The Skies of Pern by Anne McCaffrey Page B

silent as he went on. “The laceration is long and shallow. If the scalp is not stitched, there will be an unsightly scar. The hair must be cut away to prevent infection. Numbweed would reduce her discomfort.” He paused and then added in a wry tone, “Numbweed flourished on Pern long before our ancestors arrived.”
    With each of Oldive’s sentences, the prisoners had moaned or writhed. The leader glared at the Healer.
    “By giving my advice freely, I have fulfilled my duty as a healer,” Oldive said stolidly. “It is up to you to accept or reject.”
    “Spare her! Spare her! Away, abomination,” cried several of the prisoners, lifting their hands in entreaty.
    Oldive gave a slight nod of assent. “Her healing is now in your hands.” He turned from them, outwardly composed. Sebell stepped solicitously to his side, and he acknowledged the tacit support with a little nod.
    Just then, Journeywoman Keita came storming out of the Hall, other healers behind her, all shaking their heads, visibly devastated by what they’d found.
    “They’ve smashed every piece of Morilton’s last shipment!” she cried, glaring at the culprits, hands clenched at her sides. “It’ll take months to replace our supplies. The stillroom’s a complete shambles! Every sack, canister, and bottle in the treatment rooms have been emptied, and what they didn’t burn—” She paused in her telling to take a deep breath before she could continue. “—they urinated on!”
    Before Groghe could intervene, a holder launched his club at the prisoner nearest him, whacking the man to his knees.
    “No!”
Groghe roared.
“No!”
The crowd wavered but its forward surge aborted. “I am Lord Holder. I mete out punishment. And they
shall be punished
!” His face was livid with fury that anyone would usurp his prerogative. He legged his big mount forward. “You!” He jabbed a finger at the leader, who skittered to one side on his knees as the runnerbeast’s hooves came very close to stamping on his feet. “Name! Hold! Craft!”
    “Notice that they’re wearing dark green, Lord Groghe,” Keita said in a taut voice. There was an angry murmur for the additional insult.
    “No rank knots or hold colors,” Sebell said, walking around the vandals, closely observing them.
    “I’ll ask you once more!” Groghe said. “Names? Holds? Crafts?”
    He—and the crowd—waited with brief patience. The prisoners looked more obdurate than ever.
    “Search them!” Groghe said with a wave of his hand. More than enough erupted from the crowd to obey. “I said ‘search them,’ not strip them,” Groghe added when he observed the force used.
    “Why not? Maybe the cold will loosen their tongues,” suggested a burly holder wearing Fort colors and a journeyman’s knot.
    The vandals found their tongues only to protest vehemently against such handling.
    “We have rights!” the leader cried, surrounded by willing searchers.
    “You just lost ’em. Not answering the Lord Holder!” the holder bellowed, roughly turning out the leader’s pockets, scattering a few quarter marks on the frozen ground.
    Suddenly Keita pointed to one of the women, whose shirt and jacket were opened to expose a red and inflamed chest.
    “I recognize her,” the journeywoman said. “She came to the Hall for ointment to ease a rash.”
    “Come here!” Groghe gestured to the woman.
    “You will not touch her with your abominated hands,” the leader said, shaking himself loose of his searchers.
    “You had no problem with my abominated hands when you wanted something to stop the itching,” Keita said as she pulledthe woman out of the group. “And from the look of it now I’d say you didn’t even use the salve. Well, I hope you itch forever!” She released her and the woman sidled hastily back to her companions.
    “Keita,” Oldive asked, “can you remember exactly when she was here? If she gave a name or any details?”
    Keita nodded and dashed up the stairs to the