The Renegades of Pern (18 page)

But that hope ended when they found the bodies of six men and the toothless woman with their throats cut. Their wounds had all been dressed, and they had probably been killed after they had been dosed with fellis. Jayge did not know whether he was glad, or sorry, that Readis was not one of the dead.

It was when the patrol began shifting the bodies to a shallow cave for interment that Jayge spotted the tight roll of sheets. He scooped it up before someone trampled it into the bloody ground.

It was strange enough to find sheets of Bendarek’s precious wood-pulp leaves under a raider corpse, but examining the roll, Jayge had more shocks to absorb. Clearly written in a good clear hand was the message, “Deliver to Asgenar.” The roll was neither sealed nor tied, and Jayge had no compunctions about taking a closer look.

What he found was artwork—sketches of people. He nearly dropped the package when he uncovered a likeness of his uncle. And there were more, including ones of Thella in arrogant poses; Giron, his face more startlingly empty than it had looked in person; and others, two of whom Jayge realized were among the dead. Dropping to one knee, Jayge surreptitiously sliced away his uncle’s likeness from the page. Then he rolled the whole thing up as tight as he could and called out in surprise.

“Maindy, I think you should have charge of this,” he said, holding it out.

After one glance, Maindy shoved it into his jacket, frowning. Jayge got very busy as far away from the holder as possible. But the incident added to the other puzzles he had to try to piece together once he got back to the ambushed camp.

Who could he talk to? Temma was holding her own, according to Nazer, but the man looked so distressed that Jayge held his tongue. He could not tell his father; so it would have to wait until he could talk to Temma. But on the long tramp back, Jayge decided that he owed Readis his silence. He was certain that if Readis had not raised a false alarm, the raiders would have killed them all.

Why? Because Jayge had not been helpful that day at the skybrooms? Or because Armald had? That poor old clod was dead. Temma and Nazer had certainly been savagely attacked. Had Thella been after them in particular? Jayge would bet a Bitran any odds that the raid had been punitive. Most of the train’s goods had been bulky items, hard to pack up that slope and into the hills. And it was not as if the area was cave-pocked, where goods could have been stashed temporarily. Thella had been out to destroy, not loot. Why? She would have been caught long since if she went after every wagoneer who answered her indiscreetly.

And what about those sketches, addressed to Lord Asgenar and cleverly left behind to be discovered? Clearly someone in Thella’s camp was not her ally, and that was some consolation to Jayge as he listened that night to Temma’s fevered breathing.

It was several days before the train could move out again. Maindy had to send back for wagons to take the loads from the ruined vehicles of the traders, and more wheels were called for to replace those damaged by the slides. All but one wagon left the site of the ambush, and twelve trader graves remained.

7

Lemos Hold, Southern Continent,
Telgar Hold, PP 12

A
S MUCH TO
escape wintering at Far Cry Hold as to pursue his own search, Jayge hired himself and Kesso out to one of Lord Asgenar’s roving troops. Temma and Nazer were envious, vowing to join him as soon as their wounds healed. Jayge tried to sound encouraging about that, but he had overheard the hold healer talking to Lady Disana outside the temporary infirmary and knew that it would be a long while before either recovered.

Crenden proved more resilient than Borgald over their losses—and Maindy, unlike Childon of Kimmage, was willing to strike a fair deal with the two trader captains. Replacing the dead animals would have to wait until spring and would take almost all their available marks. But in return for reasonable work in the hold, Crenden and Borgald would be allowed time and resources—including the assistance of the hold’s carpenter and Smithcraft journeyman—to repair their damaged wagons. Borgald, Crenden, and their wives sat at the high table for the evening meal, and Maindy consulted them often. So when snow blanketed the valley, the traders willingly helped Maindy’s workmen finish the interiors of extensions built that summer. Finally Borgald began to take an interest in the children orphaned by the raiders, and although his smile faltered when he inadvertently looked about for his son, Armald, he began to recover. Crenden, on the other hand, continued to brood over an attack which seemed to him to be totally unprovoked. Jayge decided that telling his father of his own suspicions would do nothing to improve the older man’s depression.

Jayge went off with the troop without having had the opportunity to tell Temma about Readis and still pondering the significance of the sketches he had found so fortuitously. He assumed that one of Thella’s wounded had dropped the roll, and it amused him to think that dead men
could
tell tales. Though he had not had much time to study the sketches, the faces were vividly burned into his memory. Some looked to have been more hurriedly executed than others, but all had been drawn with a clever economy of line capturing pose and character, and Jayge was certain that he would recognize every one of them, although he could name only Thella, Giron, and Readis. Thella was the one most frequently drawn, in different poses and angles and, in a few cases, in what Jayge realized were disguises. At night Jayge rehearsed those faces, all but the six dead, in his mind. If he saw any one of them, he would know them. He wondered what Asgenar had made of the sketches.

That first evening on the track from Far Cry Hold, once the stewpot was heating over the fire and the men were unrolling their sleepbags, the troop leader, a forester whom everyone, with varying degrees of respect and admiration, called Swacky, came over to Jayge. Swacky was a bull-necked man with massive arm and chest muscles from twenty Turns of logging; he had a bit of a belly on him from drinking ale whenever he could get it and eating huge amounts of food, but he was nimble-footed and long-eyed, with a sparse fringe of brown hair and a rough-featured, long-jawed face. When the men had been gathering wood for their cave fire, Jayge had seen Swacky throw an axe at a piece of wood, splitting it neatly down the center. He was told, and he had no trouble believing it, that Swacky could axe wherries out of the sky. The burly man wore a variety of blades, ranging from light throwing hatchets to the two-handed axe strapped to his saddle.

To Jayge’s complete surprise, Swacky thrust a wad of well-thumbed sheets at him. “Memorize these faces. Them’s who we’re lookin’ for. Any or all. Recognize any from your brush at the ravine?”

“Only the dead ones,” Jayge said, but he studied each face carefully, matching it up with his memory. What he held were copies, executed so hastily that they had none of the vitality of the original sketches.

“How’d you know which was dead?”

“I was with the trackers when they found the six with their throats slit. That Telgar woman . . .”

Swacky caught Jayge’s shoulder in a painful grip. “How’d you know that?” He had lowered his voice, and his expression warned Jayge to keep his answers soft.

“Armald, Borgald’s son, one of those that got chopped down, recognized her when she met us.”

“Tell me,” Swacky said and sat, folding his legs up to his chest, his back to the others.

So Jayge told him, leaving nothing out but the fact of Readis’s astonishing appearance. “I still don’t know who saw a dragonrider,” he added. “I heard later that a sweeprider saw the train stopped and thought it had been caught in a landslide.”

“It had, hadn’t it?” Swacky’s eyes crinkled up in a mirthless grin. “I took a good look, trying to figger that ambush out so we’d avoid such like.”

“And? I was pretty busy helping my folk.”

“Well . . .” Swacky shifted his bulk, took a knife from his boot, and began to draw a diagram in the dirt. “That ambush was well planned. They was waitin’ for you. How come you never put out no point?”

“We did. We found her dead, pushed over the bank. Couldn’t ride flank. We were close enough to Far Cry by then.”

Swacky waggled the dagger point in admonishment. “Until you’re in the hold, you’re not close enough. Any rate, there were ten deadfalls ready, spaced out to crunch each of your wagons.”

“If they’d been spaced out in the usual intervals,” Jayge broke in, holding up his hand, “as they had been on the flats at the sky-broom plain the day we met . . . she planned it then, I know it!” And Jayge tasted hatred in his mouth, sour and acrid. “If I catch her, I’ll cut her throat.” His hand went to his dagger.

“Then it’s over too quick, lad,” Swacky said, tilting his long head, his eyes glittering with a malice as savage as Jayge’s. Then he tapped Jayge’s knuckles lightly with his dagger. “If you catch her while in my patrol, you turn her over to me. She hasn’t killed often or lately in those raids of hers, but you’re not the only one wants to see her dead. You was lucky your wagons was strung out up that steep slope. Another thing shows she’s slipping. Your wagons didn’t tip as easy as she thought they would. But—” He held up the blade again. “She’s getting careless. Or desperate.” Swacky did not sound so sure of that. “Lord Asgenar’s been over the waybills on the trade goods you carried, and he can’t find anything she’d have such bad need of she’d take such risks to get.”

“How would Asgenar know what she’d steal?”

“
Lord
Asgenar,” Swacky corrected, tapping him smartly on the knuckles, his expression severe. “Even in your own head, boy. And Lord Asgenar knows ’cause he’s been making it his business to find out what she’s been lifting, what she’s got in that base camp of hers, what she might need. Besides a little girl who hears dragons.”

Jayge was indignant. “Thella only mentioned a thief she was after. And I doubted her then, but she was angry.”

“Is that what she told you?” Swacky asked, surprised.

“A girl hearing dragons was the reason for attacking us?”

Swacky nodded his head wisely. “That’s what I was told by that young bronze rider. Such a girl would be very useful to someone like Thella, you can bet your last bootnail on that.”

“That’d be useful,” Jayge admitted. He wondered why the Weyrs had not already Searched her out for one of their queen eggs. “You know, Armald recognized her. But he only called her ‘lady.’ He didn’t say her name to her face, though he told us later.”

“Well, Armald is now dead, you took your share, and you said yourself that your aunt and the fourth man who met her that day damned near got killed, too.” He held his hand out to take back the sketches. “You’ve seen her, boy—you’ll be helpful.That runner of yours good on hills?”

“The best, and he’ll murder roosting wherries, give him the chance.”

Swacky got up to return to his own bedroll. “Well, that’d cause undue noise, boy, and we want to move as fast and as quiet as we can, never knowing what we’ll find.”

“One thing, Swacky. The man who drew those sketches. How do we know who he is? We might kill him by mistake.”

“We’re not to kill anybody is m’orders. Capture ’em. And keep looking.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Best possible find’d be their main base, but any caves, hiding places, are a help.”

“She won’t be moving anywhere in the snow.”

“Aye, true, but cave holds stand out in snow, don’t they? Then we map ’em, check ’em out, and if there’re supplies hidden or buried, we fix ’em so they can’t be used come spring.”

And with that Swacky moved off.

Toric in a rage at any time was a problem for his household. Toric fuming in the midday summer heat, without the calming influence of either Sharra, who had gone to the Healer Hall at Fort Hold, or Ramala, who had gone to midwife a difficult birth down the west coast, was a burning firestone looking for something to char.

Piemur and Saneter locked eyes and, with a few deft harper signals passing between them, elected to take a positive—and humorous—tack.

“Well, for sure, they’re all inlanders. Never been in so much as a rowing boat before,” Piemur exclaimed, casting a jaundiced eye over at the limp figures on Master Garm’s deck. “Wilted, that’s what they are. Wilted northern lilies. Ah, we’ll take them in hand.” He beckoned to a youngster hovering nearby. “Sara, go get some numbweed to slather on their sun-burns and some of those pills Sharra uses for stomach disorders. Your mother’ll know which ones.”

“Master Garm,” Toric said, seething with wrath and indignation: “You will pause only long enough to deliver the cargo from your hold and then you will take those—those excrescences back where they came.”

“Now, Holder Toric,” Garm began placatingly. The sea crossing had been rough, and his passengers had deafened him with their complaints, threats, and unwelcome eruptions. He was certain he would never get the smell out of his big aft cabin. He did not care how much he got paid to take the puny bastards south—he would
not
go through it again. Those he had smuggled in for Toric had kept their distress to themselves. The pampered lot he had just legitimately brought over had bitched the entire crossing! “Toric, they’re still alive! When they gets over being so sick, you can get a lot of work out of them! Well growed! Fed well, too, to judge by what came up the first day out!”

Toric was scowling as blackly as ever. “The last thing I need here is a gaggle of spoiled useless turds who’ve never done an honest day’s work and think they’re going to walk into ready-made holds! I never should have agreed. That Harper talks so smooth . . .”

“Sure he does, or he’d be no good at being Harper.” Piemur would not stand for anyone to denigrate Master Robinton. “But there’s no reason you have to treat that stomach- and sunburn-sick bunch any differently than you’ve treated anyone else that fetched up in this harbor.” He could not help grinning at the dawning comprehension on Toric’s face. “You didn’t promise F’lar or Robinton—nor would either of them expect it—to give these younger holdless sons preferential consideration. They can sweat right alongside everyone else here. If they thought they’d wander aimlessly, picking ripe fruit from the trees and basking in the breezes and southern sun, you’ll soon put ’em right.”

“But—” Toric stopped, flicking his angry eyes from the wretched young men on Garm’s deck to the sandy coastline spreading east.

“No buts, Toric,” Piemur went on while Saneter’s fingers flew in a cautionary sign. “They get a day or two to recover, and then they get assigned tasks—” Piemur grinned slyly. “—suitable to their abilities. You’re still Toric, Southern holder, and you’ve the right to hold any way you choose. At least they’re used to jumping when a Holder says ‘jump’—they’re better disciplined than some of those holdless louts Garm’s brought you. In fact, I’d say once those lads recover from sunburn and seasickness, they might surprise you.” Piemur sounded very positive and sure of himself. Toric just kept looking at the figures sprawled on the deck and over the rails of Garm’s ship.

“You whipped more into line than I thought you would, Toric,” Garm said, beginning to warm to Piemur’s line. “You can do it again. Just leave ’em loose. The good ones’ll survive.”

Toric was wavering. Then he scowled. “You’ll take no messages back with you, Garm, that I haven’t seen first. How many of ’em have fire-lizards?”

“Oh, five or six,” Garm said after a moment’s thought.

“They’re all
younger
sons,” Piemur added reassuringly.

“No queens or bronzes, then?”

“No, two blues, a green, and one brown,” Garm answered. “The critters didn’t hang around that long after the lads started getting seasick. And they’re not back yet.”

Toric snorted, his manner relaxing a trifle.

“Send ’em out to Hamian, or over to Big Lagoon. Most of ’em should know drum code.” With Toric calmed down, Piemur was full of useful suggestions. He did not want to get stuck with another drum tower assignment, not when Toric had not yet kept his part of their bargain and let Piemur loose to explore. “Let ’em go. The smart ones’ll want to learn. The dumb ones’ll kill themselves off.”

“Listening to them natter before we set sail, they all sort of thought they were going to be given holds,” Garm put in hesitantly.

“First they’ve got to prove their ability. To me!” Toric jerked his thumb at his chest. “Oh, bring them in. Piemur, Ramala’s not here. You know how to dose ’em. Saneter, see if Murda can find beds for them tonight. I’ll see where to send ’em. Shards! Why did they have to get here so soon?”

“We had good winds,” Garm replied, misunderstanding Toric’s complaint as he wiped sweat from his weathered brow. “Made a nice fast trip.” He caught his dinghy’s painter and hauled the boat in for the row back to his ship.

“Too fast,” Piemur said softly, catching Saneter’s eye. They could have used a few more days to prepare Toric for the “invasion.” “I devoutly hope that there are a few sensible ones.”

“D’you recognize any of them?” Saneter asked as the two climbed the harbor steps. At the top small groups of children, having seen Toric’s departure, began to line the railing, pointing to the ship. Piemur could hear their giggles and unkind comments.