with credits. He was much older than she was, and did not look particularly fit. Get a ways out of earshot, knock him on the head, and she could have that pouch and whatever he carried in his travel sack with little trouble to herself

“I’d make it worth your while to see me to my holding,” he added, winking meaningfully. “You’d be there before the moons set. And a harper hallmark in your hand for your company.”

“Aye, for that I’ll match my steps to yours then,” Thella agreed after a thoughtful pause. How easily deceived an honest man was, seeing his own honesty in others, she thought. She gave him a nod and closed her eyes. She would need the rest of her nap.

The murmur of renewed activity roused her the second time. She and the Igen herder emerged into the cooling twilight and made for the latrine pits. She eluded him in the general shuffle for privacy and sought him out at the washing basins.

Harpers were already playing in the Dancing Square, though no one would be treading any measures yet. The evening air was heavy with the tantalizing smell of roasted spiced meats, and by common consent, Thella and the herder joined the lines, waiting for a skewered slab of the seasoned meat. The herder paid for two cups of wine.

“A thanks for your timely intervention. Have you seen anyone limping?” the herder asked. Thella shook her head, but she had not been looking for the culprit; instead she had been watching the big man she had noticed earlier grab a fallen piece of meat and run off with it. Hungry enough to eat it, sand and all, she thought, irritated by the sight. Gatherers ought to be able to enjoy their food without such intrusions. Still, if the man were that far down on his luck, and that quick and strong . . . she wished she had not promised to accompany the herder.

Then, because she knew such courtesies were expected at a Gather even between new acquaintances, she bought a second round of wine. Drink made a man unwary. She also made certain as she dropped a halfmark in the vintner’s wine-stained hand that the herder saw that she was well marked herself.

She bought several more slabs. “For my nooning,” she told the herder, who then assured her that he would provide her with that meal.

“I thought you said we’d be at your croft by the moonset,” she said, giving him a quick stare.

“To be sure, to be sure,” the herder hastily agreed. He said no more as she folded the meat into the pocket of the waterskin.

But she had caught a note in his voice, an air about him, that she distrusted, though she was quick enough not to give him any clue of her suspicion. He bought them both more wine, and she let most of hers leak out of her cup while she pretended to match him sip for sip. Winking at Thella, he paid the vintner to fill his travel bottle. She was beginning to find him tedious indeed.

Well, no one was likely to miss him when she took him out, so she set off with him, leaving the Gather site, passing the encampment which by then was nearly as merry as the square, and joining the wide track by the river, which sparkled in the light of Timor Moon. Belior, the speedier moon, was just beginning to rise. Soon the way would be as bright as daylight and considerably kinder to the eye.

They had gone along the track for some minutes before senses sharpened by the adversity of the last months told Thella that they were being followed. They were well beyond even Igen’s own beastholds and the cots that ranged on either side of the main Hold. There were no travel lanterns in either direction anymore. She judged the follower to be on their left, taking advantage of the slope and the sparse groundcover.

“What a magnificent night!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out and swiveling on one heel so that she got a good circling turn. Yes, there was someone to their left about four lengths behind them.

“Yes, yes,” the herder agreed. “And Belior just rising. We must hurry.”

“Why?” Thella demanded, deliberately acting contentious, as if she were slightly inebriated from all the wine he thought she had drunk. “We’ve made a good Gather, I’ve new boots”—she slurred her speech—“and if I hadn’t so far to go, I’d’ve stayed longer with such good company. Whoops!” She feigned a stumble on the stony track. As she rose, she came up with her belt knife shoved up one sleeve and a smooth stone in the other hand.

“Easy now,” the herder said, ranging himself on her right side, hands outstretched as if to support her. He spoke more loudly than he needed, and she knew it was not the wine that caused it.

Ahead of them a rocky spur jutted out, causing the track to veer back toward the river. So, someone thought they could drop her. Well, she would see about that.

They were in the shadow of the shell when she heard the faint scrape of shoe in sand. Every sense alert, she waited a fraction of a moment longer, then grabbed the herder and yanked him over just as a body hurtled through the air, dagger flashing in the moonlight. She grinned as the herder cried out once, the assailant’s knife slicing his throat. Then she acted, her own knife on the nape of the attacker’s neck, pricking his skin as she shoved a knee in his back and pushed his head down, half smothering him in his victim’s cloak and travel bag.

“Don’t!” a muted voice cried. Slowly he held out his knife hand, letting the dripping blade fall to the ground.

“Easy now. Don’t make me nervous,” she said, roughening her voice. She grabbed his wrist and, when he made no resistance, flipped his arm back and up, twisting it tight against his shoulderblades. She could feel the thick muscles and wondered that she had mastered such a big man. But he was breathing shallowly, obviously unfit for such exertions. She gave his arm a painful twist, hearing him grunt where a lesser man might have cried out—she knew how to use such a hold to her advantage. “Was I marked out?”

“Aye, you were.”

“Any others? It’s early on a Gather evening.” When he had been silent long enough, she twisted again, and he grunted.

“Any others?”

“Aye, he’d marked others. Finish you off and go back for another.”

“A fair Gather for you. What’d he promise?” Thella thought the big man simple to trust the herder and go back to the Gather. The herder could as easily turn his helper in to the guard.

“Half what we took. He said it’d be enough to buy into a hold.”

“
Buy
into a hold?” In her surprise, Thella forgot to deepen her voice.

“Yes, there’re holds where you can buy a place for a season. If you satisfy, you get taken on regular. I’m good with a flamer. I just don’t like it with Thread falling and me with no place to shelter.” The phrases came out in grunts, but he made no attempt to struggle against her hold. She was beginning to wonder how long she could continue to exert the pressure necessary to cow the man. He was big. He could easily be the one she had noticed in the morning, but she had not seen the herder in anyone’s company during the afternoon so the scheme must have been arranged earlier. Well, at least he was not whining about wrongful treatment and holder abuse.

“And how much loyalty could a holder expect of you—and your knife?” She felt his body twitch beneath her knee.

“Lady, give me a hold during this Pass, or shove your blade in.” His muscles seemed to relax, as if he was tired of striving against the odds of life. He was at her mercy, and she was tempted to see if she had the strength to kill him, as she had had the wit to subdue him.