He said the same thing when Sharra brought him into the corner study, with its incredible view of the sea and the eastern headland, the clever storage racks for Records and musical instruments, and the impressive supply of Master Bendarek’s leaves to write on. He admired the guest rooms, large enough to be comfortable but small enough not to encourage too long a visit, and complimented Sharra on the kitchen she had spent so much time organizing, with the special cupboards to store the Benden wines that the Mastervintner had sent in extraordinary quantities. Yes, Piemur thought, brushing irritably at his brimming eyes, the Master would find everything to his taste and convenience at Cove Hold. And live long and happily, safe there from all strife.

The day that Master Robinton was expected, Piemur volunteered to oversee the roasting of the fresh wherry in the firepit constructed in a convenient rock pile on the right-hand side of the cove’s semicircle. Piemur had become obsessed by the idea that the Harper might have dwindled the way T’ron had, becoming aged and bowed overnight by his illness. He would hate to see his proud, vital Master in such a state. But he had to see him with his own eyes.

He had the best view of the westward reach of the cove while he tended the roast, and he was the first to see the three masts of Master Idarolan’s finest ship, the Dawn Sister, with all sails set, keel showing as she raced along the clear green waters. He watched as she altered her course, sailors climbing her yardarms to furl sails, and as she smoothly slid into dock at the fine pier that had been constructed to receive her and her special passenger. He watched as Lessa, Brekke, Master Fandarel, and Jaxom assisted the Harper down the bobbing gangplank, and he was relieved to see Master Robinton stride down the plank with his customary vitality. Watching Menolly follow him off the ship, Piemur felt oddly removed from all those old friends of his. He told himself that too many people could be stressful. He could wait. So he continued to baste the succulent wherry.

“Piemur!” The familiar baritone sounded as firmly supported as ever, and that voice, ringing and clear, did much to restore him.

“Master?” he called out in reply, startled by the familiar summons.

“Report, Piemur!”

D’ram, Sebell, and N’ton, the young Fort Weyrleader, came to the Southern hold, asking to speak to Toric.

Recently there had been much coming and going of dragonriders bringing supplies and people and generally working on D’ram’s promised restoration of the Southern Weyr. The newly augmented wings had begun to fly regular practice flights. The Weyrhall had been scrubbed and painted by the younger riders, and encroaching forest growth had been trimmed from individual weyrs. D’ram had been exceedingly circumspect, but took entirely too much notice, Toric thought, of what went on in the Hold. Far too much.

To show united Bloodkin, he had sent his fire-lizards to Hamian at the mines, Kevelon in Central Hold, and Murda and her husband at Big Lagoon, telling them to return immediately. He had also sent a note to Sharra, insisting on her return. Surely she could talk some dragonrider into conveying her back. Uncharacteristically, she had sent no reply, though the message had been removed from his little queen’s leg.

“We’d like to help you, Holder Toric,” D’ram said when Ramala and Murda had offered them all klah or the cool fruit drink that was particularly refreshing in Southern.

“Oh?” Toric cast his eyes quickly over each of the three men. Sebell, who had always been discreet and had helped him out on several occasions, was now Masterharper of Pern and might very well hold views different from Robinton’s. The Harper’s expression at the moment was pleasantly attentive. N’ton had the same sort of energetic, inquiring look about him that Piemur had, and to Toric, that could mean that the young dragonrider would be troublesome. What was a Fort Weyrleader doing there anyway?

D’ram cleared his throat, obviously finding it difficult to continue.

“Help me in what way?” Toric asked testily.

“Now that Masterharper Sebell has brought me up to date on the many abuses and incivilities you have suffered from the Southern Oldtimers, and their rather conspicuous demands over and above the lawful tithe, I think there should be some changes.”

Toric merely nodded, aware that the Fort Weyrleader and Sebell were watching him closely.

“I—we—in this bountiful place,” D’ram went on, “feel that the Weyr should substantially reduce its requirements of you, especially in the matter of feeding our dragons. They actually prefer to hunt, and once we know where your livestock is pastured, we will avoid the area. We expect to have five wings, as well as—” D’ram paused “—those no longer able for active service.”

Toric accepted with a nod what D’ram was implying, though he did not quite like the suggestion that dragonriders would soon be overflying the land. Just how much did dragonriders notice when they flew? They might not have seen much when they had searched for Ramoth’s egg—but while hunting wild game? He found himself mulling over that problem as D’ram continued.

“We have brought with us sufficient weyrfolk to handle all domestic duties, so those holders whom you have been good enough to attach to the Weyr can return to their normal duties.”

Toric cleared his throat. He could appreciate D’ram not wanting those slatternly drudges about a freshened Weyr. He did not want them about Southern, either. But there was an easy solution for that.

Then Sebell held out a long cylinder, encased in a finely tooled leather sheath. “Mastersmith Fandarel wishes you to have this,” he said with a slight smile.

When Toric unwrapped it, he could not suppress his delight at being given a distance-viewer of his own. Master Rampesi had managed to acquire a small one but nothing so fine as this. He turned it over in his hands, putting it to his eye and reacting with a startled cry at the magnification of what he knew were minute fissures in the wall.

“You should be able to see the length and breadth of Southern Hold with that,” Sebell said.

That got Toric’s complete attention. “Master Fandarel doesn’t waste his efforts,” he said obliquely. Length and breadth of Southern Hold, indeed!

“Yes, I also bear a message from Master Fandarel,” Sebell went on smoothly. “Metal is, as you know, in short supply in the North. You have been supplying the Smithcrafthall with much needed zinc, copper, and other ores, for which that is a token of gratitude.”

“We’ve shipped what we could,” Toric said carefully. It was one thing for the dragonriders to hunt for meat in the hold. How much else were they expecting to find for themselves?

“I think arrangements can now be made for more regular commerce,” D’ram said, “as compensation for what you’ve endured.”

Toric eyed him warily.

“A regular trade would be extremely beneficial for both North and South,” Sebell continued, betraying no hint of his knowledge of Toric’s already steady activities in that area. “And Mastersmith Fandarel is certainly eager to have as much ore as you can ship to him. You, and quite likely your Smithmaster brother, will have to advise him as to how much you can manage to supply. To this point, I think N’ton has something to say.”

“Please understand, Holder Toric,” N’ton began in a slightly rueful tone, “that I was not at the time concerned with anything other than finding Ramoth’s egg, but I noticed some mounds along that great inland lake that cannot be natural. I heard, from someone,” he said, jiggling his hand to indicate a faulty memory that Toric did not believe for an instant, “that the new zinc and copper deposits you’ve been working might have been worked a long time ago.”