The Renegades of Pern (8 page)

When he emerged into the clearing on the bluffs above the beach, he groaned. Two ships were anchoring, their decks plainly crowded with people and parcels. The last thing in the world Toric needed at that point was to deal with yet another shipment of useless northern discards. There might indeed be—there usually were—some useful workers with craft skills or general handiness, but far too many of those making the trip were as aimless as the Oldtimers were.

Yet, when Toric roared again, Saneter heard a glad note in the bellow, and the way the holder was making for the harbor steps, waving his arms over his head and yodeling, gave every appearance of welcome and pleasure. Quickly the harper walked across the intervening space just in time to see Toric, arching majestically in the air, dive from the high point of the cliff into the deep clear blue-green waters of the anchorage and swim with powerful strokes to the larger of the two ships. It flew Rampesi’s pennant.

“That’ll help cool him down,” a cheerful voice said at Saneter’s side. He looked over and saw Sharra, her fire-lizards chirping excitedly before they made a straight-line dash to the boat. “Hamian must be aboard.” She flashed her lovely smile at Saneter, and suddenly the morning was bearable again. “Remember? Osemore brought us a message that he was on his way from Telgar Smithcrafthall. My brother, an accredited Mastersmith!” She hugged herself, smiling with pride and anticipation. “Oh, Hamian has to be onboard. What was the old woman’s gripe this time? I ducked away when I saw him shredding mandamos.”

One of the others present would undoubtedly spread the story, but the harper had some respect for his position. As he watched Toric’s arms flashing in a vigorous crawl toward Rampesi’s ship and its passengers, he shook his head. “I hope he’s doing the right thing, hiring people to the south. We aren’t getting the folk who’re settled and craft-trained. Mostly the holdless. And why are they holdless?” Saneter wondered if he dared slip away for the rest of the morning. As harper he really should not countenance the human importations, yet he knew how desperately Toric needed bodies to cut through the jungle growths, clear more land, and secure his ambitions.

“Toric won’t care, as long as they’re still breathing. Not if Hamian’s also aboard. I was wondering how on earth we were going to get him out of his black humor this time.” Sharra’s ability to cool her brother’s tempers was appreciated to the point where Southern holders dreaded her absence on forays into the wildness. She was, in her own way, as much of an original as her older brother, though her skill ran to healing rather than holding. She harvested the bounty of medicinal plants that grew to luxuriant size and in amazing quantity in the Southern Continent. She had no compunction about pursuing her particular interests, whether or not Toric forbade her to go out alone on the long searches she enjoyed. Suddenly she began to jump up and down, waving vigorously. “Look, Saneter! That has to be Hamian on the rail. And he’s not going to let Toric outdo him!”

Saneter shaded his eyes, squinting across the brilliant sea. He had just one glimpse of the figure posed on the weatherrail before the man seemed to hover in his graceful dive, cleaving the brilliant blue water and bobbing up safely a moment later to swim energetically toward his brother.

“Hamian’s return couldn’t be better timed,” Sharra remarked. “But I hope Rampesi got a good price for our last cargoes.”

Saneter shook his head. Toric was not supposed to trade with the North. If someone ever checked to see how many ships had “been forced to seek shelter from storms in Southern coves”—always the one cove—there could be real trouble with the Northern Lord Holders and the Benden Weyrleaders. He was positive that if Toric approached the Masterharper, presenting the problems and the possibilities inherent in the magnificent continent, some proper arrangement could be made.

Sharra began to shout impartial encouragement to her brothers, and even those who knew of the latest encounter of holder and Weyrwoman left their tasks to swell the hurrahs. Osemore was ordering crews to the sturdy fishing boats to ferry cargo and passengers ashore. When Saneter saw several more dive clumsily in to swim ashore, he felt somewhat encouraged by their enthusiasm.

Meanwhile Toric and Hamian had met midway, with much splashing, ducking, and shouts of challenging laughter. Saneter decided not to worry until he had good cause. As he turned back to Sharra, his bronze fire-lizard settled to his shoulder.

“Well, at least a few of those passengers have a measure of courage. Or maybe they’re just tired of smelling themselves. Either way, Sanny, I take it as a good sign they’d try to swim in,” she said, smiling. “I’d best warn Ramala that we’ll need more than fruit and rice on the table tonight.”

“I can do that,” Saneter said. “Surely you want to be here to welcome your brother after three Turns’ absence?”

“Oh, I’m not hanging about while they pretend to be ship-fish,” Sharra said with a negligent wave. “They won’t come in until they’ve half drowned each other. And I can see that Master Rampesi’s launched his dinghy. There’ll be messages for you to sign for, Saneter. They’ll be here long before my brothers.” She turned on her heel toward the hold’s cool caverns, and Saneter made his way to the harbor stairs.

Sharra knew her brothers well, for Saneter and Master Rampesi were exchanging greetings before Toric and Hamian hauled themselves, laughing and breathless, out of the water. Toric had lost his bad humor in the exercise and was grinning broadly as he watched his younger brother strip sodden shirt and pants from a big frame made more powerful by three Turns of smithcrafting.

“You were enough of a threat to the girls before you went north, Hamian,” Sharra yelled, throwing down dry short pants. “Have the goodness to cover it decently before you get up here.”

“Sharra, my lovely. I’ve brought you some samples of northern men. Maybe one you’ll like,” Hamian shouted at her and ducked as she lobbed a ripe redfruit at him.

“Any likely ones among the passengers?” Toric asked as he wrung the water out of his own brief garment. If Hamian worked as competently as he looked, he would be well worth the marks his absence had cost the hold.

“Half dozen maybe,” Hamian replied, losing the width from his grin. “I did my best to leave the scum. I’ll be fair—Master Rampesi and Master Garm wouldn’t have some of them aboard. We picked the likeliest. There was supposed to be a dragonless man. . . .”

“Dragonless?” Toric stared at his brother in dismay. “Benden Weyr?” Though he still respected them, Toric was at odds with the Benden Weyrleaders over many of their decisions. He relaxed visibly when Hamian shook his head.

“No, from Telgar Weyr. A blue rider. The harper said that a heavy tangle caught the dragon on the left side. Somehow he managed to land with G’ron, his rider, but the man’s riding straps had been scored clear through, and he hit the ground so hard they thought he was dead. There was nothing they could do for the blue. He went—” Hamian broke off. He had seen good dragonriders in plenty at Telgar Weyr over the last three Turns, counteracting his experiences with the Oldtimers, so a dragon’s death was a felt loss.

Toric said nothing until Hamian, in a swift change of mood, turned apologetic. “Look, I know we didn’t get the quality of settlers we need, but they’re all able bodies. Some of ’em had journeymen’s knots and a couple were apprenticed to trades. I’ll take ’em all with me to the mines and work their butts off. If they don’t like it, they’ll be far enough away from here not to bother you. In fact,” Hamian said, his smile a fair match for Toric’s at his slyest, “I’ll take anything that can breathe and walk to get those mines started. We—” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with such a resounding smack that the noise startled those struggling to step to the pier from the rocking cockleboat. Five fell into the water. “We will also teach you how to swim!” he finished unexpectedly, grabbing the nearest floundering man by the shirt and lifting him easily out of the water. Then, when Toric shoved him toward the steps, Hamian bounded up to wrap powerful arms about his sister and swing her about in an exuberant embrace.

“How’s Brekke? Did you see her? Mirrim? F’nor!” Sharra was asking with what breath the crushing hug had left her.

“I’ve letters for you, and I just gave you one message from Brekke. She said she needed numbweed the most and were you going to harvest soon.”

“Good, I shall supervise that myself!”

“And make a side trip down to your lake again,” Hamian teased her. “Catch any new sports? No? Well, then—” He hooked an arm about her shoulders and started for the caverns. “F’nor and Canth were at Big Bay to see me off, so all news is fresh. Mirrim’s a pain in the neck, but she’ll change if she lives and has her health. And,” he added, lowering his voice for her ears alone, “I also saw Mother. She still won’t come though Father’s dead more than three Turns. Brever would no more leave the Crafthall to hold here under his younger brother than I could swim the Currents. Our other three sisters won’t leave her, though I tried very hard to get them and their husbands to come. But they won’t if she won’t, and she won’t if they don’t. It’s all very well for Toric to want all his Bloodkin here—but if he thinks he can trust them all on that score, he’s wrong. Frankly, I don’t think any of them would do well here anyhow.”

Saddened by the thought that her mother would never live in Toric’s beautiful hold, Sharra leaned her head against her brother’s broad powerful chest, sea cool from his swim, and walked with him in silence for a few moments.

Toric had been the first to leave the family’s High Palisades seahold. He had left the lonely island off the western side of Ista and gone to the mainland, out and about and away from the hard labor of the Fishercraft. He had been in Benden Hold when F’lar had become Weyrleader and turned back the Lord Holders’ attack. For perhaps the only time in his life, Toric had acted on impulse and had presented himself as a candidate for Ramoth’s first clutch. Disappointed in that wish, he had volunteered to follow F’nor in founding the timed Weyr in Southern, and had remained on when that project had been abandoned. Once he had established, with much hard work, his hold he had come back to Keroon and talked first Kevelon and Murda, then Hamian and Sharra into joining him. Their mother had been proud of Toric’s achievement, but not of her children’s desertion.

“Would she change her mind if Toric becomes official Lord Holder? D’you think then she’d forgive him, and us, for leaving Father?” she asked softly.

Hamian cocked his head down at her. Sharra was tall for a girl, but she was dwarfed by her huge brother. “There’s not much activity on that score, Sharrie. Lord Meron of Nabol’s dying, and though he’s got Bloodkin enough, there’s going to be a real ruckus over that succession. No time to be upsetting the incumbents. What’s the matter?” he asked when Sharra began to shake her head.

“One day they’ll be sorry. One day they’ll see their mistake in not confirming him, in leaving him out of the Conclave.”

“Sharra, he
is
Lord Holder in all but title,” Hamian argued. “And that’s not today’s good news. There’re a couple of good honest Masters come to join us.”

Sharra’s hazel eyes glanced at him with irritation, and she ducked out of Hamian’s embrace. “Not you, too. I tell you, Hamian, if you’ve said one word to anyone, especially Toric . . .”

“Me?” Hamian reared back, hands warding off a blow, his expression one of amiable surprise at her reaction. “I assure you I learned my lesson before I went for my mastery. Southern Hold women marry when and where they choose.”

“And Toric had better remember that!”

“With you reminding him whenever marriages occur, how could he forget? Now,” he said, blocking her not-so-playful blow, “can I please have something to take the tang of sea from my throat? We’d rough enough weather crossing the Currents that I shouldn’t have to take the rough of your tongue the moment I climb the steps home!”

“Ramala’s been squeezing fruit since I went for your shorts. And look, here’s Mechalla to greet you. Bring her with you.” Grinning slyly, Sharra slipped away from her brother’s side to allow the first of the girls who had grieved at his departure to flirt with him on his return.

No one clouded that evening with any mention of the morning’s meeting with the Weyrwoman; the entire hold immediately got to work to settle the newcomers so that all could enjoy Hamian’s return. Even the scruffiest of the new arrivals, having survived Toric’s scrutiny, were determined to make the most of so much food and honest hospitality. Even Saneter put aside the thick rolls of messages, most of them dealing with the exiles, to enjoy roasted meat on the strand.

“Any murderers in this lot, Saneter?” Toric asked, guiding the harper down the beach away from the feasting. People were still gorging themselves, and Toric wanted to know how well his private assessments of the new settlers jibed with the official reports.

“Only one,” Saneter replied, “and he claimed self-defense.” The harper was not convinced, having spotted the rather surly-looking fellow off to one side, shunned by other passengers. “Fifteen were apprentice-level, and two more got as far as journeymen in their crafts, and were turned out of their places for constant pilfering and theft; one was caught selling Crafthall goods at a third of their worth.”

Toric nodded. He was desperate enough to take any help to clear Southern lands, even to the extent of circumventing the Benden Weyrleaders’ restriction on any intercourse between the interdicted Southern Weyr and Hold. So Toric was smuggling people in from the North. Some desperate holdless folk heard whispers that he would not turn them away from the Southern shores, but he was getting too many useless folk for his trusted settlers to absorb quietly. He needed more skilled men, trained in hold and hall management—and he had to keep his illicit settlers from the Oldtimers’ notice.

“Two were caught stealing unmarked herdbeasts. There are, however, some honest settlers,” Saneter continued, hurrying on to the good news. “Four couples with good crafts, and nine singles of varied backgrounds, some of them with very good recommendations. Hamian vouches for four of the men and two of the women. Toric, I’ll say it now and get it off my chest: you should apply to the Masterharper.”