"Naw, sold it to the Smithcrafthall for more marks than the mines've earned in Turns." Chesmic did not wholly approve of that sale but it had been their meteorite. Not that he couldn't have sold his to the Smithcrafthall, if he felt like it, but you couldn't sell something that had been in his family so long. Wouldn't be right!

"I heard that they think it's part of the Red Star," the young man said, a sly gleam in his eyes.

"That's a bundle of snake wallop," Chesmic replied contemptuously. He pointed skyward. "Iffen the Red Star had broke up-which Masters Erragon and Stinar and Wansor has seen through Cove Hold that it hasn't-we'd have rocks falling down all over the planet. And we don't."

"That Fireball made enough trouble for us," one of the Runners said.

"It was wrong to move the Red Star," the older man said, his face somber and his voice forbidding. "It has circled Pern for centuries and to alter its course is a bad deed."

"Oh, it's still to circle Pern," Chesmic agreed. "Just not close enough to drop Thread on us again."

"Thread, and the dragonriders flaming it out of our skies, is tradition. So many have been broken. So much has Aivas corrupted our way of life, our traditions."

There was something about the man's toneless voice that caught you up in his words but Chesmic knew about traditions. Runners followed ones that belonged to the first Craft-hall to be formed at Fort Hold.

"There isn't a Runner on any trace on Pern, north or south, that does not follow tradition. And since you've both finished eating, you'd best make use of the beds that tradition-" Chesmic paused to be sure these strangers understood what he meant."-requires us to offer travelers during winter." He rose and gestured toward the loft steps.

The older one rose and bowed. So did the younger man, but his expression was sullen as they both made their way to the sleeping loft.

Mulling over the unease he had felt about that pair, Chesmic recalled the description that Prilla had given of the man who'd stopped her on the trace to carry a message onward. Definitely it had been the older fellow, for Prilla had mentioned his odd deep voice. He'd've been wearing a hat, possibly, so the scar wouldn't've been so noticeable. Of course he'd paid his mark piece for the service or Prilla wouldn't have carried it a stride farther. But why'd a fellow waylay a Runner when he could have easily brought it to the Station and had it logged on and all in the proper manner?

Well into the next month, as the flooded coasts drained and, in most cases, resumed their previous contours, food and materials were sent by almost every inland hold, minor or major on both continents, to sustain and rebuild drowned holds. Messages bulged Runner pouches and fire-lizards carried more, finding out who needed what and where. Shipmasters volunteered free cargo space and, on the days between Threadfalls, riders offered the services of their dragons and themselves. In the atmosphere of renewed friendships and mutual assistance, the unfortunate occurrences at Turn's End faded in the press of other priorities. The general movement of materiel and people included some of those in whom Pinch had an interest. He did know that messages were sent, but not to whom or their content. None of the people he watched so assiduously had fire-lizards, which proved that fire-lizards wouldn't come to just anyone who fed them. He could never quite get close enough to hear their discreet conferences. He'd come back to Harper Hall to report, get some new clothes and marks.

He found Sebell in his office, piles of odd-sized papers on his desk, held down by rocks.

"Well, come to do your share of petitions?" Sebell asked, gesturing to the mess.

Pinch groaned and looked away. "Bad timing on my part."

Traditionally all petitions presented at Turnover were forwarded to the Harper Hall and read by a special group of journeymen and masters who determined which were urgent enough to be submitted to the Council at Telgar on the first of the Third month. Some of the petitions should have been handled at Hold level. However, if there were sufficient complaints brought against major or minor Holders, the Council was the best place to decide if the matter should be investigated further. Pinch was often assigned to get specific information.

"I'll do my share. I always do. I'll look at any in Keroon, Igen, or Bitra-I know most of the troublemakers there anyhow."

Sebell gave a little smile. "Not much from Bitra so far. Sousmal seems to be taking such good hold that everyone's happy with him."

Pinch widened his eyes, moved one pile of papers to hitch his hip up onto the desk. "For now! How about those sketches I sent you? Any of that trio known?"

"Woman's from Tillek, rather a sour contentious sort, apprenticed to local healer hall but released prior to her third term as unsuitable to the Craft. Petitioned Lord Ranrel to be given her father's hold in preference to the younger brother who had been named by their father, evidently with a specific instruction that she was not to be considered. She and the brother had a huge dispute and she left. Hasn't been seen since Tillek's autumn Gather last Turn."

"So she's holdless?"

Sebell shrugged, searching briefly in the wide drawer under his desk and finding the three sketches. "One of the Traders through here-a Lilcamp-recognized this fellow." He tapped the one with the missing index finger. "Travels a lot. Does his share when asked, can put his hand to a lot of jobs, has a habit of asking questions. Funny sort of voice, too." He paused. "Young Sev mentioned the questions were-how do I put it-provocative."

"Provocative? And he asked Traders?" Pinch was mildly surprised by such gall.

"They see a lot of people and are smart enough to know what's going on where and how folks are reacting. Better than Runners who can't stay long anywhere."

"They're helping though," Pinch said. "Chesmic up at Circle Hold says he's had strangers in, sending messages, and others leaving them at a Runner Halt, a half mark left to pay carriage."

Sebell raised his eyebrows. "Overpaying? Bribing?"

"Not when Chesmic tells me."

"Does he know you're Harper?"

"Doesn't ask." Pinch's eyes danced with amusement. "By the bye," he added, his grin turning malicious, "did you know that the window glass that broke during the shock wave was all made by Master Norist? None of Master Morilton's shattered! Another point for our new technology." Then he cocked his head. "Do we know, officially or unofficially, if the-ah-exiles survived the Flood?"

Sebell pursed his lips and regarded his companion. "Has there been a question about that?"

"Not in so many words but it might be handy to know."

"And you're curious?"

"Part of it." Pinch's shrug was noncommittal.

"As I understand it, one of the natural attributes of a proper exile is that no one, searching in a ship for dissidents, would find a beach to land on. Many of such islands are sheer-faced cliffs. The relevant ones were drenched but not drowned. What's the other part of it?"

"A snippet of conversation I overheard-misinformation, actually-that I'd like to honestly-" He put his hand over his heart. "-genuinely, sincerely, trustworthily repudiate. As I was saying, I suspect our plotters, and perhaps the ingeniousscum who assembled the pamphlets, that so distressed Master Crivellan, lurk in the foothills of Keroon where dwell many with insufficient teachering to argue, and no interest in what happens to the rest of the planet. Did you identify that third chap?"

"He looks slightly familiar but I can't place him."

"Nor can I. He resembleshalf a dozen men I know, same age, same height, same general features, but he seems to have no morals or ethics. He does have some responsibilities that he has to attend to from time to time or a person he makes reports to. He may be a younger Holder son, not likely to succeed; he holds his nose a lot. You've seen the type, though he adapts to his surroundings better than Third and Fifth do."