“Any murderers in this lot, Saneter?” Toric asked, guiding the harper down the beach away from the feasting. People were still gorging themselves, and Toric wanted to know how well his private assessments of the new settlers jibed with the official reports.

“Only one,” Saneter replied, “and he claimed self-defense.” The harper was not convinced, having spotted the rather surly-looking fellow off to one side, shunned by other passengers. “Fifteen were apprentice-level, and two more got as far as journeymen in their crafts, and were turned out of their places for constant pilfering and theft; one was caught selling Crafthall goods at a third of their worth.”

Toric nodded. He was desperate enough to take any help to clear Southern lands, even to the extent of circumventing the Benden Weyrleaders’ restriction on any intercourse between the interdicted Southern Weyr and Hold. So Toric was smuggling people in from the North. Some desperate holdless folk heard whispers that he would not turn them away from the Southern shores, but he was getting too many useless folk for his trusted settlers to absorb quietly. He needed more skilled men, trained in hold and hall management—and he had to keep his illicit settlers from the Oldtimers’ notice.

“Two were caught stealing unmarked herdbeasts. There are, however, some honest settlers,” Saneter continued, hurrying on to the good news. “Four couples with good crafts, and nine singles of varied backgrounds, some of them with very good recommendations. Hamian vouches for four of the men and two of the women. Toric, I’ll say it now and get it off my chest: you should apply to the Masterharper.”

Toric snorted. “He’d tell Benden—”

“And the Benden Weyrleaders, if you approached them with Master Robinton, would be the first to assist you. They wanted to explore this whole land,” Saneter said, sweeping his arm wide, “and they would have, if the Oldtimers hadn’t—well, you know all that.” He broke off. “But some young, eager, trained holder sons who know they’re not going to get any place north during a Pass would certainly see the advantages to coming south. Even if we have to sneak them in when the Oldtimers aren’t looking.” Saneter gave Toric a quick glance to see his reaction. Toric’s head was down, and Saneter could tell nothing from his profile.

“You certainly don’t have to mention what you’ve already discovered. I haven’t, I assure you, Lord Holder,” Saneter went on. “But if ore is to be useful to you as a trading medium, it’s got to be known. As I’m sure Hamian told you, the Mastersmith is desperate for all the iron, nickel, lead, and zinc he can get. Mine production in the north is at full pelt.”

“You’re remarkably well informed for a harper sent south for his health,” Toric said, giving the old man a long hard look.

“I am indeed harper,” Saneter agreed, drawing himself up and returning Toric’s stare. “And that has always been more than simply singing teaching songs to children!”

“We’ve got to mine; we’ve got to transport the ore. And that’s going to take muscle. At least Hamian’s brought back three good journeyminers and another Master.” Toric rocked on his heels, jamming his thumbs in his shirt belt. There was a cool northerly breeze blowing across the strand. “They’ll have tonight’s celebration, then we’ll muster them all tomorrow morning, first light”—Toric’s grin was calculating as he thought of the stronger southern brews that were guaranteed to give the unwary vicious hangovers—”and give them the usual warnings. The useful will remember, and the foolish will forget, and then cause neither us nor the Lord Holders who sent them further grief.”

Toric’s callous attitude had once bothered Saneter, but he had been at Southern too long not to see its merit. Southern was a bizarre, often cruel, land, and those who deserved its bounty learned to survive its dangers.

“Those dragomen were supposed to explore,” Toric declared. “They haven’t. I am. Flood, fire, fog, or Fall, I’m going to find out just how big Southern really is.”

Saneter forebore to mention either Sharra’s competence in exploring down the Big Lagoon River or her eagerness to go as far as she could. For all the innovations Toric had made in his hold, he retained some traditional views, especially about his sisters. Murda had been acquiescent; Sharra was not. The harper cleared his throat to voice a suggestion, but Toric went on.

“Even a dragon has to fly straight the first time he goes to a new location. Why did F’lar recall all the good riders?” His tone was so disconsolate, suddenly so weary and hopeless, that Saneter almost felt sorry for the man.

Giron was so drunk that for most of the first day he slept. The carter did not bother to check his load of barreled salt fish when he pulled into the cave site, so Giron had slept on undiscovered.

Later, when all sheltering there were sound asleep, Giron rolled off the uncomfortable barrels and went in search of water. Slaking his thirst at the stream, he settled himself as comfortably as the rocky ground permitted and slept again. He stole food from campers the next evening, still disoriented, not remembering that he had marks enough, tucked inside his waistband, to buy whatever he needed. He kept trying to remember what it was he had forgotten: something he should have but was missing. Something he would never find again. There was an ache deep inside that would never stop hurting.

The next day, another carter recognized the empty-faced stranger as the dragonless man. He brushed his clothes, fed him, and when Giron demanded wine, he let him have the wineskin, surprised that the former dragonrider did not complain about its raw acid taste. The carter took him up on the seat of the wagon, because he conceived that he had a duty to protect one who had been a dragonrider. There were too many holdless rogues about who would rob even their mothers of marks. The carter endured the pathetic, silent man all the way across the mountains and to the door of the Mastertanner’s Hall. There Master Belesdan had his drum tower communicate with Igen Hold and Igen Weyr. Finally Lord Laudey sent an escort with a spare runnerbeast.

“We’re to take him back to the Hold,” the escort said. “He was supposed to go to Southern Hold. Cracked his skull, you know, and doesn’t think straight yet. We’ll get him there safely.”

Halfway there, Giron saw sweepriders, and, as the escort reported to Lord Laudey, “He seemed to take a fit. He was screaming and yelling, and he whipped up the poor runnerbeast so hard, we couldn’t catch up. Last we saw of him he was swimming across the river. I don’t know if he was trying to catch up with the dragonriders, or what.”

“Go across to the caves. Tell them to watch out for Giron. Let them know who he is and that if anyone does him any harm, they’ll answer to me—and to all the Weyrs of Pern.”

The urgent requests brought by Master Rampesi from Brekke and the Healer Hall were all the excuse that Sharra needed to force Toric to allow her to go harvest the numbweed bush. She made it very clear that a quick trip just to harvest the bush would mean cooking it in the hold. Allowed a longer trip, the complete job could be done entirely on the site. Toric hesitated, and Sharra’s heart sank. She knew that he wanted her to spend time with some of Hamian’s new arrivals, but she was not ready to settle down, and she was afraid that she might actually find she liked one of them.

“I feel I ought to accompany her this time,” Ramala said suddenly.

Catching her hard stare, Toric yielded, knowing that if he refused them both, he would have little peace. “You be careful, Sharra,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “Smart and careful.”

With a teasing smile she caught the finger. “Brother, why won’t you, too, admit that I’m the Mastercrafter out back?” She left it at that, and he stalked out of the family hall, muttering about ingratitude and dangers she could not imagine.