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
“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
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