Anne McCaffrey - Dragondrums

“Not the most of congenial of Holds, to be sure. I can’t think what can have happened to all the wine Lord Fax appropriated in his conquests. He had some good pressings, too. Meron can’t have drunk it all in a bare thirteen or fourteen Turns.”

“You’d no Benden wine, then?” Menolly teased him.

“None, you unfeeling wretch.”

“Then I’m more amazed than ever that you stayed so long.”

“I had to!” he replied, amazed at the irritation in his voice. But they had reached his rooms now, and he opened the door, grateful for the sight of the familiar disorder of his workroom and the welcoming smile on Sebell’s face. The journeyman was on his feet, helping his master out of his flying gear and guiding him to a chair, while Menolly poured a goblet of a decent Benden wine.

“Now, sir, have you a tale to tell?” asked Sebell, lightly taunting with his Master’s usual greeting. “Could we not have come to Nabol and helped speed matters?”

“I would have thought you’d seen enough of Nabol Hold to last a Turn or two,” said Master Robinton, sipping at his wine.

“He’s got news, Sebell,” said Menolly, narrowing her eyes to glare at her master. “I can tell that look on his face.

“Smug, that’s what he is. Did you learn what happened to Piemur at Nabol?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t find out about Piemur, but among other, equally important, things, I have arranged matters so that we don’t have to worry about Nabol Hold supplying the Oldtimers with northern goods or receiving a further embarrassing riches of fire lizard eggs in that otherwise impoverished Hold.”

“Then, none of the disappointed heirs caused trouble during the confirmation?” asked Sebell.

Master Robinton waggled his fingers, a sly smile on his face. “Not to speak of, though Hittet is a master of the snide remark. They could scarcely contend the nomination, since it had been made before such notable witnesses. Besides, I never bothered to disabuse them of the notion that Benden and the other Lord Holders would call the heir to account for the sins of his predecessor.” Master Robinton beamed at the reactions of his journeyman to his strategy. “It afforded me considerable pleasure to help the new Lord Deckter send the worthless lot back to improve their beggared holds.”

“And Lord Deckter?” asked Sebell.

“A good choice, however unwilling. I pointed out to him, adroitly, that if he merely regarded his Hold as a flagging business and applied the same ingenuity and industry with which he had built a flourishing carting trade, he would find that the Hold would respond and repair. I also pointed out that in his four sons he has able assistants and ministers, a fortune few Lords can enjoy. However, he did have one matter he was particularly anxious to resolve.” The Harper paused. He looked at the expectant faces. “A matter that just happens to march kindly with a problem we face.” He turned to Menolly. “You’d best ready that boat of yours…” he had started referring to her skiff in that manner after he and Menolly had been storm-lost on his one voyage to the southern hold the previous Turn. Now Menolly’s face brightened, and Sebell sat up straight, eyes wide with anticipation. “We won’t locate Piemur by whistling for him from the north. You two go south. Make certain that Toric lets the Oldtimers know, if you can’t carry the message discreetly to them yourselves, that Meron is dead and that his successor supports Benden Weyr. I believe that Master Oldive wants you to bring back some of those herbs and powders. He used up a large portion of his supplies on Meron.

“But don’t you dare return until you’ve found Piemur.”

Stupid bleated, his rump, as he struggled to his feet, pushing sharply into Piemur’s belly. Curled on Piemur’s shoulder, Farli gave a sleepy complaint, which rapidly changed to a squeak of alarm. Piemur rolled over, away from both his friends for fear of injuring either and got stiffly to his feet. There wasn’t anything alarming in the clearing about his small shelter but, as his eyes swung about, he caught the unexpected distant blur of bright red on the river. Startled, he brushed aside an obscuring bough and saw, just where the river began to narrow between the plains, three single-masted ships, carrying brilliant red sails. Even as he watched in surprise, the ships altered course, their red sails flapping as they were first turned into the wind and then were carried by momentum up onto the muddy beach.

Fascinated at the sight of ships on his river, Piemur moved further from his shelter, stroking to reassure Farli, who chittered questions at him. He was marginally conscious of Stupid brushing against his bare leg as he reached the outermost screen of trees. Not that anyone from the ships could possibly see him at this distance. He watched, as one will review a dream, while people jumped out of the ships: men, women and children. Sails were furled fully, not just thrown across the boom. A line was formed to convey bundles and packages from the ships across the muddy beach to the higher, dry banks. Holdless men from the north? wondered Piemur. But surely he’d heard that they were passed through Toric first, so that their inclusion in the Southern Hold was unobtrusive and the Oldtimers had no cause to complain. Whoever these people were, they looked as if they intended to stay awhile.

As Piemur continued to watch the disembarkation, he became aware of a growing sense of indignation that anyone would dare invade his privacy, would have the audacity to make a camp and set up cooking fires with great kettles balanced on spits across the flames, just as if they belonged here. This was his river, and Stupid’s grazing grounds. His! Not theirs to litter with tent, kettle and fire!

What if the Oldtimers just happened to fly this way? There’d be trouble. Didn’t those folk know any better? Setting up in the sight of everything?

Farli distracted him by protesting her hunger. Stupid had fallen to his customary sampling of every type of greenery in his immediate area. Absently, Piemur reached in the pouch at his belt for a handful of nutmeats he’d kept there to pacify Farli. Daintily she took the offerings, but informed him with a querulous cheep that this had better not be all she was given to eat that morning.

Piemur chewed on a nut himself, trying to figure out who these people were and what they were about. One group was now separating itself from those bustling about tents or filling the huge kettles with water drawn from the river. This group moved purposefully toward the far end of the field and then the individuals spread out. Long chopping blades flashed in the sun, and suddenly Piemur knew who they were and what they were doing.

Southerners had come to harvest the numbweed bushes, now full of sap and strong with the juice that eased pain. He wrinkled his nose in disgust: it’d take them days to harvest that field; and each kettleful would require three days of stewing to reduce the tough plant to pulp. Another day would be required to strain the pulp, and the juice had to be simmered down to the right consistency to make the numbweed salve. Piemur knew that Master Oldive took the purest of the resultant salve and did something else with it to make it a powder for internal use.

He sighed deeply, because the intruders would be here for days and days. The camp may have been set up a good hour’s walk from him and undoubtedly he could keep from being noticed. He wouldn’t escape however, even at this distance, from the stench of boiling numbweed, for that smell was pervasive, and the prevailing breeze right now was from the sea. It was infuriating to be forced out of his place just when he’d gotten everything arranged to his convenience so that he could feed himself, Farli and Stupid, had shelter from the tropical storms at night and safety from Threadfall whenever it came.