“I know, I know,” Toric replied irritably. Then he remembered how dependent he was on Master Rampesi’s services and smiled. “I may just have a passenger for you, Rampesi, when you sail.”
“That will be a novelty,” the Bay Lady’s Master remarked sardonically, holding out his glass for another charge of wine.
Toric found Piemur, as usual, in Sharra’s workshop, laughing and chattering in far too intimate a manner to his liking. They were busy—so he could not fault them there—packing the medicinal supplies that Rampesi would take to the Masterharper. Toric would miss Piemur. The apprentice had been very useful indeed, setting up the drum towers; and his maps of the Island River stretch had proved as accurate as Sharra’s, with shrewd notations of possible hold sites, natural plantations of edible fruits, and the concentration of wild runners and herdbeasts. But he was far too often in Sharra’s company, and the young harper did not figure in Toric’s plans for his pretty sister. Still, if Toric handled him astutely, the boy could serve him well. Piemur had been Master Robinton’s special apprentice and was on excellent terms with Menolly and Sebell. He had all too often demonstrated his eagerness to remain in Southern. Let him prove it now.
“Piemur, a word with you?”
“What have I done wrong?’”
Without answering, Toric gestured back down the hall to his office. He decided, as he followed the boy, that it was more to his purpose to speak plainly. Piemur did not miss much; he knew about the restrictions on commerce between north and south, knew how much leeway had already been tacitly accepted in the matter of Southern medicines transported North, and knew, from his own experience, of the illicit commerce carried on between the Oldtimers and Lord Meron in Nabol before the man’s death had ended it. Yes, the boy did not miss much—but he had never, to Toric’s knowledge, been indiscreet.
“Rampesi just brought in another bunch of shipwrecked fools trying to cross the Southern Sea,” Toric said as he slid the door shut.
Piemur rolled his eyes at such folly. “Fools indeed. How many did he find alive this time?”
“Twenty, Rampesi says. With as many more trying to board the Bay Lady before he sailed.”
“That’s not good,” Piemur said, sighing.
“No, it’s not good. Rampesi’s getting nervous, and we can’t have that.” When Piemur shook his head, Toric went on. “You and Saneter have often said that I should speak with your Masterharper about officially easing those restrictions. I’ve wanted nothing to do with the Northerners, but it seems they want plenty to do with me. And I must control the influx. There are thousands of holdless, useless commoners expecting an easy life here, and I won’t have it. You know what I’ve created, what I’d like to do. You’re no fool, Piemur, and I’m no altruist. I’m working for myself, for my Blood, but I want folk who’re willing to work as hard as I do to hold for themselves. I can’t permit all I’ve done to be wasted on the indigent.”
Piemur was nodding agreement with most of his arguments. “You couldn’t risk being absent from Southern for the length of a journey North. So I guess you’re asking me to make the trip.”
“I think it might serve several purposes for you to go.”
“Only if it’s not a one-way trip, Toric.” The boy looked him squarely in the eye, and Toric was slightly surprised. “I mean it, Holder Toric.” A shrewd gleam in the young man’s eye reminded Toric that Piemur was older in some ways than he looked. He also knew the stakes.
“I appreciate your point, young Piemur,” Toric assured him candidly. “Yes, I would like you to explain how heavy those restrictions weigh on Southern’s hold population—how an easement would profit the North in more ways than better medicines. You can admit to the mineral and metal deposits—” Toric held up his hand warningly. “Discreetly, of course.”
“Always.” Piemur grinned knowingly.
“There would be another reason why you ought to make the trip, besides, of course, your association with the Masterharper. If I can be blunt, you’re overold now as an apprentice.” Seeing that the boy was startled, Toric went on smoothly. “Saneter’s getting older, and I prefer to have a harper who is sympathetic to my aims, especially one already familiar to the Oldtimers so that the substitution will go unnoticed. Get your journeyman’s knot while you’re back at the Harper Hall, and you’re welcome back here when you’ve waked the tables. I promise you.”
“And exactly what do you wish me to say to Master Robinton?”
“I believe I can trust you, journeyman-elect, to tell your Craftmaster what he needs to know?” Toric saw how quick the boy was to catch his slight emphasis on “needs.”
Piemur winked. “Oh, definitely. Just what he needs to know.”
When Piemur was gone, Toric began to wonder just what that impudent wink had meant. It never occurred to him that the Masterharper would sail south to find out for himself what he felt he needed to know before presenting the matter to the Benden Weyrleaders. And that voyage would have many repercussions.
Jayge fretted over the encounter all the way to Lemos Great Lake—especially after comparing his impression of the Lady Thella with descriptions he had heard of the worst of the Lemosan marauders. No one mentioned her by name, and fortunately Armald was not bright enough to make the connection. Lady Holders remained Lady Holders, just as traders remained traders. Armald was less certain about dragonless men, but that person would have unsettled anyone.
What worried Jayge was the knowledge that the renegade had command of a disciplined band that was well able to cause trouble for the Lilcamp-Borgald train. He had irritated her, and though Temma had called him foolish to stew over it, he could not help himself. He was also certain that Thella’s appraisal had been too purposeful—and the trader train had a long way to go to get to Far Cry.
They had taken shelter from Threadfall not far from Plains Hold, and, as customary, Crenden and Borgald offered to send men for ground crew the next day. Nazer and Jayge rode into Plains Hold to find out where Holder Anchoram wanted them to crew.
To Jayge’s surprise, Lord Asgenar himself came in on a blue dragon, dismounting with the ease of long practice, smiling, and greeting the many extra folk assembled at the Hold. He seemed popular, and Jayge halted his runner near the anxious trio of mountain holders Asgenar stopped to speak to. The Lemos Lord Holder was tall and slightly stooped in the shoulder, with a full head of blondish hair, slightly dampened from his riding helmet. He had an open face, a clear eye, and an easy manner—a different sort of lord to Corman, Laudey, or Sifer, the other Lord Holders Jayge had seen. But Asgenar, like Larad of Telgar, was a relatively young man and not so hidebound as the others who had enjoyed the independence of Interval.
Listening, and Jayge prided himself on his keen hearing, he heard that the major complaint of the anxious holders was lack of adequate protection from raids.
“If they just came at us, fair and square, and it was a matter of strength or skill, Lord Asgenar, it would be one thing,” a Beastmaster was saying. “But they sneak in when we’re out in the far meadows or doing our Hold duty, and they whip in and are gone before anyone knows they’ve been. Like that Kadross Hold theft.”
“All the eastern Lord Holders are being hit, not just Lemos…”
“And the Bitrans are turning honest folk away,” someone muttered angrily.
“Some of you already know that I’ve started mounted patrols on random swings. I need your help. You’ve got to inform the Hold when you see anything unusual, have unexpected visitors of any kind, or are expecting carters or journeymen to deliver. Be sure to lock up your holds—”