Jayge snorted. “And what about the holdless folk in Igen low caverns who’ve no decent place of their own?”
“Them!” The journeyman’s expression was disdainful. “There’s plenty of jobs for them what’s willing to work and please their Lord Holder.”
“Now, Petter,” a younger journeyman said, “you know that’s not always the case. You remember that ragtag of folk that came through from Bitra when Thread started. Lord Sifer had turfed ‘em out, and they was hard-working people.”
Petter sniffed. “Lord Sifer may have had good reasons; it’s not for you and me to question. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. They’d no warranty to show like this young man.”
Had Jayge not had other considerations foremost in mind, he would have argued the journeyman on that point. Holders, major and minor, had taken advantage of Falclass="underline" he remembered all too vividly the humbling and belittling work that Childon had taken great pleasure in forcing him and his family to do. He knew of other cases where pride—and sheer exhaustion—had forced people to holdlessness rather than endure such drudgeries any longer.
“Is the Southern Continent so big it can handle more Fort and Keroon holders?” Jayge asked, directing his comments to the younger journeyman. “Seems to me the first thing you’d need are men and women who know how to work, not holders’ sons.”
“You thinking of resettling, trader?”
Jayge was put in mind of what Temma had said to him before he left Far Cry. “You know traders,” he countered with a disarming grin. “Always looking for new routes, new items that travel well and sell better. The beasts would be sailed across then? And their handlers chosen?” It might be best if Jayge could persuade Readis to shift south for a while. He could always give his own warranty to his uncle.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Petter said stiffly. “Uvor was chatting w’ the Master about it. C’mon, you.” He tapped his foot on his junior’s boot. “We’ve got feet to trim and teeth to rasp.”
Jayge asked the Smithcrafter’s permission to use his forge to make new shoes for Kesso.
“D’you know how, an’ all?” the smith asked, skeptical.
“Traders learn a lot of this and that,” Jayge replied, selecting the iron bar, already fullered and swaged, and crunching off the length he needed. It was not the first time he had shod Kesso, and by no means the first time he had made shoes from scratch. Crenden had taught him what he had known, and then had him work under Maindy’s farrier for a season. He was aware of the smith’s scrutiny. But when he had heated, hammered, shaped, and clinched the first hind shoe, the smith turned back to his own work.
Jayge made two sets and paid for them and a small packet of nails. He had a long way to go to Benden Weyr. While he was eating his evening meal, Uvor and the Masterherdsman came up to his corner seat.
“I’ve told Master Briaret that you’re a sensible young man and know how to care for animals properly,” Uvor said with the air of someone happy to confer a favor on the worthy. “He’s got a well-trained young runner to be delivered to Benden Hold. I know you’re heading that way and that you’d take good care of her, fog, fire, or Fall.”
Briaret was a short man, balding, with a rider’s lean stature and the odd, bowed legs of someone who had ridden all his life. His keen eyes searched Jayge as intently as those of a Bitran giving odds. He smiled at Jayge, and the young man knew that he had passed the test.
“You’ve a warranty, I understand,” the Master said in a slightly raspy voice.
Jayge passed over Swacky’s useful recommendation and finished his meal while Briaret read. Finally the older man folded it neatly and gave it back. Then he held out his hand.
“Will you take charge of the mare? She’s nearly as well bred as that runner of yours.” He grinned. “As well he’s a gelding. My drovers are going as far as Bayhead, so there’s safe passage for you, and the journey’s been timed to get all to safe cave during Fall. We haven’t been as much troubled by raiders as the northwest, but there’s comfort in numbers. I’ve a mark for you now, plus travel food and grain, and you’re to get two marks at Benden Hold if the mare arrives in good condition.”
Jayge shook the man’s hand, well pleased. He would have some escort, he would make some marks, and he would still be making better time than Thella and her companions could.
Piemur was back at Southern and had finally cornered Toric into fulfilling his promise to let him explore freely in the South. He had arrived armed with a polite request from Master Robinton, a request that, since it bore F’lar’s signet, was more of an indirect order.
“I’ve got my journeyman’s knot, I spent hours with Wansor, Terry, and that oaf of a Fortian, Benelek, so I’m qualified to keep Records that will be accurate as long as the Dawn Sisters remain in place. So you’ll know, my Lord Holder—”
“Don’t call me that,” Toric snapped, his eyes flashing so angrily that Piemur wondered if he had overplayed his hand.
“I get the impression,” the boy said in his most conciliatory tone, “that that is a formality that the Benden Weyrleaders will bring before the Conclave at the next possible occasion. You’re as much a Lord Holder as Jaxom is, and you’re working at it. But–” He held up his hand. “It would be wise to know how much you’re going to Hold. You prove, one—” He ticked off each point on his fingers. “—how diligent you’ve been; two: how serious you are about all this; three: limit what their idiot sons—presuming some of them survive their initiation here—can possibly think to control; and four: make legal and binding your own claim by virtue of the fact that that’s how much you’ve been holding.”
Toric stared across the room to the map of what he already, by virtue of having accurately charted it, held. Much of the cartographic detail had been filled in by Sharra, Hamian, and Piemur, but that only whetted Toric’s appetite to establish how much more there was. He had no intention of sharing it with any northern holders’ sons—possibly not even his own, although he was proud of the twin sons Ramala had just delivered…again. Piemur was astonished, and secretly envious, of Toric’s large family. The man would need every one of them to hold for him, that was certain. And Toric had plans for Sharra’s offspring—whenever he did find someone he felt worthy of his beautiful sister. Piemur had about given up that daydream. He knew that Sharra liked him, enjoyed his company, and accepted him as a partner in their explorations, but whether she was careful to keep the friendship objective because she felt nothing stronger for him than platonic affection, or because she did not wish to bring Toric’s wrath down on him, Piemur was not sure.
Maybe if he successfully broadened Toric’s holding, he might also broaden Toric’s appreciation of him. Maybe not broad enough to encompass Sharra, but then Piemur’s motto always had been “You never know till you try.”
What Piemur kept very much to himself was that he would be doing the survey as much for Master Robinton as for Toric. Just where his loyalties would be tested remained to be seen. In no fashion would Piemur risk Master Robinton’s good relationships with the Benden Weyrleaders. He had a suspicion that perhaps F’lar and Lessa wanted a good bit of Southern to be dragonriders’ territory. He hoped that the continent would be big enough for all. How much did Toric possibly think he could manage to Hold? Should someone—maybe Saneter could get away with it—remind Toric of what had happened to Fax, the self-styled Lord of Seven Holds? In any event, as long as Piemur got to set one foot in front of the other until he ran out of land, he would let the disposition of it rest with others—such as the Masterharper and the Benden Weyrleaders. They deserved more of the South than Toric ever did. But then, Lessa had a habit of giving perfectly good Holds away.