“I’m in charge of the Plateau,” the Harper said, sweeping both Breide and Esselin out of the way when he realized that the contention was about who should take the “dangerous” step of entering first.
“But I’m more agile than you, Master,” Piemur said. “I go first.” He slipped onto the ladder and was down the rungs so fast that the Harper had no time to argue the point. Someone began lowering glowbaskets on ropes to illuminate his way. Not wasting a moment, Master Robinton eagerly followed him down, then Esselin, and then Breide after him.
“This is amazing!” the Harper exclaimed as Piemur helped him over the broken earth where the ceiling had collapsed. They seemed to be in a narrow aisle. Piemur held a glowbasket above his head and turned slowly around.
Within the circles of light cast by the glowbaskets was an astonishing clutter of crates, boxes, and transparently wrapped items, some heaped haphazardly and some more neatly stacked along the irregular walls of the cavern. The cavern had a vaulted ceiling and seemed to be one of several interconnecting chambers. All four explorers peered around in a daze of wonder.
“All these Turns, they’ve been here, waiting for their rightful owners to reclaim them,” the Harper murmured, almost reverently touching one finger to a crate. He stepped carefully over a box to peer into the shadows beyond the light. “An immense storehouse of artifacts.”
“I’d say they’d been in a hurry,” Breide remarked, “if you compare the relative order of things along the walls to the disorder here. Ah, and this seems to be a doorway.” He gave the door panels a couple of stout blows, but he could not find any latches or handles with which to open it.
“Boots,” Piemur said, picking up a pair and brushing the dirt off the transparent envelope that had protected them. He tried to pinch the film, but it resisted. “Feels like the same stuff that coated the maps.” His low voice was awed. “All sizes of boots! Sturdy ones. They don’t look like leather.”
Master Robinton was on his knees, trying to figure out how to open a crate that seemed to be sealed tight. “What does this say?” he asked, pointing to lines of differing widths and shadings on one corner of the lid.
“I don’t know,” Piemur replied. “But I do know how to open it!” There had been identical crates at Paradise River Hold. He took hold of two metal flaps centered on the short sides, pulled them sharply to fold down, and the lid came free.
“Sheets!” Master Esselin shrieked, the noise echoing through the tunnels beyond them. “Sheets of the ancients’ material! Master Robinton, just look! Sheets of it!”
Master Robinton lifted out a flattish transparent envelope, a handspan wide and two long and two fingers thick. “Shirts?”
“Sure looks like one to me,” Piemur said, briefly shining his glow over it, and moved on to search for something less prosaic.
Later, when they had recovered from the initial excitement, Master Robinton suggested that records be made of the contents of the storehouse, listing at least those objects that were easily identifiable. Nothing must be removed from its protective covering, he said. The Benden Weyrleaders and the Mastersmith would have to be informed…and perhaps the Masterweaver, since clothing was his Craft.
“And Masterharper Sebell,” Piemur added teasingly.
“Yes, yes, of course. And…”
“Lord Holder Toric!” Breide put in, indignant at having to remind them.
“Oh, this is truly amazing,” Master Robinton said. “A major discovery. Untouched for who knows how long…” And then his face fell.
“Well, maybe they stored away duplicate records here, too,” Piemur said encouragingly. He took the Harper’s arm and gently pushed him down to a large green crate. “It’s going to take a long time to sift through this lot.”
“I don’t think we should touch anything more,” Breide said nervously, “until everyone has gathered here.”
“No, no, you’re quite right. They should all see it as we just have,” the Harper agreed, his expression slightly dazed.
Piemur scurried up the ladder, popping his head out of the hole and surprising those trying to peer down. “Jancis?” he called, looking impatiently around. The throng parted as she came up to him. “Get some wine or klah for the Harper, please.”
She nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with someone’s belt flask. Piemur gave her a thankful grin and slid down the ladder to revive the Harper.
“What do you mean? Denol and his kin have taken possession of the island?”
“What I said, Lord Toric,” Master Garm replied unhappily. “He and all his kin have crossed the channel to the island and plan to hold it themselves. Denol says that you’ve got more than enough for one man, and the island can easily be an independent, autonomous hold.”
“Independent? Autonomous?”
Master Garm had had occasion to remark to Master Idarolan that Lord Toric had mellowed over the past few Turns since he had achieved his ambition. Clearly that tempering did not extend deeply enough to accept mutiny calmly.
“That’s the message, Lord Toric. And those left at Great Bay Hold are the most shiftless, indolent lot I’ve ever seen.” Garm did not hide his disgust.
“That is not allowed!” Toric exclaimed heatedly.
“I agree, sir, so I sailed directly back here. No sense leaving good supplies for those lazy lugs. I knew you’d want to take appropriate action.”
“Indeed I do, Master Garm, and you will reprovision your ship immediately for an afternoon sailing.” Toric stalked to the magnificently embellished map of his Holding, which now took up one whole wall of his workroom.
“As you say, sir.” Garm knuckled his brows and exited hastily.
“Dorse! Ramala! Kevelon!” Toric’s roar echoed down the corridor after Master Garm.
Dorse and Kevelon arrived at a run, to find the Lord Holder writing a note, his fury evident in the bold, hurried letters scrawled across the narrow sheet.
“That ingrate, Denol, has mutinied on the Great Bay and is claiming my island as an independent, autonomous holding,” he told them. “This is what comes of assigning lands to any rag, tag, or scum. I am informing the Benden Weyrleaders of the course I intend to take, and I expect their cooperation.”
“Toric,” Kevelon said, “you can’t expect dragonriders to take punitive action against people—”
“No, no, of course not. But this Denol will soon see that he cannot maintain his position on my island!”
Ramala entered the room. “A message just in from Breide at the Plateau, Toric.”
“I don’t have time for him right now, Ramala.”
“I think you’d better, Toric. They’ve discovered storage caves full of ancients’—”
“Ramala,” Toric snapped, frowning irritably at his wife. “I have present concerns. That wretched crop picker from South Boll has occupied my island and intends to make it his. The Weyrleaders…”
“The Weyrleaders will be at the Plateau, Toric. You could combine—”
“In that case, I shall send this message to them there. Ramala—” Toric thumped the table with his fist. “This is far more important than any scraps and shards left behind by the ancients. This is an arrant challenge of my authority as Lord Holder and cannot be permitted to continue.” He turned to Dorse. “I want all the single men aboard the Bay Lady by midday, with suitable supplies of weapons, including those barbed spears we’ve been using against the big felines.” Then, waving Dorse out, he rolled up the two messages, which he handed to Ramala. “Give these to Breide’s fire-lizard and send it back to him. Kevelon, you remain here in Southern to manage things. I can trust you.” Toric gave his brother a warm embrace and then returned to study the map, focusing on the threatened island.
Never had Toric expected to be challenged in his own Hold, and by a jumped-up drudge of a crop picker. He would pick him over, so he would!