She quickly overtook groups of excited chattering folk headed in the same direction and merely grunted acknowledgment of their greetings; desert folk tended to taciturnity, so conversation would not be expected of her. And as she had elected to run, she passed all those who were proceeding at a less demanding pace to their destination.
She arrived in full dawn to find the Igen Gathergrounds well populated and gave an ungrudged quartermark for several pockets of hot bread, fresh cooked on a metal sheet over a crackling hot oilbrush fire. Slices of a soft cheese inside the bread made a filling breakfast. She was a bit irritated when she was grossly overcharged for a misshapen clay mug for klah. But it was pay or go without, and the smell of the beverage after long abstinence was more than she could endure. She had never had to bring utensils to a Gather, having always been accommodated in the Lord Holder’s hall, and she had not thought to bring any from her travel pack. Fortunately, though the mug was imperfect, the klah was freshly made, not something that had aged on the hearth all night. Nearby, cooks were busy trussing a dozen herdbeast carcasses onto spits over glowing firepits, the aromas soon to remind Gatherers of the excellent spices that always seasoned Igen roasts.
Replete, she strolled toward the great, colorful Gather tents, her critical gaze noting storage creases and recent repairs to tunnel-snake holes. Igen Gathers had unusual accommodations. With the sun at near equatorial intensity by midday, traders could not have endured its fierce glare, so stalls were erected under a square of tented corridors, where flaps could be rolled up to provide both ventilation and quick exit. Thella had already noted scrawny brats sneaking in and out. At the first corner entrance the Gathermaster was overseeing the setting of the poles for an awning against the vicious noonday sun. The air inside was still cool from the chilly desert night. Already many stalls were ready, journeymen enticing the trickle of Gatherers walking the tented square.
Thella gave the tannercraft stalls a cursory glance, noting that a workbench had been set up and a variety of trial lasts and tools laid out, ready to ensure perfect fittings. Apprentices were still unpacking travel panniers under the eyes of the Master, who was arranging attractive displays of his wares, and an older journeyman was fussily adjusting the price boards attached to the tentpole. Thella walked on, suddenly taking in the meaning of the sign announcing that the Master’s leathers were Threadscore-proofed. She snorted. Threadscore-proofed indeed!
She ignored weaver and smith craft stalls for the moment and stopped to fill the wretched mug with fruit juice. It was so refreshing that she stayed for another, wondering how soon the porous, badly fired clay would begin to leak. The tent, despite ventilation, was beginning to warm up as more people pressed in to do their buying before the noonday heat forced everyone to rest. She walked the entire square and then, to assuage her wrath against the extortionate potter, picked up a rock that someone had used to pound in tentpegs and lobbed it deftly over her shoulder at his stand. As she slipped back into the tent, she heard a satisfactory shattering and pained outcry, and smiled.
Feeling equable again, she was ready to see about boots. When the Mastertanner politely turned her over to a journeyman so that he could serve some better dressed clients, she seethed once more and wondered how she could repay his discourtesy; but her mood altered as the journeyman, a soft-spoken man with big hands, fingers scarred from leatherknife and needle, was soothingly deferential and efficient. He fitted her immediately to a good stout pair of midcalf hide boots and a pair of ankle-high wherhide semiboots, then took careful measurements for full leg boots, assuring her that they would be sewn and ready before high noon. She paid him for the hide boots, which she immediately put on, and the semiboots, which she tied onto her waterbag, and gave him half of the price of the third pair. That way, if her plans altered and she could not pick up the boots, she would not be out too much credit. She waited as he summoned an apprentice to begin cutting the sole to the pattern he had just made. Then, appeased, she left the stall.
It was during her second stop at the bake fire that Thella noticed the big man. Even at a Gather he was exceptional—exceptionally ragged, too, with a brooding angry look that made people give him a span or two of distance from themselves. There was something almost pathetic about his air of aloofness, as if he knew, and even expected, to be shunned and avoided. He grudgingly gave up a quarter credit to pay for bread, carefully choosing the biggest of the pieces on the metal sheet, then waiting for them to finish baking. But he was very strong, and that commended him to her. She would need strong men, preferably ones who would be very grateful to her for taking them on.
Suddenly it came to her that there seemed to be an unusually large number of holdless at the Gather, if their status could be judged by their scruffy appearances. Few actually ventured into the Gather tent, which was as it should be if they had no marks to pass, but they circulated freely among the crowds outside. Her belt pouch, full of good Telgar currency, was hidden from view under her loose robes, but nevertheless she unobtrusively shoved it under her shirt as she looked about for the guards Lord Laudey ought to have posted to forestall disturbances and deal with petty theft. And this Gather was particularly crowded, it being the first spring Gather in the Pass.
Ah, that was it, she realized. There were always more holdless during a Pass. Holders, with absolute authority over those within their walls, made sure that everyone they supported in such parlous times was efficiently worthy of his or her keep. A holder, major or minor, could withhold shelter from travelers even if the leading edge of Fall was close. In such times, people worked harder and obeyed right sharp, or they lost their sanctuary. As it should be, Thella thought with complete approval.
If she had only had a little more time before the Pass had started, she would have been able to exercise such time-honored options. She still would, or die in the doing. In one way, the Pass might work to her advantage. For the promise of shelter within stone walls, there would be those eager to work even in a high isolated hold. She began to scrutinize the holdless with an eye to the shoulder knots of their crafts, assessing their strength and desperation. Her holding might not be much yet, but it had possibilities. She wandered around the stall square again, keeping an eye on the progress of her third pair of boots and listening for any news or helpful information.
What she heard was better than a harper’s tale. A lot had happened since Thread had started falling on Pern again. Benden Weyr had tried desperately to cope with the Falls. Then, in an act of heroism unparalleled even for Pern’s legendary heroes, Lessa, rider of Ramoth, Benden’s only queen, had risked her own life and the life of her dragon in order to bring the five lost Weyrs of Pern forward, going back 400 Turns to a past time when there had been six full Weyrs and persuading them to assist the seemingly doomed present.
Thella found the mechanics of the feat hard to believe, but the fact was clearly demonstrated by the appearance of swaggering dragonriders wearing the colors of Telgar, Ista, and Igen Weyrs, as well as Benden. And all too clearly, Hold and Hall deferred to them in everything.