On a later circuit, when she saw the apprentice in an ingratiating pose with an Ista dragonrider, she gave him a stern glare. The young man blanched, apologized, and returned to stitching her half-finished boot. The very idea of his deferring work for a Telgar… Reluctantly Thella realized that she no longer had that Blood advantage and stalked away in a savage mood.
Those dragonriders! Acting as if the Gather had been put on just for their benefit. She saw girls surrounding most of these dragonriders, and juveniles hanging on the words of the others! Insidious group! And yet, despite her disenchantment, Thella noticed a definite difference between riders from Benden and those of the other three Weyrs. The—what was the term she had heard? Oldtimers?—the Oldtimers walked with the unmistakable swagger of those totally assured of their eminence, while equally obvious was a certain eager, almost apologetic deference in the Benden riders. Thella approved of neither stance. Without the Lord Holders’ support, the Weyr—Weyrs, she corrected herself, though she still found it difficult to believe in the restoration—could not have continued to exist.
It was becoming stuffy in the tented square, but by the time she had eaten her nooning under the canopies that had been raised near the firepits, her boots were receiving a final polish. The Mastertanner stamped his approval on the finished product, and she paid over the second half. Her boots were handed to her, neatly encased in a rough cloth bag that she hung with the other packages.
During her circuit of the Gatherstalls, Thella had purchased seed for late-maturing root vegetables, guaranteed by the Masterfarmer in attendance to give a good yield. She also purchased spices; a few small sacks would not weigh down her runners and would be very welcome to season wild wherry meat. The noon sun was pouring down on the tents, making the air within uncomfortably hot. People were beginning to look for places in the lounge areas to wait out the worst of the heat. Though she had not yet hired any workers for her hold, Thella had half a mind to leave, but it was an impossible time to travel. So she found a space in the western course of the Gathertent and, despite some long moments brooding about possibilities, made herself as comfortable as possible, her new boots forming a pillow. Then reassured by the sight of guards patrolling to protect the nappers, she fell asleep.
A sense of movement near her outstretched hand awoke her. She had become sensitive to the slightest sound, even the near-silent approach of tunnel snakes, in the past Turn or so. Opening her eyes, she saw a small figure bending over a sleeping man just beyond her, a dirty hand reaching with a knife to cut the bulging pouch. Stupid of him not to conceal such a temptation, she reflected. Her knife was instantly in her hand, jabbing at the bent back. She shoved the blade deftly into the fleshy part of a thigh, heard a stifled intake of breath, and the figure bolted, slipping under the tent flap. She looked back at the owner of the pouch, whose round wide open eyes were on her bloodied blade.
“You’re quick indeed,” he said, shoving his pouch into his shirt and rearranging his clothing to hide the bulge. His Craft-knot, Thella saw, identified him as an Igen herder.
“You should have done that before you slept,” Thella muttered, disgruntled. She hated being aroused, and she had been sleeping deeply. She wiped her knife on the tail of someone else’s cloak, aware of the almost suffocating blanket of heat even though a little breeze stirred the tent flap. She would never get back to sleep again, and it was still too hot to think of returning to her runners.
“I had it under me. I’ve turned in my sleep,” the herder replied, equally disgruntled. He waved one hand over his face, courting the breeze. “I’m not that green, I’ll have you know. I chose my spot among honest men and women,” he added in a querulous aggrieved tone. “Look at the guard, fast asleep on both feet.” But even as he spoke, the guard could be seen eyeing them. “It’s getting so honest folk”—he gestured to their sleeping mates, who were indeed a prosperous-looking lot, wearing the brand-new knots of minor Igen and Keroon holds on their best Gather clothes—”can’t be protected at Gathers with so many holdless about. It’s time to complain about this shocking disregard for privacy. Make some examples. Should be stopped. The more of us who speak out, the sooner there’ll be a remedy to such behavior. You’ll speak, of course?” His voice had grown louder with each sentence, and some of the sleepers stirred. The guard warned them with a hand gesture to be quieter.
“Speak?” Thella was briefly astonished at the man’s audacity. “No.” Then, seeing that she had offended him, she added, “I must be on the road at dark. Shocking problem, I agree.” It cost her nothing to be conciliatory.
He seemed suddenly indecisive. “A long way to go?”
She nodded, ostentatiously settling herself to resume her rest.
“North, perhaps, along the western bank?”
Thella gave him a long look of surprise, quite forgetting for the moment that she wore rough guise and was tall enough to be mistaken for a man.
“For a ways.” She thought of that pouch, bulging with credits. He was much older than she was, and did not look particularly fit. Get a ways out of earshot, knock him on the head, and she could have that pouch and whatever he carried in his travel sack with little trouble to herself.
“I’d make it worth your while to see me to my holding,” he added, winking meaningfully. “You’d be there before the moons set. And a harper halfmark in your hand for your company.”
“Aye, for that I’ll match my steps to yours then,” Thella agreed after a thoughtful pause. How easily deceived an honest man was, seeing his own honesty in others, she thought. She gave him a nod and closed her eyes. She would need the rest of her nap.
The murmur of renewed activity roused her the second time. She and the Igen herder emerged into the cooling twilight and made for the latrine pits. She eluded him in the general shuffle for privacy and sought him out at the washing basins.
Harpers were already playing in the Dancing Square, though no one would be treading any measures yet. The evening air was heavy with the tantalizing smell of roasted spiced meats, and by common consent, Thella and the herder joined the lines, waiting for a skewered slab of the seasoned meat. The herder paid for two cups of wine.
“A thanks for your timely intervention. Have you seen anyone limping?” the herder asked. Thella shook her head, but she had not been looking for the culprit; instead she had been watching the big man she had noticed earlier grab a fallen piece of meat and run off with it. Hungry enough to eat it, sand and all, she thought, irritated by the sight. Gatherers ought to be able to enjoy their food without such intrusions. Still, if the man were that far down on his luck, and that quick and strong…she wished she had not promised to accompany the herder.
Then, because she knew such courtesies were expected at a Gather even between new acquaintances, she bought a second round of wine. Drink made a man unwary. She also made certain as she dropped a halfmark in the vintner’s wine-stained hand that the herder saw that she was well marked herself.
She bought several more slabs. “For my nooning,” she told the herder, who then assured her that he would provide her with that meal.
“I thought you said we’d be at your croft by the moonset,” she said, giving him a quick stare.
“To be sure, to be sure,” the herder hastily agreed. He said no more as she folded the meat into the pocket of the waterskin.
But she had caught a note in his voice, an air about him, that she distrusted, though she was quick enough not to give him any clue of her suspicion. He bought them both more wine, and she let most of hers leak out of her cup while she pretended to match him sip for sip. Winking at Thella, he paid the vintner to fill his travel bottle. She was beginning to find him tedious indeed.