His reply brought the gratifying reaction he had expected. “Then you’re journeyman to Master Robinton? Piemur? My grandfa mentions you frequently! I’m Jancis, Telgar Smithcrafthall journeywoman.”
He made a disparaging sound. “You don’t look like any Smithcrafter I’ve ever seen.”
A dimple flashed in her right cheek when she smiled. “That’s exactly what my grandfa says,” she said, snapping her fingers.
“And who might your grandfa be?” Piemur asked obediently.
Her smile had a touch of mischief as she turned with her tray to serve others. “Fandarel!”
“Hey, Jancis, come back!” Piemur shot to his feet, spilling soup over his hands.
“Ah, Piemur,” the Harper said, appearing before him to catch his arm and thwart his pursuit. “When you’ve finished eating– What’s the matter with you?”
“Fandarel has a granddaughter?”
The Masterharper blinked and then focused a kindly gaze on his journeyman. “He has several that I know of. And four sons.”
“He has a granddaughter here!”
“Ah, I see. Well, when you’ve finished eating…now what was it I wanted you to do?” The Harper placed his fingers on his forehead, frowning in concentration.
“Sorry, Master Robinton.” Piemur was sincerely contrite. He knew that the Harper hated his lapses of memory; Master Oldive had explained that they were a natural part of the aging process, but Piemur found such reminders of his Master’s mortality distinctly unsettling.
“Ah!” the Harper exclaimed, remembering. “I wanted to get back to Cove Hold. Zair has gone off with a multitude of other bronzes, chasing some queen, and I’ve really had quite enough excitement today. Would you, in the light of your new acquaintanceship, care to accompany me?”
Piemur did not, but he went. Two could play a disappearing game, he thought wryly.
The next morning, a fire-lizard brought an urgent message for the Harper from Master Esselin.
“Well, it seems that between the rains and the earthshake, an interesting subsidence has occurred, and it looks as if an entrance to those caves has been revealed,” Robinton said cheerfully. “I think we’d better ask V’line to come as soon as possible.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
A large depression in the ground, along with a substantial fracture of the surface, had been noticed early that morning by the ever observant Breide. Master Esselin had assembled a crew at the site, but no one had been permitted to descend into the cavern until Master Robinton arrived. In preparation, Esselin had tested the safety of the fissure’s edge and found it solid enough. Glows had been collected and a sturdy ladder lowered and settled firmly on the cave floor. When Robinton arrived, he found Breide in a sweat, arguing vehemently with Master Esselin, who was guarding the ladder with his own body.
“I’m in charge of the Plateau,” the Harper said, sweeping both Breide and Esselin out of the way when he realized that the contention was about who should take the “dangerous” step of entering first.
“But I’m more agile than you, Master,” Piemur said. “I go first.” He slipped onto the ladder and was down the rungs so fast that the Harper had no time to argue the point. Someone began lowering glowbaskets on ropes to illuminate his way. Not wasting a moment, Master Robinton eagerly followed him down, then Esselin, and then Breide after him.
“This is amazing!” the Harper exclaimed as Piemur helped him over the broken earth where the ceiling had collapsed. They seemed to be in a narrow aisle. Piemur held a glowbasket above his head and turned slowly around.
Within the circles of light cast by the glowbaskets was an astonishing clutter of crates, boxes, and transparently wrapped items, some heaped haphazardly and some more neatly stacked along the irregular walls of the cavern. The cavern had a vaulted ceiling and seemed to be one of several interconnecting chambers. All four explorers peered around in a daze of wonder.
“All these Turns, they’ve been here, waiting for their rightful owners to reclaim them,” the Harper murmured, almost reverently touching one finger to a crate. He stepped carefully over a box to peer into the shadows beyond the light. “An immense storehouse of artifacts.”
“I’d say they’d been in a hurry,” Breide remarked, “if you compare the relative order of things along the walls to the disorder here. Ah, and this seems to be a doorway.” He gave the door panels a couple of stout blows, but he could not find any latches or handles with which to open it.
“Boots,” Piemur said, picking up a pair and brushing the dirt off the transparent envelope that had protected them. He tried to pinch the film, but it resisted. “Feels like the same stuff that coated the maps.” His low voice was awed. “All sizes of boots! Sturdy ones. They don’t look like leather.”
Master Robinton was on his knees, trying to figure out how to open a crate that seemed to be sealed tight. “What does this say?” he asked, pointing to lines of differing widths and shadings on one corner of the lid.
“I don’t know,” Piemur replied. “But I do know how to open it!” There had been identical crates at Paradise River Hold. He took hold of two metal flaps centered on the short sides, pulled them sharply to fold down, and the lid came free.
“Sheets!” Master Esselin shrieked, the noise echoing through the tunnels beyond them. “Sheets of the ancients’ material! Master Robinton, just look! Sheets of it!”
Master Robinton lifted out a flattish transparent envelope, a handspan wide and two long and two fingers thick. “Shirts?”
“Sure looks like one to me,” Piemur said, briefly shining his glow over it, and moved on to search for something less prosaic.
Later, when they had recovered from the initial excitement, Master Robinton suggested that records be made of the contents of the storehouse, listing at least those objects that were easily identifiable. Nothing must be removed from its protective covering, he said. The Benden Weyrleaders and the Mastersmith would have to be informed…and perhaps the Masterweaver, since clothing was his Craft.
“And Masterharper Sebell,” Piemur added teasingly.
“Yes, yes, of course. And…”
“Lord Holder Toric!” Breide put in, indignant at having to remind them.
“Oh, this is truly amazing,” Master Robinton said. “A major discovery. Untouched for who knows how long…” And then his face fell.
“Well, maybe they stored away duplicate records here, too,” Piemur said encouragingly. He took the Harper’s arm and gently pushed him down to a large green crate. “It’s going to take a long time to sift through this lot.”
“I don’t think we should touch anything more,” Breide said nervously, “until everyone has gathered here.”
“No, no, you’re quite right. They should all see it as we just have,” the Harper agreed, his expression slightly dazed.
Piemur scurried up the ladder, popping his head out of the hole and surprising those trying to peer down. “Jancis?” he called, looking impatiently around. The throng parted as she came up to him. “Get some wine or klah for the Harper, please.”
She nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with someone’s belt flask. Piemur gave her a thankful grin and slid down the ladder to revive the Harper.
“What do you mean? Denol and his kin have taken possession of the island?”
“What I said, Lord Toric,” Master Garm replied unhappily. “He and all his kin have crossed the channel to the island and plan to hold it themselves. Denol says that you’ve got more than enough for one man, and the island can easily be an independent, autonomous hold.”
“Independent? Autonomous?”
Master Garm had had occasion to remark to Master Idarolan that Lord Toric had mellowed over the past few Turns since he had achieved his ambition. Clearly that tempering did not extend deeply enough to accept mutiny calmly.