He reached into his jacket and removed a square of much-folded paper. Carefully he opened it to reveal small sketches: full face and profile.

"Mind you, I wasn't exactly an invited visitor, but I found me a spot to watch and make a few notes. I can flesh these out better with some decent paper and a carbon point." He looked inquiringly at Tagetarl. "Paper, Master? Pencils? Aivas's latest improvement on ink?"

"Hill folk?"

"No, people living in the hills. Paper? Pencil?" He hooked the stool closer to the desk.

Immediately, Tagetarl gathered up the pages he was working on, swiftly rearranging them into a neat stack out of Pinch's way. From a drawer, he pulled fresh paper, as well as a collection of different drawing tools. "Sit! Sit! D'you need klah, food, wine?"

Pinch grabbed a sharp carbon stick with one hand as he turned the sheaf of paper to his right-he was left-handed-and began sketching. "Thanks, yes, yes, and yes. And something for Bista. We came straight here without a stop, using Runner traces. They let me, you know. Give me tips. Good folk, Runners. Get me some food and drink, man, just don't stand there gawking."

When Tagetarl returned, lugging a heavy tray along with a bowl of fresh meat for Bista, Pinch continued speaking as if the Printer hadn't left the room.

"Told the Runners not to worry about mechanical things. Wouldn't want one of those things squawking about my person, I can tell you. It'd make folks notice me, and I don't need to be noticed. Anyway, I'll always trust legs over spare parts." He gave Tagetarl a sideways grin, full of malice. "Have a traditional outlook on life, you know." And when the Masterprinter snorted at such a remark from such a source, he added, "Well, I do. It's why I risk life and limb on Harper business."

Bista finished her meal and curled up on a shelf. By then, Pinch had completed one sketch and tossed it to the side, making the first line of the next sketch even before Tagetarl could pick up the first one.

Tagetarl examined the drawing. It was economically drawn, but it vividly depicted a big man, his right shoulder cocked up, a high forehead, black brows, a zigzag scar from his right temple and down the side of his nose to a gouge on his cheek, a thick, wide-bridged nose, gaunt cheeks, a thin mouth, a narrow chin, and a scrawny throat with a pronounced larynx. The left hand, which he was holding up as if to warm at a fire, was missing the first joint of the index finger. His clothes-the usual heavy leather tunic and trousers-were worn and patched. Thongs just under his knee in typical hill-style tied leggings, and his boots were long and thin, the leather cracked from wading through too many streams or bogs.

Using his right hand, Pinch pushed some bread and cheese into his mouth and washed that down with a long swallow of beer, while the left kept drawing. A real gift, Tagetarl thought, especially for someone involved in discreet surveillance. But then Master Robinton, the late MasterHarper, had had the ability to command the talents of many unusual men and women. Before the Present Pass and the awakening of Aivas, when dragonriders had been denigrated and even the Harper Hall in jeopardy, Master Robinton had made use of rare talents-harpers, men and women, who knew their way about most of the settled holds and halls, large and small. Tagetarl had met Nip, the first roving harper who had nonspecific assignments and rarely sang. What Nip's real name was, no one remembered now. Nip had trained Tuck, another nonconformist, and had taken Sebell along for some projects as Sebell, in turn, had made use of Piemur's unusually quick mind and abilities. Now Pinch had been added to the roster, along with two others Tagetarl knew about but was not sure that he had met.

Tagetarl concentrated on committing the first face to memory. Rather pugnacious all totaled, the Printer thought: the sort that would worry a crack in a cliff until it became a cave.

The next one Pinch finished was of a man who looked vaguely familiar. Younger than the first man, he was taller and well-fleshed, with a darker but not weathered skin and short fair hair. A pinched mouth suggested selfishness and obstinacy, and the eyes had a sly cast to them. His expression was both amused and supercilious.

A woman was the third: her stance-her left hand holding her right elbow-was awkward, her eyes wide and avid as if listening to instructions that she would strive to carry out. She, too, was clad as a hill woman, but the clothes did not fit either her body or her manner.

"These three were visitors, received with much fuss and fawned over. Stayed several days and talked most earnestly in low voices. Plotting probably. What, I couldn't hear, though I tried. I'd like these to get to Sebell as soon as possible. D'you think Ola would oblige? Bista's exhausted."

"Of course," Tagetarl said with gratification. Menolly had helped Rosheen train her queen. This wouldn't be the first time Ola had flown discreet errands.

"I'll do the others when I've had a rest," Pinch said. He popped more bread and cheese into his mouth as he rose to his feet. His abrupt movement startled a chirp out of sleeping Bista. Absently, his left hand stroked her. "Can I indulge in a bath? I have to keep to these clothes." He held a fold away from his body with repugnance. "But I'd enjoy sleeping one night-or rather a full day-smelling clean."

"Yes, of course. I'll see no one goes banging about under you," Tagetarl said with a reassuring grin.

Pinch often made use of the loft above the outbuildings where paper and other supplies were stored. When the Print Hall expanded, as Tagetarl earnestly hoped it would, apprentices would sleep up there, but right now, it made a handy lair when Pinch wished to make inconspicuous visits.

"That would be appreciated." Pinch took another wedge of cheese and the last of the bread and left.

Tagetarl prepared a message cylinder for Ola, saw her off, and went to his own room. Rosheen sighed when he lay down beside her and, sleepily, she turned toward him for comfort.

With the other Wingleaders, F'lessan attended a pre-Fall meeting in one corner of the Lower Caverns.

"It's the Ten pattern, so we meet it over the Eastern Sea and Igen joins us for the last hour over south Lemos," F'lar said, his eyes making a quick keen appraisal of each of the eighteen Wingleaders sitting around him. "Weather's cold and dull, but the visibility is good."

Out of the corner of his eye, F'lessan noticed that everyone was trying to look as alert as possible. The entire Weyr had been turned out to search for the four men involved in wrecking Benden's Healer Hall. The details the injured journeyman recalled about his attackers would have described half the male population of any hold; the only thing he was certain about was that they were not from Benden. Runners had agreed to spread word of the attack and ask isolated holds to report strangers. G'bol had scrupulously followed up one report, but the men had been honest traders.

Two of the oldest Wingleaders had not been called to fly this Fall, and F'lessan wished that F'lar would take a Fall or two off now and then. While he was more apt to listen to G'bol than anyone else, F'lar ignored the merest hint of letting anyone else lead his Weyr. No one would fault him, but the Weyrleader made no exceptions for himself, bar the very few occasions each Turn when Mnementh had taken a score or strained a wing.

F'lar assigned the levels and F'lessan jerked his attention back to the business at hand. His wing was high again: a measure of F'lar's trust in his leadership.

"Warn your younger riders that dull conditions can blur Thread in the higher reaches," F'lar continued. "Measure the wind as soon as you can. We'll know how the Thread falls, when it falls. We gather on the Rim in ten minutes. Good flying!"