The Renegades of Pern (16 page)

“If that girl is Threadscored . . .” She left the threat hanging as she swung up onto her runner. She had an awful vision of the girl’s body twisting as Thread engulfed it. Seeing the scorn in Giron’s eyes, she clamped down on her anxiety, but the thought that she might have lost her quarry to Thread made her frantic to know, one way or the other.

“Thella,” Giron said with unexpected authority. “Keep an eye skyward. They’ll be extra-thorough over forest.”

He was right, she knew, and she spurred the beast forward. “There’s not much light left, and I need to
know
!”

It was she who saw the next telltale. Someone had rubbed out wheel marks, for the signs of sweeping were obvious once she had seen the cake of dirt, too obviously prized out of a wheel hub. Dismounting, each searched one side of the track; Giron found the wagon on the left, reasonably well hidden behind screening evergreens. He was peering within when Thella reached him and pushed him out of the way in her impatience.

“Rummaged around looking for what to take with them,” Giron said.

“Then they’re nearby.”

Giron shrugged. “Too dark to look now.” He held up his hand warningly as she jerked the reins on the runner to bring him close enough to be mounted. “Look, if they’re dead, they’re dead, and your stumbling around in the dark isn’t going to revive them. If they’re safe, they’re not going anywhere now.” The fact that he was right did little to soothe Thella. “I’ll sleep in the wagon tonight.”

“No,
I’ll
sleep in the wagon tonight. You take the runners back to the cave. Join me at first light tomorrow.” She took the blanket and journey rations out of her pack and sent him away. “First light! Remember!”

This might be even better, Thella thought. Stay by the wagon and see who comes by in the morning to check on it. Aramina was the oldest. That would be too much luck, she realized, chewing the dry food. But she would prefer not to be encumbered with the whole family. If she could just spirit Aramina away . . .

“More dragonriders?” Thella was incredulous. “What are they doing around here?”

“How should I know?” Giron replied, showing the first sign of anger she had ever seen from him. He sank down, knees cocked, forearms lax across them, staring straight in front of him.

“But Threadfall was yesterday. They should be gone!” She shook his arm. How dare he look away like that! “A bad Thread infestation?” Accustomed as she was to Thread, her breath caught at the idea of a burrow taking hold in the forest anywhere near her. “Is that why?”

Giron shook his head. “If Thread had burrowed overnight, there wouldn’t be any forest left. And we’d be dead.”

“Well, then, why? Could that dragon yesterday have seen you?”

Giron made a mirthless sound and got to his feet. “If you want that girl, you’d better find out where she is. They can’t have gone far. They wouldn’t have left the wagon.”

Thella was trying to marshal her thoughts. “Could the Weyrs have found out about her?”

“Weyrs have plenty of people who hear dragons,” he said scornfully.

“She could have been Searched, couldn’t she? I heard there were eggs on Benden’s Hatching Ground. That’s why. C’mon. They’re not going to take that girl. She’s mine!”

It was well they were on foot, the runners still hidden, for they were able to hide when the troop of mounted men rode by.

“Asgenar’s foresters,” Thella said, brushing leaf mold from her face. “Shells and shards.”

“No girl with them.”

“They were looking for us! I know it,” she said, cursing as she veered around a thicket. “C’mon, Giron. We’ll find that girl. We’ll find her. Then we’ll pay back that Lilcamp trader boy. Cripple his beasts, burn the wagons. They won’t get as far as the lake, you can be sure of that. I’ll get him for informing on me. I’ll get him!”

“Lady Holdless,” Giron said in such a derisive tone that she paused in her furious progress. “
You’ll
be got if you’re not quieter moving through this forest. And look, someone’s been this way recently. The bushes are broken. Let’s follow the signs.”

The broken bushes led them to the scuffed marks and prints on the track of horses, men, and dragons. Through the trees they could see movement and caught a glimpse of a man. He was not Dowell, for Dowell did not wear leather or a weapon’s harness. They crossed the track carefully, working slowly uphill toward the edge of a nut forest. Then Giron pulled her down.

“Dragon. Bronze,” he whispered in her ear.

She felt a flush of irritation with Giron. He had been right to be so cautious. That annoyed her almost as much as finding her quarry guarded by a dragon. Why had the dragonriders not just taken the girl away? Or was this a trap for Thella? How could they possibly know that she wanted Aramina? Had Brare spoken out of turn? Or that impudent fellow at the trader wagons? Did he talk to dragons, too?

Then she caught sight of someone moving through the grove. Picking nuts? Thella stared in astonishment. Yes, the girl was picking nuts. And there was a guard helping her. Thella closed her eyes to, blot out the sight of her quarry so near and so unattainable. She and Giron would be lucky to get out of there with their skins. She pulled her arm away resentfully when she felt Giron tug at her sleeve. Then she saw him pointing.

The girl was moving farther and farther from the guard. Just a little farther, Thella thought. Just a little farther, you dear sweet child. And she began to grin as she indicated to Giron to help her outflank the girl. The guard was not looking downhill. If they were careful . . . they would be. Thella held her breath as she moved forward.

Giron got to Aramina first and grabbed her, one hand on her mouth, the other pinning her arms to her side.

“It falls out well, after all, Giron,” Thella said, snatching a handful of hair and pulling the girl’s head back, giving her a little pain back for all the trouble she had caused. Thella thoroughly enjoyed the fright and terror in Aramina’s eyes. “We have snared the wild wherry after all.”

They began to pull her back down the hill, out of sight of the guard. “Don’t struggle, girl, or I’ll knock you senseless. Maybe I ought to, Thella,” he added, cocking his fist in preparation. “If she can hear dragons, they can hear her.”

“She’s never been to a Weyr,” Thella replied, but she was struck with the possibility. She gave Aramina’s hair a savage jerk. “Don’t even think of calling for a dragon.”

“Too late!” Giron cried in a strangled voice. He heaved the girl from him, toward the point where the ground fell away at the edge of the grove.

Thella let out a hoarse cry as the bronze dragon blocked the girl’s fall. The dragon bellowed, his breath hot enough to startle Thella into running as fast as she could, Giron a stride behind her. As they slithered and fell, they could hear others calling. Thella spared one look over her shoulder and saw the dragon crashing among the trees, unable to dodge through them as agilely as the humans could. The dragon roared his frustration. Thella and Giron kept running.

6

Southern Continent,
Telgar Hold, PP 12

M
ASTER
R
AMPESI ARRIVED
at Toric’s hold, swearing and ranting about stupid northerners who thought the Southern Sea was some kind of mountain lake or placid bay.

“I’m bloody fed up with such idjits, Toric. I rescued another six—and ther’re twenty who drowned when the tub capsized—a day’s sail from Ista. Any decent seaman would have warned them about the storms at this time of year, but no! They must set out in holey buckets and not a seaman among ’em!”

“What are you on about, Rampesi?” Toric interrupted the tirade with bad temper of his own. “Didn’t you get the men we’d contracted for with the Mastersmith?”

“Oh, I’ve them, as well, never fear. But word got about that I was sailing south, and I had to move out of Big Bay Harbor and anchor in a cove to keep the clods from swarming aboard me. The situation’s getting out of hand, Toric.” Rampesi scowled, but he took the fortified wine that Toric poured him, knocked it back, and exhaled appreciatively. Then, some of his irritation soothed by the smooth spirit, he sat down, turning his keen eyes on Southern’s holder. “So, what do we do to keep Benden and the Lord Holders off our backs? A little honest trading is one thing; a wholesale immigration of holdless another. And there’s Telgar’s lord trying to recruit more men for his mines, Asgenar wanting his forests patrolled against devilish clever marauders, and all kinds of queer goings-on down to Ista’s Finger.”

Toric pursed his lips, rubbing his palm on his chin. “You say it’s become known that common northerners are let in here?”

“That’s the rumor. Of course”—Master Rampesi shrugged, throwing one hand up, fingers splayed—“I deny it. I trade with Ista, Nerat, Fort, and the Great Dunto River.” He gave Toric a slow, conniving wink. “I admit to being blown off course from time to time, and even to being blown as far as Southern once or twice. So far not even Master Idarolan has questioned that. But it’s going to be harder to escape, shall we say, official attention.”

“Clearly something must be done to stem the rumors . . .” Toric was annoyed; his arrangement with Masters Rampesi and Garm had been very profitable.

“Or sanction
proper
passage south.”

Rampesi charged Toric hefty fees to transport Craftsmen to Southern, so he could well imagine the profit the mariner would realize on a regular service.

“You did tell me,” Toric began, “last time you were here, that there is a shortage of lead and zinc?”

“And you know the prices you’ve been getting for what I’ve smuggled in. Those northern mines have been worked a long, long time.” Master Rampesi caught Toric’s drift. “I’m only a Mastermariner, Holder Toric, so I’m not in a position to speak out for you where it matters.”

“Yes, where it matters. And I’d be taking Lord Larad’s trade from him.”

“Not Mastersmith Fandarel’s though,” Rampesi replied quickly. “He’s the one’s crying for metals and whatnot for all those projects of his.” Master Rampesi did not have a high opinion of them, but he was quite willing to supply the raw materials.

“But he’s at Telgar . . .”

“Ah, but he’s also Mastersmithcraft, and Halls don’t need to ‘please and yes’ Lord Holders. They’re as much captains in their Halls as I am on my
Bay Lady.
Were I you, I’d seek Master Robinton’s help on this. He’d know best whom you should approach. I’m due to dock at Fort with this cargo so I can carry a message for you, and happy to do it. Wisest course is to sail straight into this one, Toric.”

“I know, I know,” Toric replied irritably. Then he remembered how dependent he was on Master Rampesi’s services and smiled. “I may just have a passenger for you, Rampesi, when you sail.”

“That will be a novelty,” the
Bay Lady’s
Master remarked sardonically, holding out his glass for another charge of wine.

Toric found Piemur, as usual, in Sharra’s workshop, laughing and chattering in far too intimate a manner to his liking. They were busy—so he could not fault them there—packing the medicinal supplies that Rampesi would take to the Masterharper. Toric would miss Piemur. The apprentice had been very useful indeed, setting up the drum towers; and his maps of the Island River stretch had proved as accurate as Sharra’s, with shrewd notations of possible hold sites, natural plantations of edible fruits, and the concentration of wild runners and herdbeasts. But he was far too often in Sharra’s company, and the young harper did not figure in Toric’s plans for his pretty sister. Still, if Toric handled him astutely, the boy could serve him well. Piemur had been Master Robinton’s special apprentice and was on excellent terms with Menolly and Sebell. He had all too often demonstrated his eagerness to remain in Southern. Let him prove it now.

“Piemur, a word with you?”

“What have I done wrong?”

Without answering, Toric gestured back down the hail to his office. He decided, as he followed the boy, that it was more to his purpose to speak plainly. Piemur did not miss much; he knew about the restrictions on commerce between north and south, knew how much leeway had already been tacitly accepted in the matter of Southern medicines transported North, and knew, from his own experience, of the illicit commerce carried on between the Oldtimers and Lord Meron in Nabol before the man’s death had ended it. Yes, the boy did not miss much—but he had never, to Toric’s knowledge, been indiscreet.

“Rampesi just brought in another bunch of shipwrecked fools trying to cross the Southern Sea,” Toric said as he slid the door shut.

Piemur rolled his eyes at such folly. “Fools indeed. How many did he find alive this time?”

“Twenty, Rampesi says. With as many more trying to board the
Bay Lady
before he sailed.”

“That’s not good,” Piemur said, sighing.

“No, it’s not good. Rampesi’s getting nervous, and we can’t have that.” When Piemur shook his head, Toric went on. “You and Saneter have often said that I should speak with your Masterharper about officially easing those restrictions. I’ve wanted nothing to do with the Northerners, but it seems they want plenty to do with me. And I must control the influx. There are thousands of holdless, useless commoners expecting an easy life here, and I won’t have it. You know what I’ve created, what I’d like to do. You’re no fool, Piemur, and I’m no altruist. I’m working for myself, for my Blood, but I want folk who’re willing to work as hard as I do to hold for themselves. I can’t permit all I’ve done to be wasted on the indigent.”

Piemur was nodding agreement with most of his arguments. “You couldn’t risk being absent from Southern for the length of a journey North. So I guess you’re asking me to make the trip.”

“I think it might serve several purposes for you to go.”

“Only if it’s not a one-way trip, Toric.” The boy looked him squarely in the eye, and Toric was slightly surprised. “I mean it, Holder Toric.” A shrewd gleam in the young man’s eye reminded Toric that Piemur was older in some ways than he looked. He also knew the stakes.

“I appreciate your point, young Piemur,” Toric assured him candidly. “Yes, I would like you to explain how heavy those restrictions weigh on Southern’s hold population—how an easement would profit the North in more ways than better medicines. You can admit to the mineral and metal deposits—” Toric held up his hand warningly. “Discreetly, of course.”

“Always.” Piemur grinned knowingly.

“There would be another reason why you ought to make the trip, besides, of course, your association with the Masterharper. If I can be blunt, you’re overold now as an apprentice.” Seeing that the boy was startled, Toric went on smoothly. “Saneter’s getting older, and I prefer to have a harper who is sympathetic to my aims, especially one already familiar to the Oldtimers so that the substitution will go unnoticed. Get your journeyman’s knot while you’re back at the Harper Hall, and you’re welcome back here when you’ve walked the tables. I promise you.”

“And exactly what do you wish me to say to Master Robinton?”

“I believe I can trust you, journeyman-elect, to tell your Craftmaster what he needs to know?” Toric saw how quick the boy was to catch his slight emphasis on “needs.”

Piemur winked. “Oh, definitely. Just what he
needs
to know.”

When Piemur was gone, Toric began to wonder just what that impudent wink had meant. It never occurred to him that the Masterharper would sail south to find out for himself what he felt he needed to know before presenting the matter to the Benden Weyrleaders. And that voyage would have many repercussions.

Jayge fretted over the encounter all the way to Lemos Great Lake—especially after comparing his impression of the Lady Thella with descriptions he had heard of the worst of the Lamosan marauders. No one mentioned her by name, and fortunately Armald was not bright enough to make the connection. Lady Holders remained Lady Holders, just as traders remained traders. Armald was less certain about dragonless men, but that person would have unsettled anyone.

What worried Jayge was the knowledge that the renegade had command of a disciplined band that was well able to cause trouble for the Lilcamp-Borgald train. He had irritated her, and though Temma had called him foolish to stew over it, he could not help himself. He was also certain that Thella’s appraisal had been too purposeful—and the trader train had a long way to go to get to Far Cry.

They had taken shelter from Threadfall not far from Plains Hold, and, as customary, Crenden and Borgald offered to send men for ground crew the next day. Nazer and Jayge rode into Plains Hold to find out where Holder Anchoram wanted them to crew.

To Jayge’s surprise, Lord Asgenar himself came in on a blue dragon, dismounting with the ease of long practice, smiling, and greeting the many extra folk assembled at the Hold. He seemed popular, and Jayge halted his runner near the anxious trio of mountain holders Asgenar stopped to speak to. The Lemos Lord Holder was tall and slightly stooped in the shoulder, with a full head of blondish hair, slightly dampened from his riding helmet. He had an open face, a clear eye, and an easy manner—a different sort of lord to Corman, Laudey, or Sifer, the other Lord Holders Jayge had seen. But Asgenar, like Larad of Telgar, was a relatively young man and not so hidebound as the others who had enjoyed the independence of Interval.

Listening, and Jayge prided himself on his keen hearing, he heard that the major complaint of the anxious holders was lack of adequate protection from raids.

“If they just came at us, fair and square, and it was a matter of strength or skill, Lord Asgenar, it would be one thing,” a Beastmaster was saying. “But they sneak in when we’re out in the far meadows or doing our Hold duty, and they whip in and are gone before anyone knows they’ve been. Like that Kadross Hold theft.”

“All the eastern Lord Holders are being hit, not just Lemos  . . .”

“And the Bitrans are turning honest folk away,” someone muttered angrily.

“Some of you already know that I’ve started mounted patrols on random swings. I need your help. You’ve got to inform the Hold when you see anything unusual, have unexpected visitors of any kind, or are expecting carters or journeymen to deliver. Be sure to lock up your holds—”

“Shells, Lord Asgenar, they broke open all my locks and took what they were after,” a mountain holder complained bitterly. “I live up yonder.” He pointed to the north. “How’m I going to send you word in time?”

“I don’t suppose you have a fire-lizard?” Asgenar asked.

“Me? I don’t even have a drum!”

Asgenar regarded him with what Jayge thought was genuine sympathy and concern. “I’ll think of something, Medaman. I’ll think of something for folk like you.” And Jayge could hear the sincerity in his voice. Then Asgenar raised his arms to quiet the sudden spate of questions. “Telgar, Keroon, Igen, Bitra, and I are convinced that all the major thefts are the work of one group, despite the range of their strikes. We don’t know where they are based, but if any of you living up in the Barrier Range see any traces of large group movements, anything unusual, bring word to the nearest drum tower. You’ll be compensated for your loss of time.”

“Will if we can, lord,” Medaman said. “We’ll be snowed in for the winter anytime now.”

“That’s, easier,” Asgenar said, grinning broadly. “Just tack out a bright cloth—or your wife’s Gather shawl—on the snow. F’lar and R’mart keep sweepriders out all the time now. They’ll be told to check it out.”

That suggestion went down favorably, and Asgenar was able to continue on to the Hold. Jayge wanted to hang around a little longer, but Nazer, once he had packed the new agenothree cylinders on the burden beasts, wanted to start back.

“I need my sleep if I’m to work ground crew tomorrow,” the other man told Jayge with a huge yawn.

Jayge grinned and shooed one of the pack beasts back into line.

The ground crew did not have much to do, as extra wings of dragonriders had been assigned to protect Asgenar’s forests. Only one tangle of Thread got through and was quickly flamed into char. Nevertheless, Borgald was punctilious about duties to the Weyr and never let members of his trains skimp ground crew service. Crenden complained of the loss of two days’ travel but only to Temma and Jayge. A brown rider stopped to thank the crew, but though he was courteous enough, he kept the exchange to a minimum and flew off southeast instead of back toward Benden Weyr.

To make up for the time lost in discharging their Weyr duties, they started the train rolling again as soon as the massive beasts could be prodded out of the cavern shelter and yoked up. They kept on the road night and day until they reached their usual campsite on the far edge of Great Lake. A patrol from Lemos Hold stopped by for a cup of klah and general gossip but declined an invitation to stop the night.

“They offered us escort,” Crenden told his son disdainfully. “All the way to Far Cry.”

Jayge snorted. “We can handle ourselves.”

“That’s what Borgald said.”

Jayge thought he caught a hint of uncertainty in his father’s eyes. “They have a patrol. We can mount a patrol.”