“I’ve fourteen Turns, sir,” Piemur replied, trying to deepen his tone without notable success.

“No offense meant, lad.”

“None taken.” Piemur was pleased that his voice remained steady.

The Miner paused, his gaze drawn upward. Not, Piemur noticed, in the direction of the sun. When the Miner began to scowl, Piemur also looked up. Though why the Miner should register displeasure at the sight of three dragons in the sky, Piemur couldn’t guess. True, Thread had fallen only three days before, but you’d think dragons would be a reassuring sight at any time.

“There’s feed and water in the shed,” said the Miner, still watching the dragons. He gestured absently over his left shoulder.

Obediently Piemur started to lead the runner around, hoping that there would be something for himself as well when he’d tended the beast. Suddenly, the Miner let out a startled oath and retreated into his holdcot. Piemur had only reached the shed when the Miner came striding after him, thrust a small bulging sack at him.

“This is what you were sent for. Tend your beast while I tend these unexpected arrivals.”

Piemur’s trained ear did not miss the apprehension in the Miner’s tone nor the implicit command that Piemur was to remain out of sight. He made no comment, stuffing the small sack in his belt pouch while the Miner watched. The man left as Piemur vigorously pumped water into the trough for his thirsty beast. As soon as the Miner reached his cot, Piemur changed his position so that he had a clear view of the one reasonably level area of the minehold where dragons could land.

Only the bronze did. The two blues settled on the ridge above the mine opening. Sight of the great beast that backwinged to the ground told Piemur all he needed to know to understand the Miner’s grimness. Before their exile south, the Oldtimers from Fort Weyr had made few appearances, but Piemur recognized Fidranth by the long sear scar on his rump and T’ron by the arrogant swagger as he strode up to the minecot. Piemur didn’t need to hear the conversation to know that T’ron’s manner had not altered in his Turns south. With a very stiff bow, the Miner stepped aside as T’ron, slapping his flying gloves against his thigh, strode disdainfully into the cothold. As the Miner followed, he glanced toward the shed. Piemur ducked behind the runner.

It needed little wit now to realize why the Miner had thrust the sack at him. Piemur investigated the contents: only four of the blue stones that spilled into his hand had been cut and polished. The others, ranging from one the size of his thumbnail to small uneven crystals, were rough. The blue sapphires were much prized by the Harper Hall, and stones as large as the four cut ones were mounted as badges for Masters of the Craft. Four cut stones? Four new masters walking the tables? Would Sebell be one of them, Piemur wondered.

Piemur thought a moment and then slipped the cut stones carefully, two and two, into his boots. He wiggled his feet until the stones settled, sharp lumps against his ankles but they’d not slip out. He hesitated as he was about to stow the sack in his pouch. He doubted T’ron would stoop to searching a lowly apprentice, but the stones made a suspicious bulge, Checking the leather to make sure it bore no miner’s mark, he wrapped the thong on the backpad ring beside his drinking flask. Then he took off his jacket, folding the harper badge inside before he slung it over the pump handle. Trail dust had turned his blue pants to a nondescript gray.

A clink of boot nails on the ridge stone warned him and, whistling tunelessly, he picked up the beast’s feet in turn, checking for stones in the cleft hooves.

“You there!” The peremptory tone irritated Piemur. N’ton never spoke like that, even to a kitchen drudge.

“Sor?” Piemur unbent and stared around at the Oldtimer, hoping his anxious expression masked the anger he really felt. Then he glanced apprehensively at the Miner, saw a harsh wariness in the man’s eyes and added in his best hillhold mumble, “Sor, he was that sweated, I’ve had a time cleaning him up.”

“You’ve other work to do,” said the Miner in a cold voice, jerking his head toward the cothold.

“A day too late, am I, Miner? Well, there’s been yesterday’s work and this morning’s.” The Oldtimer superciliously gestured the Miner to precede him toward the open shaft.

Piemur watched, keeping a dull expression on his face as the two men disappeared from sight. Inwardly he was right pleased with his dissembling and was positive he’d seen an approving glint in the Miner’s eyes.

By the time he had finished grooming the runner from nose to dock, T’ron and the Miner had not yet reappeared. What other work would he have to do if he were a genuine miner’s apprentice? It would be logical for him to stay far away from the shaft at the moment, for he’d be scared of the dragonrider if not of his master. Ah, but the Miner had indicated the cothold.

Piemur pumped water into a spare pail and lugged it back to the cothold, ogling with what he hoped was appropriate fear the blue dragons ensconced on the ridge, the riders hunkered between them.

The minecot was divided into two large rooms, one for sleeping, the other for relaxing and eating, with a small portion curtained off for the Miner’s privacy. The curtain was open, and plainly the disgruntled dragonrider had searched the press, locker and bedding. In the kitchen area, every drawer was open and every door was ajar. A large cooking pot on the hearth was boiling so hard its contents frothed from under its cover. Not wishing what might be his meal in the ashes, Piemur quickly swung the pot away from the full heat of the fire. Then he began to tidy the kitchen area. No lowly apprentice would enter the Master’s quarters, however humble, without direct permission. He heard voices again, the Miner’s low comments and T’ron’s angry reproaches. Then he heard the sounds of hammers against stone and ventured to look cautiously through the open window.

Six miners were squatting or kneeling, carefully chipping rough dark stone and dirt from the blue crystals possibly within. As Piemur watched, one of the miners rose, extending the palm of his hand toward the Miner. T’ron intercepted the gesture and held the small object up to the sun. Then he gave an oath, clenching his fist. For a moment, Piemur thought that the Oldtimer was going to throw the stone away.

“Is this all you’re finding here now? This mine produced sapphires the size of a man’s eye—”

“Four hundred Turns ago it did indeed, Dragonrider,” said the Miner in an expressionless voice that could not be construed either as insolent or courteous. “We find fewer stones nowadays. The coarse dust is still good for grinding and polishing other gems,” he added as the Oldtimer stared at the man carefully brushing what seemed like glistening sand into a small scoop, which he then emptied in a small lidded tub.

“I’m not interested in dust, Miner, or flawed crystals.” He held up his clenched fist. “I want good, sizable sapphires.”

He continued to stand there, glaring at each of the miners in turn as they tapped cautiously away. Piemur, hoping that no larger sapphires would be discovered, made himself busy in the kitchen.

By the time the sun was westering behind the highest of the ridges, only six medium to small sapphires had rewarded T’ron’s afternoon vigil. Piemur was not the only one to watch, half-holding his breath, as the Oldtimer stalked to Fidranth and mounted. The old bronze showed no faltering as he neatly lifted in the air, joined by the two blues. Only when the three had winked out between did the miners break into angry talk, crowding up to the Miner, who brushed them aside in his urgency, to get to the minecot.

“I see why you’re a messenger, young Piemur,” said the Miner. “You’ve all your wits about you.” Grinning, he extended his hand.