The Renegades of Pern (9 page)

Toric snorted. “He’d tell Benden—”

“And the Benden Weyrleaders, if you approached them with Master Robinton, would be the first to assist you. They wanted to explore this whole land,” Saneter said, sweeping his arm wide, “and they would have, if the Oldtimers hadn’t—well, you know all that.” He broke off. “But some young, eager,
trained
holder sons who know they’re not going to get any place north during a Pass would certainly see the advantages to coming south. Even if we have to sneak them in when the Oldtimers aren’t looking.” Saneter gave Toric a quick glance to see his reaction. Toric’s head was down, and Saneter could tell nothing from his profile.

“You certainly don’t have to mention what you’ve already discovered. I haven’t, I assure you, Lord Holder,” Saneter went on. “But if ore is to be useful to you as a trading medium, it’s got to be known. As I’m sure Hamian told you, the Mastersmith is desperate for all the iron, nickel, lead, and zinc he can get. Mine production in the north is at full pelt.”

“You’re remarkably well informed for a harper sent south for his health,” Toric said, giving the old man a long hard look.

“I am indeed harper,” Saneter agreed, drawing himself up and returning Toric’s stare. “And that has always been more than simply singing teaching songs to
children
!”

“We’ve got to mine; we’ve got to transport the ore. And that’s going to take muscle. At least Hamian’s brought back three good journeyminers and another Master.” Toric rocked on his heels, jamming his thumbs in his shirt belt. There was a cool northerly breeze blowing across the strand. “They’ll have tonight’s celebration, then we’ll muster them all tomorrow morning, first light”—Toric’s grin was calculating as he thought of the stronger southern brews that were guaranteed to give the unwary vicious hangovers—“and give them the usual warnings. The useful will remember, and the foolish will forget, and then cause neither us nor the Lord Holders who sent them further grief.”

Toric’s callous attitude had once bothered Saneter, but he had been at Southern too long not to see its merit. Southern was a bizarre, often cruel, land, and those who deserved its bounty learned to survive its dangers.

“Those dragonmen were supposed to explore,” Toric declared. “They haven’t. I am. Flood, fire, fog, or Fall, I’m going to find out just how big Southern really is.”

Saneter forebore to mention either Sharra’s competence in exploring down the Big Lagoon River or her eagerness to go as far as she could. For all the innovations Toric had made in his hold, he retained some traditional views, especially about his sisters. Murda had been acquiescent; Sharra was not. The harper cleared his throat to voice a suggestion, but Toric went on.

“Even a dragon has to fly straight the first time he goes to a new location. Why did F’lar recall all the good riders?” His tone was so disconsolate, suddenly so weary and hopeless, that Saneter almost felt sorry for the man.

Giron was so drunk that for most of the first day he slept. The carter did not bother to check his load of barreled salt fish when he pulled into the cave site, so Giron had slept on undiscovered.

Later, when all sheltering there were sound asleep, Giron rolled off the uncomfortable barrels and went in search of water. Slaking his thirst at the stream, he settled himself as comfortably as the rocky ground permitted and slept again. He stole food from campers the next evening, still disoriented, not remembering that he had marks enough, tucked inside his waistband, to buy whatever he needed. He kept trying to remember what it was he had forgotten: something he should have but was missing. Something he would never find again. There was an ache deep inside that would never stop hurting.

The next day, another carter recognized the empty-faced stranger as the dragonless man. He brushed his clothes, fed him, and when Giron demanded wine, he let him have the wineskin, surprised that the former dragonrider did not complain about its raw acid taste. The carter took him up on the seat of the wagon, because he conceived that he had a duty to protect one who had been a dragonrider. There were too many holdless rogues about who would rob even their mothers of marks. The carter endured the pathetic, silent man all the way across the mountains and to the door of the Mastertanner’s Hall. There Master Belesdan had his drum tower communicate with Igen Hold and Igen Weyr. Finally Lord Laudey sent an escort with a spare runnerbeast.

“We’re to take him back to the Hold,” the escort said. “He was supposed to go to Southern Hold. Cracked his skull, you know, and doesn’t think straight yet. We’ll get him there safely.”

Halfway there, Giron saw sweepriders, and, as the escort reported to Lord Laudey, “He seemed to take a fit. He was screaming and yelling, and he whipped up the poor runnerbeast so hard, we couldn’t catch up. Last we saw of him he was swimming across the river. I don’t know if he was trying to catch up with the dragonriders, or what.”

“Go across to the caves. Tell them to watch out for Giron. Let them know who he is and that if anyone does him any harm, they’ll answer to me—and to all the Weyrs of Pern.”

The urgent requests brought by Master Rampesi from Brekke and the Healer Hall were all the excuse that Sharra needed to force Toric to allow her to go harvest the numbweed bush. She made it very clear that a quick trip just to harvest the bush would mean cooking it in the hold. Allowed a longer trip, the complete job could be done entirely on the site. Toric hesitated, and Sharra’s heart sank. She knew that he wanted her to spend time with some of Hamian’s new arrivals, but she was not ready to settle down, and she was afraid that she might actually find she liked one of them.

“I feel I ought to accompany her this time,” Ramala said suddenly.

Catching her hard stare, Toric yielded, knowing that if he refused them both, he would have little peace. “You be careful, Sharra,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “Smart and careful.”

With a teasing smile she caught the finger. “Brother, why won’t you, too, admit that I’m the Mastercrafter out back?” She left it at that, and he stalked out of the family hall, muttering about ingratitude and dangers she could not imagine.

Ramala grinned and, her husband out of the way, added travel-packed foods to Sharra’s pile of gear. “We can make the morning tide. I’ve three boats.”

“Three?” Sharra was both surprised and delighted. “How’d you manage that, Ramala?”

Ramala shrugged. “No one can ever have too much numbweed. Garm took the coast route to check on the growth, and it’s very good this year. I saw the total of Brekke’s needs. You go after the unusual herbs. I’ll manage the cookout. I need a respite.”

Sharra laughed with genuine amusement. Ramala was a quiet woman, competent, perceptive, and gifted with all the attributes Sharra knew herself to be deficient in, especially patience. Ramala was not a pretty woman but she exuded an indefinable air that caused people to turn to her for advice and help. Sharra did not know much about Ramala’s past—except that she had been in a Healer Hall in Nerat before she came to Southern; the other woman had bought her own place in Southern, and Toric had seen such worth in her that he had invited her to join him permanently in his hall. Ramala never complained, but Sharra could quite easily see how she might like a short break. Toric’s hard ambition and driving energy were wearing. He would be occupied with Hamian in setting up the miners’ train, Saneter could fend off the Weyr, and Ramala’s four children were old enough to be useful on the trip.

Sharra completed her packing, throwing in a second pair of the double wherhide high boots with reinforced toes that she preferred when tramping through Southern’s undergrowth and streams and adding her tough cotton shirts and knee breeches. She filled the many pockets of her vest with the minor tools she had found most handy to carry on her person at all times, then packed a doublecoil of new hemp rope; dagger, implement knife, and a short blade that fit in one boot; the roll of waterproof cotton that had acted as tent, raingear, or bedding; and the broad-brimmed hat that shielded her eyes from sun glare.

The three boats sailed with the tide, heeled over and flying as the stiff easterly wind caught the red sails. Most people were singing, and some of the younger boys, who regarded the voyage as the best part of the outing, had lines cast over the side, each hoping to catch the biggest prize. Shipfish picked up their customary bow positions, flipping and careering and generally making a show of themselves to the delight of the passengers. Their appearance augured a good, quick voyage, and Sharra felt the shadows that had fallen over the hold lift. Damn the Old-timers! Damn them right
between.
Those stupid restrictions were all their fault.

She glanced quickly around as if someone could have heard her thoughts. Meer and Talla, her fire-lizards, crooned softly from their perch on the cabin. Still, one ought not to ill-wish dragonriders. Not all of them were like the Oldtimers, but those were enough to sour life in Southern.

They came around the headland, and Sharra jumped to the sheets when the skipper had to take in sail to avoid being driven too close to the rocky coast. They would be at the Big Lagoon by the next morning, at which time they could negotiate its hazards in broad daylight and on the tide.

Once they had landed and all the gear had been brought to a good site, Ramala told Sharra to get herself lost but to be back in ten days.

“That won’t take me much farther than I’ve been before,” Sharra complained, but at Ramala’s fond, stern look, she hefted her pack to her back, called Meer and Talla from the fair doing wingdances across the plain, and trotted off to make the most of her freedom, muttering cheerfully about restrictions.

She had nearly reached the first stands of trees surrounding the plain when Meer, describing lazy loops above her head, gave a hopeful chirp, a sound that indicated to Sharra that he had seen a gold. He was one of the randiest bronzes in the hold. Then his chirp altered briefly in surprise, and he returned to her shoulder. Talla took the other side, both of them alert. So when Sharra heard the sounds of someone stumbling about in the forest and the scolding of a queen fire-lizard, she was more annoyed at a possible curtailment of her ten-day holiday than she was surprised to find a stranger so far from the hold.

Her annoyance fled at the sight of a scruffy lad, hunkered down in the brush and peering at the activity of the camp, one arm about the neck of a runt runnerbeast while a young gold fire-lizard had her tail firmly wrapped about his sunburned neck. He seemed disgusted that his queen had not warned him of Sharra’s approach, but he was willing enough to talk. His name was Piemur, he said, and all on his own he had already survived three Threadfalls in Southern.

Sharra was impressed with his resourcefulness, and it occurred to her that here might be someone Toric could use. He was young and alone and clever—and she liked him. Resisting an impulse to ruffle his sun-streaked tangle of hair, Sharra felt a pang of sorrow for whatever mother had lost this young rascal. A heart-grabber, he was. Now, if she could find someone with his charm, say ten Turns older . . .

His cocky resilience decided her. She did not have to take him back to the shore yet. She could have her browse around and get the stuff Brekke had asked for—and she would have a chance to see just how capable a Southern holder he could be. Toric would listen to her evaluation. Maybe if she had a capable apprentice to take along, Toric would let her do some real explorations.

As if he could read her mind, Piemur offered to help her with her herb-gathering. Pleased, she motioned for him to follow her deeper into the forest.

By the time they returned to the coast, Sharra had formed a high but qualified opinion of Piemur. He was the born rogue and scoundrel she had suspected, and she was certain that a discreet inquiry to the North would prove that he was a Craft apprentice, absent—for a dare, she rather thought, that had gone badly wrong—without permission from his Hall. He had probably been in a major Hall or near a major Hold, because he was knowledgeable about attitudes and issues that the average boy was unlikely to know about. His mind was as quick as his tongue, and he had a wry sense of humor and fun. His voice had almost settled to an adult baritone, so he was older than he looked.

Piemur was also possessed of a finely tuned memory and never forgot her traveling lessons on herbs or travel safety. He had an instinct for self-preservation that rivaled that of his fire-lizard. And, like Sharra, he had an exploring turn of mind. They would have been halfway to the snowy mountains if they had not had to be back to make the voyage home. He was exactly the stuff of which good Southerners were made.

His main worry then was that his runnerbeast—whom he called Stupid and who was anything but—could not be accommodated on one of the ships. He had sworn he would walk back to the hold if he had to, but he would not just let Stupid loose. Sharra had eased his apprehensions on that score, promising that a couple of strong sailors could easily lift the little runner-beast into one of the sloops, but on the hike back to the coast, Piemur had become more and more laconic. Something was worrying him, and to Sharra, it confirmed her notion that he had not been entirely truthful with her.

“We don’t care what people left behind them, so long as they work hard here. It’s a great place to start all over, Piemur,” she said when they were within hailing distance of the camp. She waved to Ramala, who had just noticed them. “I think we can even manage to get a message North—discreetly—if there’s someone who should know you’re alive and kicking here.”

Instead of appearing relieved, Piemur looked away. “Yeah, I’ll have to do something about a message, Sharra. Thanks.” But he did not look at her, pretending to adjust a chin piece of the halter he had made for Stupid out of the varicolored grasses they had found in the swampland.

Sharra introduced him as the survivor of a shipwreck whom she had encountered in the wilderness. “Toric will love him as a prime example to the faint of heart in that latest group. If a kid can live rough, they can manage, too,” she told Ramala.