When the harvest was done, Denol approached the steward. “If my work has been satisfactory, steward, is it possible that me and my kin could stay on here over the winter? There’s still a lot to be done with the pruning and wintering of the land.”
The steward was startled. “But you’re a picker. You’ll be needed next at Ruatha.”
“Oh, I won’t go back there, not no way, steward,” Denol said, looking apprehensive. “Ruatha’s no place to go anymore since Lord Fax took it.”
“But there’s Keroon…”
“Aye, and the new lord’s a fair Holder. But I’ve a mind to settle.” He glanced up at the sky. “I know what the lady said, steward, that we wasn’t to pay any mind to the gossip, but, steward, I can’t get it out of my mind now. What with my nippers coming home and practicing their Harper Ballads and reminding me of what can happen does Thread fall.”
The steward was frankly contemptuous. “Harper ballads are for teaching children their duty to hall and hold…”
“And Weyr. And they’re smart ones, my nippers, steward, to be brought up in a trade, not wandering where Thread could fall out of the skies on them and eat them up like they was no better than ripe fruit.”
The steward felt a shiver go down his spine. “Now, then, you heard Lady Marella tell you to stop such gossip.”
“Would you speak to the lady for me, please, steward?” Denol slipped the bonus mark into the steward’s hand, his look imploring, his manner suitably self-effacing. “You know I’m a hard worker. So’s my woman and my oldest son. We’d work harder still for a chance to stay in such a fine hold as this. Finest one this side of the world.”
“Well, I don’t suppose there’d be any harm in your staying the winter…provided—” The steward swung a warning finger on the man. “—you do work hard and show no disrespect. And stop that nonsense about Thread.”
By the autumn of the ninth Turn, the rumors are well spread: whispered in Gathers, on back roads, in wine cellars, in kitchens and lofts. Trouble is coming, and not just that this Turn’s harvest is unaccountably poor after last Turn’s bounty. But then, Keroon has experienced grave drought, and Nerat terrible torrents, and two mines in Telgar have collapsed—so the pessimists are certain that this is only the start of some tremendous calamity…
“There’ll be a Pass?” Ketrin first stared at the carter, then frowned. “They said Thread would never come again. I don’t believe you.” He knew Borgald as a pragmatic, unimaginative sort, and a responsible carter, worried only about his precious burden beasts, the great horned bullocks that pulled his wagons. But the trader sounded convinced.
“I don’t like to believe it,” Borgald replied, looking dolefully at the line of carts as the drivers urged them into Telgar Hold. He nodded, absently counting, as each passed. “But with so many people sure it will come, I believe in taking precautions.”
“Precautions?” Ketrin repeated, giving Borgald a startled look. “What precautions could you take against Thread? Do you know what Thread can do? Drop out of a clear bright sky on a man and eat him, boots, balls, and all. It’d devour your biggest herdbeast quick as you could snap your fingers. Start at one end of a prime field of wheat and roll across it, leaving not so much as a straw!” Ketrin shuddered. He was scaring himself with that old harper description of Thread devastations.
Borgald gave a snort. “Like I said, I’d take precautions. Just like my great-greats when they were hauling. The Amhold train has serviced holds since the very first Pass, and Thread didn’t stop my ancestors. It won’t stop me.”
“But…Thread kills…” Ketrin was becoming worked up over the mere thought of its return to Pern’s skies.
“Only if you get a direct hit; and no fool stays out in it.”
“It eats through trees and flesh and anything not stone or metal…” Then Ketrin made a dismissive gesture. “Nah, can’t be true. You’ve been too long on the track, Borgald, to listen to fool’s talk. And I don’t take it kindly that you’re spilling such tripe at me.”
“ ‘Tain’t tripe!” Borgald replied, sticking his chin out defensively. “You’ll see. But don’t worry. I’ll still haul your supplies up from Keroon and Igen. I’ll be safe with my precautions. I’ll put thin metal sheets over our carts and shelter the animals in caves. Thread won’t score man nor beast in the Amhold train.”
Ketrin shuddered as if he felt the hot score of Thread down his back.
“You holders,” Borgald added with good-natured scorn, “you have it too easy. Thick walls and deep passages—he gestured to the mighty prow of Telgar Hold—”make you soft and easily scared.”
“Who’s scared?” Ketrin drew himself up. “But you wouldn’t have any place to shelter if Thread caught you out across the plains.”
“There’s mountain routes to take—longer, you understand, but never so far from caves. Look you, though.” Borgald rubbed his chin. “It’s going to raise the cost of hauling. Extra time, change of relay stations, the expense of converting the carts—all that adds up.”
“Raise the carting costs?” Ketrin burst out laughing. “So that’s what it’s all about, my friend. Naturally you’d have to raise your charges, with all this rumor of Thread coming again.” He slapped Borgald affectionately. “I’ll lay you odds to evens, Borgald, that this is no interval, that Thread is gone. Ended.”
Borgald stuck out his big fist. “Done. Always knew you had some Bitran blood in you.”
They were interrupted by the hearty voice of Ketrin’s Master. “Ho there, Borgald! Had you a good trip?” He did not wait for a reply. “Are you bringing me those supplies? Here, Ketrin, bring Carter Borgald up to the Hall. Where are your manners, man?”
“I’ll trade you, Borgald,” Ketrin muttered.
In the spring of the next Turn, Fax meets his death in a duel at the hands of F’lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, and Benden Weyr goes on Search for a woman to partner the last queen egg, hardening on the Hatching Grounds. While every Lord Holder heaves a sigh of relief for the death of the tyrant, they find themselves uneasy at this resurgence of the dragonriders. For though the rumors about the return of Thread died down during the winter, the Search has revived them, reminding folk of all they once owed to the dragonriders. In some folk, Fax’s death and the impression of the new queen have awakened old longings and dreams…
“And you will not reconsider, Perschar?” Lord Vincet demanded, amazed, almost infuriated by the artisan’s continued refusal. Vincet bore in mind that the man was an absolute genius with brush and color—Perschar had faithfully touched up all the fading murals and produced perfectly splendid portraits of all his family members—but there was only so much he could, in conscience, offer the fellow. “I thought the terms of the new contract were most generous.” Vincet permitted his chagrin to border on the irritated.
“You have indeed been extremely generous,” Perschar replied with the mournful smile that one of Vincet’s daughters found affecting but which, at the moment, annoyed the Lord Holder. “I do not fault the terms of the contract or wish to haggle over incidentals, Lord Vincet. It is merely time for me to travel on.”
“But you’ve been here three Turns…”
“Exactly, Lord Vincet.” Perschar’s usually long face crinkled in a happy smile. “Actually the longest I have stayed in any major Hold.”
“Really?” Vincet was easily flattered.
“So it is time and a half for me to be off to a different clime, to explore more of this marvelous continent. I need stimulation, Lord Vincet, far more than I need security.” The artist bowed in a self-deprecating apology.