Hamian had organized his arguments well. Lagoon River might appear to be the shorter route, but trying to pole ore-laden barges through the swampland halfway down the river made it quite another story. Hamian was not afraid of hard work, and he was remarkably effective in getting a similar effort out of his teams, but between trips, the channel markings got broken or swallowed by the shifting bottom mud. Hunting for deep waters, while being eaten by insects, bitten by swamp snakes, and harried by wherries who regarded anything that moved as fair game, was not an efficient use of available labor. Hamian had become infected by Master Fandarel’s overriding compulsion for efficiency.

“Pull that oar, Tawkin, don’t stroke it!” he yelled as the longboat began to veer slightly to port. Hamian intended to watch that fellow. He was getting to have as good an eye as Toric and Sharra for who would work out in Southern. “Now, there could have been some shipwrecked fisherfolk who built there,” he suggested to Piemur as the mounds slowly slipped out of sight.

Piemur was shaking his head. “Fisherfolk don’t build in stone, and that’s all that would have lasted four hundred or more Turns. Besides, there was nothing about this place in the Harper Hall Records, which are legible a long way back. I know,” he added, wrinkling his nose as if he could still smell the reek of decaying hides. “I had to copy ‘em for old Master Arnor.” Piemur drew in a deep breath of the forest-scented air as if cleansing his lungs of the remembered smell. He exhaled gustily.

Hamian laughed. “Well, you can see what your harper-trained eye makes of the mine fittings.” The single big square sail of the wide-bellied narrow draft ship began to fill. “Belay that, lads!” he shouted to the rowers. “Make ready to take the long-boat aboard,” he ordered the nearest crewmen. “That’s more like it. We’ll make some headway today. Both moons are out tonight, so if the wind lasts, we’ll be there in two days. That’s a damn sight better than six trying to wade through swamp. Too bad we can’t get as far as the Falls. They’re spectacular.”

“Falls?”

“Yes, Toric sent an exploratory party down this river, oh, just before I left for Telgar Smith Crafthall. They got as far as the Falls before they turned back. Sheer rock cliffs that no one could scale.” He saw the determined look on Piemur’s face. “Not even you, but maybe Farli. Look, you’d better go stand with Stupid. He’s getting restless.”

“He’d rather walk than sail,” Piemur said, though the motion on the river was not as unpleasant as on open water. He never could understand why Menolly and Sebell were so enthusiastic about sea voyages. At the moment, Stupid was stomping on the deck, and Piemur hurried over to calm him. It would not do to put gouges in the smooth deck planks. Farli was still doing her lazy circles far above, and Piemur wished he had the view she had from up there.

He sat down, leaning back against Stupid’s front legs—the best way to keep the beast still—and peered over the portside rail at the passage of the plain, wondering what lay in the dense forest beyond. Piemur hoped to prove his worth on this trip. Sharra had talked Hamian into taking him on in a scouting capacity and to record the alternate route. He had gotten a taste of exploring two Turns back and was becoming increasingly bored at setting up drum towers. He had done all he could, and Saneter was talking of sending him back to Harper Hall to get his journeyman’s knot. But Piemur wanted to explore uncharted lands.

From the edges of the Swamp, down to Numbweed Plain and Big Lagoon, across that headland to Southern, and east along the coast to the Mountain Rift and Dry Holds, Toric had installed small settlements with men and women beholden to him for the opportunities. It had been fun for Piemur to teach drum codes to pupils so much older than himself. He had been diligent, too, because Toric was a totally different personality than Master Robinton, Master Shonagar, or Master Domick and his drum tower masters. Piemur had felt Toric’s hard hand once and took great care not to feel it again. He knew that the Southerner was very ambitious, far more than anyone—except possibly Master Robinton—knew.

But the provident, beautiful, amazing, fantastic land that was Southern was more than the people who grabbed a hold on it. Looking to a seemingly limitless eastern stretch of forest and hill, Piemur wondered just how far Southern did extend—and just how much Toric thought he could take into one Hold under his orders! Soon Piemur’s first loyalty to the Harper Hall was going to come into abrupt conflict with his sneaking admiration for Toric’s ambitions. Or the ambitions of someone like Lord Groghe, who had that mess of sons to settle, or Corman, who had nine. If they found out how much good land was available, they might even defy Benden’s orders. Saneter kept telling Piemur that Master Robinton was well informed of all Toric’s doing, but Piemur was beginning to wonder if Saneter really knew!

Just then, Piemur gasped. Through the gaps in the weather rail, he had a perfect view of the port banks. There, lounging in the sun, unperturbed by the ship floating past, were two huge spotted felines. They were probably some of the sports that Sharra had mentioned. Piemur realized that he should call attention to them, but Hamian was on the starboard rail, watching the boat being lifted aboard. And somehow, Piemur did not want to share the moment with anyone, or scare the magnificent creatures away.

“I came as soon as I could, Lady Thella,” the bedraggled wight said through lips blue with cold. The first line of sentinels had passed him through to her hold guards. “I wasn’t seen. I hide a lot. No tracks. See?” He thrust a long-needled tree branch at her. “I tied this to my belt, and it swept up my tracks as I made ‘em.”

Thella made herself relax, but she worried that the thickwit before her could have led searchers to her lair in his hasty rush to tell her some insignificant rumor.

“But this could be important, Lady,” the ragged man went on, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

Thella signalled to one of the cook drudges to get the man a cup of klah. She could barely understand him as it was. If he had something important to say, she wanted to hear it quickly or dismiss him.

He nearly prostrated himself, all but spilling the klah when it was handed to him, but a few sips appeared to control his spasms.

“I mean, you always wanted to know just when Thread starts and stops,” he said. “And which lord is going where, and more about the Weyrs then us’ns is supposed to know. Well, I got the way for you to hear dragons—all the time! This girl, well she can hear dragons! That’s good, isn’t it? She can hear ‘em at a distance, too, and what they say to each other.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Thella said expressionlessly, glancing quickly at Giron. The dragonless man slowly swung his head around to look at the newcomer.

“Oh, no, Lady Thella. She can. She really can. I watched her. She’d call the children back into the caverns, telling ‘em dragonriders was on their way over. The first time, she said they’d be coming to Igen Hold. I saw the dragons headed that way myself. I heard her tell her brother when they were on their way back to Benden Weyr. At least she said they were from Benden Weyr and there wasn’t no way—no reason, either—to think she was lying. She did it all quietlike. She didn’t know I heard ‘er.”

“If you were close enough to hear her do it all quietlike,” Thella began sourly, “then why wouldn’t she know you heard her?”

The man winked and grinned, an appalling sight since he had so few front teeth left. “Because in the caverns, I’m deef! I don’t hear nuffing. I’m good at that, I am. I get fed ‘cause I’m helpless.” He demonstrated, saliva spattering from his loose lower lip.