“Young Toric often sends his two-master north for trade,” said one of the seaholders, in a voice so confidential that Piemur had to strain to catch the words. “He always has, and my Holder sees no harm in it. Toric’s no dragonman, and those that stayed south with him don’t fall under Benden’s order. So we trade. He may bargain close, but he pays well.”

“In marks?” asked the Igen holder, surprised.

“No. Barter! Gemstones, hides, fruit, such like. And once” —here Piemur held his breath for fear of missing the confidential whisper– “nine fire lizard eggs!”

“No?” Envy as well as surprised interest were expressed in that startled reply. The seaholder quickly gestured the man to keep his tone down. “Of course,” and there was no disguising the bitter jealousy, “they’ve all the sand beaches in the world to search in the south! Any chance…”

The fascinating conversation broke off as another seaholder joined them, an older man, and possibly superior to the gossiping seaman, for talk turned to other things, and Piemur moved on.

Then Menolly began to sing alone, the other harpers accompanying her. All conversations died as she sang, with what appeared to Piemur to be incredible aptness, the “Fire Lizard Song.”

Her voice was richer now, Piemur noticed with a critical ear, the tone better sustained. He couldn’t fault her musical phrasing. Nor should he be able to after three Turns of severe instruction by Master Shonagar. Her voice was so admirably suited to the songs she sang, he thought, and more expressive than many singers who had even better natural voices. As often as Piemur had heard the “Fire Lizard Song,” he found himself listening as intently as ever. When the song ended, he applauded as vigorously as everyone else, only then aware that he had been equally captivated. Putting words to music was not Menolly’s only talent; she put her music in the hearts and minds of her listeners, too.

“While her enrapt audience started shouting for their favorite tunes, she beckoned Sebell to the platform, and they sang a duet of an eastern sea hold song, their voices so well blended that Piemur’s respect and admiration for his fellow harpers reached unprecedented heights. Now, if only his voice turned tenor, he might have the chance to sing with…

He played three more dance turns, but Sebell had been correct: the Igen gatherers wanted Menolly whenever she would favor them with song. Piemur also noticed that for every solo she sang, there was at least one group song and a duet including the Igen harpers. Clever of her to forestall ill-feeling. Too bad such discretion did not translate into his particular problem with the drum apprentices!

Whether it was because he’d had a sleep in the afternoon or because the desert air was particularly bracing, Piemur was never sure, but it was only when he noticed the thinning of the crowd around the dance area, and the increased number of people rolled up in their blankets in the Gather tents, that he began to feel fatigue. He looked around then for Sebell and Menolly. When he saw nothing of them, he finally sought a weary, yawning Strud, who advised him, with a grin, to find a corner and get some sleep, if he could.

It had been easy enough to sleep that afternoon, but now, with no heat to lull him, the things he had heard—music as well as malice—danced about in his mind. One positive fact emerged: the Oldtimer’s descent on the miner in Fort Hold was not an isolated incident. He also knew that while G’narish, Igen’s Oldtime Weyrleader, was respected, Igen Holders would have given much to be beholden to Benden instead.

A sharp peck on his ear woke him, and he had a momentary fright before he focused his eyes on Rocky’s cocked head and heard the reassuring soft chirrup. Someone was snoring lustily beside him, and Piemur’s back was warm. He cautiously eased away from this unknown sleeper.

Rocky chirped again and, hopping off his shoulder, walked a few paces away with exaggerated steps before looking back at Piemur. He wanted Piemur to come with him, and while his eyes were not red with hunger, they were whirling fast enough to indicate some urgency.

“I don’t need a drum to get your message,” Piemur said under his breath as he moved further away from his snoring bed companion. He really must have been tired to sleep through that sort of racket.

Rocky landed on his right shoulder, poking at his cheek to force his head left. Piemur obediently ducked under the tent flap and, in the glows that were shedding a subdued waning light on the sands before Igen Hold, he saw the dark bulk of a dragon and several figures.

Rocky called in a sweet light voice and then took off toward the group. Piemur followed, yawning and shivering in the chill predawn breeze, wishing he had some klah. Especially if the presence of a dragon meant he had to go between; he was cold enough already.

The dragon was not Lioth, as he’d half expected, but a brown nearly as big as the Fort Weyr dragon. It had to be Canth. And it was, for as he neared the group, he saw the scars on F’nor’s face from the dreadful, near-fatal scoring he’d taken on his famous jump to the Red Star.

“C’mon, Piemur,” called Sebell. “F’nor’s here to take us to Benden Weyr. Ramoth’s latest clutch is Hatching.”

Piemur started to whoop with joy, then bit his tongue, choking off his jubilation. Bad enough he’d been to a Gather, but when Clell and that lot heard he’d been to a Benden Hatching, his life wouldn’t be worth a wax mark! He saw in the same instant that the others were expecting him to react with appropriate anticipation and, loudly damning his changing voice, he affected as genuine a smile as he could manage. The groan that escaped him as he climbed to Canth’s back was for the inexorable forces he couldn’t resist rather than the physical effort. He endured in silence Sebell’s teasing about the miseries of an apprentice’s life, and then Menolly’s for his silence, which she attributed to either hunger or sleepiness.

“Never mind, Piemur,” she said with an encouraging smile, “there’s bound to be some klah left in the pot for you at Benden Weyr.” She peered down at his face. “You are awake, aren’t you?”

“Sort of,” he said, yawning again, then added for her benefit, “I just can’t take it in that me, Piemur, gets to go to a Benden Weyr Hatching!”

Should he ask Menolly not to tell the Drum Master and Dirzan? Could he ask her to say he’d been left at Igen Hold until they could collect him? No, he couldn’t, because she’d want to know why. And he couldn’t tell her because that would mark him a blubber-baby, bleater, babblemouth. There had to be some way he could settle Clell and Dirzan by himself!

Despite his misgivings, Piemur succumbed to the fear-charged thrill of Canth’s initial vault into the air, the sensation of being pressed down, the breathlessness as the huge wings beat powerfully, and he felt the effort of Canth’s neck muscles under his buttocks. It wasn’t quite as scary flying in this predawn darkness because he didn’t know how far he was above the ground, particularly since his face was turned away from Igen Hold’s fading lights; but he caught his breath in a spurt of pure terror as F’nor gave Canth the audible request to take them between to Benden Weyr. He was again alone in the intense, sense-deprived, utter cold, and then, before the cold could sink to his bones, they had emerged into the brightening day, momentarily suspended above the massive Bowl of Benden Weyr.

He’d been to Fort Weyr once, by cart, with a group of harpers, when Ludeth, the Weyrqueen, had her first queen egg hatching. He’d thought that Fort was huge, but Benden seemed much bigger. Perhaps because he was seeing it from dragonback, perhaps because of the light, touching the far edges of the Bowl, gilding the lake. Perhaps it was because this was Benden, and Benden figured so hugely and importantly in his eyes, and the eyes of everyone else on Pern.