His Lady Ramala was already chatting with Hosbon, seated in the main hall. She rose when Toric entered. "Perhaps you would both like more klah. There's still time before Harper Sintary makes his report. Is your wife here?"

Hosbon gave an almost imperceptible wince. She was here, and if they'd arrived by dawn, she'd have had plenty of time to spread marks about, Toric thought, his humor revived by Hosbon's discomfort.

"Yes, join us for klah, Hosbon. Come outside. It's a fine day for our first one of this Turn!"

Tone clapped the man heartily on the shoulder.

"I'll just bring fresh klah," Ramala called after them.

Toric indicated the way to the smaller of the two tables that were situated on either side of the Hold's entrance. A small awning shaded it from the bright sunlight. He took his usual chair, arranged so that anyone sitting opposite him had the sun glaring into his face. "Now, what's on your mind, Hosbon?"

The man was no fool, but he settled himself, elbows on the table, and leaned forward. There was little danger of being overheard, slightly above and well back from the entrance to the Hold.

"I am wondering if you know what the subjects of today's Report will be?"

"Of course I know, andwhat's to be voted on," Toric replied with some heat. "I had to sit in on the sharding meeting, didn't I? Boring trivia, with the Council insisting that the 'original intent' of the Charter be followed."

Toric did not approve of the publicity regarding the Charter: a document so old that it should be regarded as an artifact, rather than guidance for this planet's needs-not twenty-five hundred Turns after it had been promulgated. And harpers were holding "discussion groups" to be sure children and drudges could recite it by rote. There were a few provisions that he would like to see quietly annulled and the clauses that named the perquisites of major landholders extended. He would live to see the last day of this Pass, and he certainly intended to exert his not-so-small influence when the Charter was reviewed-After-and suitably altered once dragonriders were no longer needed. Toric had endured many boring hours to be sure no one in the Council slipped in any more surprises on him. He was developing a few surprises of his own.

"Is that all?" Hosbon was plainly disappointed.

"Oh, there'll be the usual reports from Landing, premises and promises." Toric dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "The availability of printed texts for those wishing to improve themselves." He snorted. "I-" Then he stopped himself. "And you know that any 'improvement' will stay here, in Southern and in Largo." He inclined his head tactfully at Hosbon as he recalled Besic's reason for Hosbon's visit. "You have such a growing number of craftsfolk there. We wouldn't want to lose any of them. Did you find any new recruits this Turnover?"

"None that I would dare tempt from here, Lord Toric," Hosbon said with oily deference. "Not," he added quickly, "that we don't always need more."

Toric merely nodded. Generally he approved of Hosbon. The man came of a Bloodline that had produced many sensible holders who knew how to get the most out of their workers. Looked like a much younger version of his sire, Bargen, even to the pale eyes in a deeply tanned face and a body that had sweated off excess flesh. Anyway, Hosbon had older brothers, and now that he'd had a taste of holding in a decent climate, he'd not want to return to frigid High Reaches.

"So I will bring back news of this meeting and the Report for my holders." Hosbon's lips twitched slyly.

"As well you do," Toric replied, allowing his eyelids to close briefly in acknowledgment of the tacit understanding. Just then Ramala emerged from the Hold entrance carrying a tray of refreshments, so he added, "We will discuss it later."

They had time to finish the klah and most of the little spiced rolls before the big bass Harper Drum boomed to announce the imminence of the public meeting. The deep sound echoed off the cliffs, reverberating to the ships at anchor in the deep harbor, vibrating along the stones of the Hold and, it felt, into one's very foot bones.

As Toric rose and strode up the wide shallow stairs carved out of the rock path that led to the cleared space on the height, he glanced down to the other levels of the Hold complex. In small groups, holders were surging up from the wharves where numerous small craft bobbed beside buoys or were tied to the pilings. He moved through the crowd, toward the platform on the southern edge of the Gather area where a single Harper sat, holding the traditional scroll that contained the Report he would shortly read. Toric looked from right to left, occasionally awarding a brief smile to those who deserved his favor. Since he had taken over Southern thirty-one Turns ago, twenty-four self-sufficient holds had been established under his direction and tithed to him. He could see representatives of each holding-significantly fewer from the more distant ones-and identified the shoulder knots of many journeymen of various crafts. With an all-too-fleeting moment of satisfaction, he took the six steps to the platform, two at a time, defying anyone-especially Besic-to assume that he had been the worse for wear earlier that morning. The Harper, Sintary, had been suggested by Robinton himself as suitable for the position of Master Harper for Southern. Robinton had been one of the few northerners whom Toric had respected, so he had not appealed the appointment. But he had come to regret that decision, for Sintary was a subtle and stubborn man who took his position as Harper so seriously that he had agreed to no changes even when Toric had suggested several minor alterations to the traditional teaching. The old Harper was very popular, with a dry sense of humor and an ability to improvise lyrics about local incidents that made him a very difficult man to discredit. Toric had tried; he kept hoping that an opportunity might yet arise and he could indisputably be able to send Sintary away.

With a curt nod at his intransigent Harper, Toric turned to face the audience. Holding up his hands, he brought conversations and laughter to a halt. Even fire-lizards stopped their flitting about and disappeared into the forest curving about the space.

"Master Sintary needs no introduction," Toric said, lifting a voice that had once carried above storms. "I see you have a scroll to read us today, Master Harper."

Master Sintary rose, giving Toric a bland stare for such a terse introduction. Toric enjoyed giving subtle jabs, especially to harpers and dragonriders. And where were the dragonriders who should be here? Toric glared out across the tanned faces, looking for the Weyrleader. If K'van hadn't come … Then Toric located him on the left, where trees and the ferny shrubs of this highland formed a bordering park. He counted at least fifteen dragonriders and the three queen riders! Shards! He could make no complaint that they had been delinquent in performing this Weyr duty.

Sintary had taken two steps forward, an easy gesture of his hand waving Toric to the other chair on the platform. Deftly unrolling the traditional scroll with his right hand, he proceeded to read, winding it up with the skill of long practice.

Toric took the chair, crossing his arms on his chest. He was almost as annoyed now as he had been this morning when he'd awakened. The dragonriders were in attendance. They-and far too many other people-would eat of the feast a Lord Holder was required to produce. And how could Sintary make himself heard so effortlessly? He hadn't even raised his voice, just intensified it with some harper trick.

To occupy the time it would take Sintary to get through that thick scroll, Toric surveyed the polite faces below him. Spotting his brother, Mastersmith Hamian, Toric uncrossed his arms, because Hamian had assumed a similar stance. Hamian and his new Plastics Hall. Plastic indeed, when he should be working metals: especially that lode of-what was it called? box-something-that produced very lightweight and malleable ore. Toric hadn't encouraged his young brother to pursue his Mastery in the Smithcraft only to have him fritter his skills away on some Aivas nonsense. The summarily exiled Master Glass-smith Norist had been right to call the artificial intelligence an Abomination.