Toric was scowling as blackly as ever. “The last thing I need here is a gaggle of spoiled useless turds who’ve never done an honest day’s work and think they’re going to walk into ready-made holds! I never should have agreed. That Harper talks so smooth…”
“Sure he does, or he’d be no good at being Harper.” Piemur would not stand for anyone to denigrate Master Robinton. “But there’s no reason you have to treat that stomach– and sunburn-sick bunch any differently than you’ve treated anyone else that fetched up in this harbor.” He could not help grinning at the dawning comprehension on Toric’s face. “You didn’t promise F’lar or Robinton—nor would either of them expect it—to give these younger holdless sons preferential consideration. They can sweat right alongside everyone else here. If they thought they’d wander aimlessly, picking ripe fruit from the trees and basking in the breezes and southern sun, you’ll soon put ‘em right.”
“But—” Toric stopped, flicking his angry eyes from the wretched young men on Garm’s deck to the sandy coastline spreading east.
“No buts, Toric,” Piemur went on while Saneter’s fingers flew in a cautionary sign. “They get a day or two to recover, and then they get assigned tasks—” Piemur grinned slyly. “—suitable to their abilities. You’re still Toric, Southern holder, and you’ve the right to hold any way you choose. At least they’re used to jumping when a Holder says ‘jump’—they’re better disciplined than some of those holdless louts Garm’s brought you. In fact, I’d say once those lads recover from sunburn and seasickness, they might surprise you.” Piemur sounded very positive and sure of himself. Toric just kept looking at the figures sprawled on the deck and over the rails of Garm’s ship.
“You whipped more into line than I thought you would, Toric,” Garm said, beginning to warm to Piemur’s line. “You can do it again. Just leave ‘em loose. The good ones’ll survive.”
Toric was wavering. Then he scowled. “You’ll take no messages back with you, Garm, that I haven’t seen first. How many of ‘em have fire-lizards?”
“Oh, five or six,” Garm said after a moment’s thought.
“They’re all younger sons,” Piemur added reassuringly.
“No queens or bronzes, then?”
“No, two blues, a green, and one brown,” Garm answered. “The critters didn’t hang around that long after the lads started getting seasick. And they’re not back yet.”
Toric snorted, his manner relaxing a trifle.
“Send ‘em out to Hamian, or over to Big Lagoon. Most of ‘em should know drum code.” With Toric calmed down, Piemur was full of useful suggestions. He did not want to get stuck with another drum tower assignment, not when Toric had not yet kept his part of their bargain and let Piemur loose to explore. “Let ‘em go. The smart ones’ll want to learn. The dumb ones’ll kill themselves off.”
“Listening to them natter before we set sail, they all sort of thought they were going to be given holds,” Garm put in hesitantly.
“First they’ve got to prove their ability. To me!” Toric jerked his thumb at his chest. “Oh, bring them in. Piemur, Ramala’s not here. You know how to dose ‘em. Saneter, see if Murda can find beds for them tonight. I’ll see where to send ‘em. Shards! Why did they have to get here so soon?”
“We had good winds,” Garm replied, misunderstanding Toric’s complaint as he wiped sweat from his weathered brow. “Made a nice fast trip.” He caught his dinghy’s painter and hauled the boat in for the row back to his ship.
“Too fast,” Piemur said softly, catching Saneter’s eye. They could have used a few more days to prepare Toric for the “invasion.”
“I devoutly hope that there are a few sensible ones.”
“D’you recognize any of them?” Saneter asked as the two climbed the harbor steps. At the top small groups of children, having seen Toric’s departure, began to line the railing, pointing to the ship. Piemur could hear their giggles and unkind comments.
“Not from here, or in their condition.” Piemur shrugged. “I expect Groghe sent a couple. The one really smart son stayed at Smithcrafthall. A couple weren’t bad. He kept ‘em all, fosterlings and the Bloods, in line. Lord Sangel’s would be accustomed to heat—might even know something about crops. Corman’s lot are probably still charging around the eastern holds, looking for Thella, the clever Lady Holdless.”
“Piemur! One day that quick tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble.”
“It has,” Piemur said, grinning wryly. Then his smile changed to one of unforced approval as young Sara came up with a basket full of lotions and vials. “Good girl. Pills for their ills. Go help Murda, sweetness.”
Asgenar alighted from the dragon, landing heavily—which was exactly how he felt: heavy, disturbed, and knowing no other alternative to the problem. Certainly it was kinder for him, Larad’s fosterbrother, to break the news.
K’van, looking no less enthusiastic but more determined, dropped lightly to the ground beside the Lemos Lord Holder. Heth turned his head toward the two, eyes glinting green-blue in reassurance. K’van gave him a solid slap on the shoulder and crunched over the newly fallen snow to the impressive steps leading up to Telgar Hold’s main entrance. It was cold enough not to linger, and Asgenar followed the young bronze rider.
They reached the top step just as the door was opened and just as Heth took wing up to keep the watchdragonrider company on the sun-struck fire heights.
“A’ton sent word down that you were coming,” Larad said, looking pleased to see them. “You’ll be surprised at what a fine lad he is.”
Asgenar was thrown off balance. “A’ton?”
“Your nephew. Or had you forgotten I’ve a third fine son?” Larad gestured diffidence. “You’ve other concerns. Good day to you, K’van. Are you part of this?”
K’van nodded, shedding his helmet and loosening his flying jacket, then making work of matching his gauntlets and tucking them into his belt.
“My office then, but surely you’ll both have some klah or a mulled wine?”
“Later perhaps.”
“Dulsay’s close by, and I think I’d like to finish my cup while you explain this visit. Dulsay?” Larad called. His wife appeared with a tray and three steaming cups.
“I took the liberty, Asgenar, K’van. It’ll help loosen the chill from your tongues,” Larad said while Dulsay served them. Then she discreetly withdrew to the Great Hall, and Larad led the way to his private room.
“There’s no way to buffer this one, Lar,” Asgenar said, taking one of the chairs. He put down his cup, opened his double-fronted fleece jacket, and hauled out the sketches, which he dropped on the table. “Have a look at them.”
Asgenar had put the sheet with the drawings of Thella on the bottom. Larad, his frown growing deeper as he examined each face, exhaled when Thella’s likeness appeared and sank slowly to his chair. “I thought her dead since the Pass began.”
“I’m sorry, Lar, but she’s very much alive, and far too active.”
Larad flicked the sheets back and forth, always returning to the ones of Thella. The fingers of his left hand drummed an irregular rhythm on the polished wood of his worktable. Then he tapped Giron’s face. “This is R’mart’s missing brown rider?”
“A dragonless man. Temma of the Lilcamp train—the one that was ambushed six days ago—identified him and Thella as those who were looking for Dowell and his family.”
Larad looked baffled.
“Dowell’s daughter, Aramina, hears dragons, “Asgenar said.
K’van shifted restlessly in his chair.
“I fail to see a connection,” Larad said hesitantly.
“A girl who heard dragons would be of inestimable help to a raider,” Larad said after Asgenar had explained. “And you were her rescuer, K’van?”
“Not me, sir.” K’van smiled, relieved that Lord Larad seemed disposed to be helpful. “My dragon, Heth!” Heth’s bugle was audible even through the thick walls of the Hold.