“Tol’ya Ah’d suitable beasts, di’ Ah no?” drawled Sebell under his breath.

“Ar, an yull drink th’ profit again, like as not,” replied Piemur in a sullen tone, but his shoulders shook with the effort to control his amusement. He hadn’t a single doubt in his mind that Sebell would also play the happy drunken herdsman to perfection. And manage to say without offense what would be impossible for a sober man anyplace.

They got the beasts enclosed, and Piemur was sent with a worn mark of the Herdsman’s Crafthall to haggle for fodder. He managed to save an eighth on the dealing, which he pocketed as any apprentice would. Sebell was already deep in bargain with one of the men while the others were examining the beasts with pinch and prod. Piemur wondered where under the sun Sebell had managed to acquire such proper mountain-bred creatures, with rock-worn hooves and shaggy coats. He could no more account for the good flesh on them after this long winter than the prospective buyers, so he hunkered down and listened to Sebell’s explanation.

Trust a harper to weave words well, and Piemur’s respect for the journeyman increased proportionately to the elaborations of the tale he told. Sebell would have his audience believe that he merely used an old trick handed down from grandsire to grandson: a combination of herbs and grasses sweetened with just the right amount of berries and well-moistened dried fruits. He also said that he and his did without sometimes to improve their beasts, and Piemur promptly sucked in his cheeks to look suitably haggard. He saw the eyes of the men linger on his bruises, showing yellow on his chin and cheek, while Sebell rambled on about his holders scrambling up and down the southern face of his hold hill to find the sweet new grasses that produced such spectacular results.

The earnest knot of listeners attracted more who stood respectfully back but close enough to hear. What Piemur couldn’t figure out was that, while the beasts had very old marks of Ruathan breeding, the secondary marks were also well-worn. Then he was annoyed with himself: Sebell must have pulled this sort of stunt before. Undoubtedly somewhere in Ruatha was a cotholder who kept a few special beasts for the Harper Hall’s convenience. He began to relax and enjoy Sebell’s tale-spinning thoroughly.

The sun was well over the mountains by the time Sebell had struck hands on the bargains—for there were three. One man bought three of the beasts, and the others one apiece, at what Piemur knew was a bloody good price. He wondered if that had covered their original purchases and their keep. Appropriately sober-faced during the bargaining, Sebell permitted pleasure to glow on his dirt-smeared face as he carefully stowed the mark pieces in his belt pouch while the beasts were prodded away by their new owners.

“Didn’t think I’d make that much, but the trick always works!” said Sebell in a low mutter to Piemur.

“Trick?”

“Sure,” said Sebell softly as he patted dust from his clothing. “Arrive dusty, early, with the well-fleshed beasts, and they’re on to you fast, hoping you’re tired enough to be stupid.”

“Where did you get ’em?”

Sebell flashed Piemur a grin. “Craft secret. Get along with you now,” and he gave Piemur a wink and a rough shove. “See t’Gather!” he added in a louder tone. “Ah find thee when Ah wish to go.”

This wasn’t much of a Gather, Piemur decided when he’d done one round of the small nestle of stalls. They didn’t even have bubbly pies at the baker’s, and the Craft-halls had obviously sent very junior men to represent them. Still, a Gather was a day to be enjoyed, and not many were held at Nabol even when restdays were Thread-clear, so the Nabolese were making as much of the occasion as they could.

The wineman was doing a brisk trade by the time Piemur returned that way. He squatted at the corner of the stand, munching slowly away at another meatroll, listening to comments and noticing with deep chagrin and a growing wrath how many fire lizards flitted about, resting for a moment on the stall tops, wheeling up in fairs to dance in the air a bit before settling on their friends’ shoulders or on a new position where they could overlook. At first Piemur tried to convince himself that he was only seeing the same group again and again. He did notice that most were greens with a sprinkling of brown and blues-the lesser fire lizards. When he saw bronzes, they were always on the shoulder or arm of the more prosperously dressed. Yet no matter how Piemur argued the matter in his mind, it was clear that Nabol Hold boasted more fire lizards than he had seen even at Benden Weyr during the Impression.

Suddenly a phrase stood out from the murmurous conversation about the winestand.

“There’ll be a few more happy holidays today, I hear!”

Piemur turned to scratch his shoulder fiercely and located the man who had spoken from his knowing smirk, a smith from his clothing. His companion, a miner by his shoulder badge, was nodding in comprehension.

“Nabol don’t take proper care of ‘em, he don’t. Three never shelled. My master was fair upset about that. Means to have three more today or his name’s not Kaljan.”

“Is that so?” The smith bobbed his head up and down to show regret. “We’d one that didn’t hatch, too, but no joy did we get above! Eggs we was promised and eggs we was given. Up to us to care for ’em proper enough to make ’em hatch. That one,” and his head jerked toward the Hold cliff to indicate Lord Meron, “enjoys putting a snake among the wherries!” He snorted derisively. “Happen it’s his only pleasure now.”

Both men guffawed with malicious delight.

“Happen we’ll not need to worry about him much longer, I hear tell.” The smith winked broadly at the miner.

“Couldn’t be soon enough for me. Well, see you at the dancing?”

“Going so soon?”

“Had my glass. Must get back.”

The disappointment in the miner’s face made Piemur think that the smith’s departure was precipitous. Going to tell his master about the eggs that were up at the Hold, was he? Piemur decided to tag along.

Eggs handed out in quantities, eggs that had been badly handled and wouldn’t hatch. Unless…and Piemur reflected over something that Menolly had said about fire lizard eggs. Green fire lizards laid eggs as well, having been fertilized by a mating flight with a blue or brown, sometimes even a bronze. But green fire lizards were stupid: they’d lay a clutch, ten at the most, Menolly said, and leave them with such a shallow covering of beach sand that they were easy prey to wild wherries or sand snakes. Very few green-laid clutches survived to Hatch. Which, as Menolly had succinctly stated, was just as well or Pern would be up to the eyeballs in little green fire lizards.

Piemur wondered if anyone in Nabol realized that a deception was being practiced on them, and green fire lizard eggs were what were dispersed so lavishly. Then he realized that he’d lost sight of the smith and, cursing his inattentiveness, began to retrace his steps, turning with assumed idleness to peer between the stalls. He spotted the smith, urgently speaking to a man with a smithmaster’s badge and, as the man reacted to his journeyman’s excited words, his master’s chain sparkled. Piemur managed to duck away as both men suddenly turned toward him. When they had passed him on their way to the Hold, Piemur followed, restlessly scanning faces in the hopes that he might see Sebell and tell him what he’d overheard. Sebell might wish to investigate.

As the two smiths turned from the Gather area toward the Hold, Piemur had to pause or be noticeable. The smiths strode purposefully up the ramp toward the main Hold gates. They were challenged by the guard and, after some moments of arguing, the guard summoned another from the gatehouse and sent him to the Hold with the smithmaster’s message.

While the messenger was gone, two men emerged from the Hold, well wrapped in their cloaks, though the air had lost its chill. Something about the way they walked, carefully; the way they carried their heads, proudly; the way they nodded and smiled at the guards, smugly; and most of all the way they pointedly avoided contact, struck Piemur as significant. He continued to watch them as they turned toward the Gather meadow. As they approached him he caught sight of their figures in profile and realized that each man carried something hidden in his cloak, held tight against his side. It couldn’t have been a large object. But, thought Piemur, putting expression, manner and profile together, an egg pot wouldn’t be large. He wanted to follow the men to see if his suspicion was correct, but he also didn’t want to leave the Hold until the message from the smithmaster had been answered.