“Would he have hidden somewhere outside?” Menolly asked.

Sebell gave a quick shake of his head. “Kimi couldn’t find him.”

“Rocky and Beauty have been much closer to Piemur than Kimi.”

“Can’t hurt to try!”

“Piemur?” asked Candler, mystified by this cryptic exchange.

“I’ve reason to believe that the theft was accomplished by Piemur,” said Sebell. He and Menolly gave their fire lizards new instructions and watched them dart out the Hold door.

“Piemur? But I remember Piemur. The boy with the fine soprano. I didn’t see him anywhere—” Candler broke off and pointed at Sebell. “You were there when Lord Meron walked the Gather. The very drunken herdsman. I thought there was something familiar about him. It was you! Well. And Piemur here, too? On harper business? I thought it odd for one of Meron’s drudges to have so much initiative. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Piemur is not in this Hold.”

“How could he have gotten out?” asked Sebell. “I was just beyond the ramp all night. Even if I didn’t see him, Kimi would have.”

They had reached the Lord’s apartments now, and Candler opened the door, gesturing them to precede him. “What’s that smell?” asked Menolly softly, grimacing in distaste.

“Smell? Oh, you get used to it. Disgusting, I know, but it has something to do with Lord Meron’s illness. We try to mask it,” and Candler gestured to the sweet candles alight in containers about the room. “I often think that it’s only justice,” he added in a careful whisper, “for the suffering he’s given others, but it’s a terrible way to die.”

“I thought Master Oldive had given him…” Sebell began.

“Oh, he has. The strongest there is, according to Berdine. But the medicine only dulls the pain.”

The doors to the next two rooms were open, and the harpers could see the clusters of men standing about, in silence, all avoiding each other’s gaze. Suddenly, in the third room, there was a brief flurry as the Harper appeared at the door to the Lord’s private room.

“Sebell!” Master Robinton’s calm request carried clearly, and everyone turned to watch the journeyman hurry to his master’s side. “Please send a drum message to Lords Oterel, Nessel and Bargen, and to Weyrleader T’bor. Would they please attend us here at Nabol immediately. Double urgency on the beat, please.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sebell with such unexpected vigor that Master Robinton gave him a mild second look. But Sebell turned on his heel and walked swiftly out of the apartments, motioning as he passed them for Candler and Menolly to come with him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier, Menolly. If Piemur got out of the Hold and is hiding somewhere in the hills, he’ll surface to a drum message aimed at him. Lead us to your drumheights, Candler.”

The big message drums needed only to be uncovered. Sebell stood for a moment, beaters poised over the taut hide as he composed his message. The opening roll boomed across the valley, the urgent measure following as the last echoes died. Then Sebell, eyes half-closed in concentration, beat out the recipients’ names, the Harper’s request, and the urgent measures once again to insure immediate reply and attention. Menolly positioned herself at the window then, ears straining to catch the pass-along roll from the next drumheights.

“There it is from the east,” she told the two men. “What’s wrong with the northern listeners? Still asleep? Ah, there they are.”

“Candler, any chance of some food?” Sebell asked the Hold Harper. “We’d best wait here for replies.”

“Yes, let’s eat here where the air is clear,” said Menolly, with a shudder as she thought of the thick, distasteful odor in Lord Meron’s rooms.

“Of course, of course. I apologize for not offering sooner.” Candler was away down the stairs.

Sebell picked up the sticks again and beat a quick measure. “Apprentice. Report. Urgent.” He waited a few breaths and then repeated the measure.

“If he’s anywhere between here and Ruatha or Crom, he’ll hear that,” Sebell said, carefully replacing the drum-sticks on their hooks before he joined Menolly at the window.

Her face was sad and her brows constricted in a tiny frown as she gazed across the huddle of cots below the Hold ramp and over the disorganized Gather square, still tenanted by those unwillingly held over by the emergency. Few sounds wafted to their ears at this height, and the scene was unrealistically calm.

“Don’t fret over Piemur, Menolly,” Sebell said, trying to sound more lighthearted than he felt. “He has a knack of landing on his feet.” He smiled down at her, allowing himself the luxury of putting his arm lightly about her shoulders.

“Except when the steps are greased!” Menolly’s voice had an angry edge, and he gripped her shoulder reassuringly.

“Look at it this way: just see how that misadventure has worked to his advantage. He’s got out of the drum-heights and acquired himself a queen fire lizard egg. For all we know, he may meet us at the Hold gates with it, smiling in that ingenuous fashion of his, when you and I know he’s as devious as Meron!”

“I wish I could believe you, Sebell,” Menolly said sighing heavily, but she leaned trustingly against him for his comfort. “If he was anywhere in the vicinity, Beauty and Rocky ought to have found him.”

“He’s somewhere,” replied Sebell firmly, and daring more than ever, he gave her a quick hug, turning abruptly from her as he caught her startled look. “The wretch!” he added, more of a growl than a comment. At that moment, they both heard the message drum roll across the mountains, and Sebell hastily strode back to the drums.

Candler arrived just as Sebell beat “receive” for the last of the messages. The Nabol Harper was panting with the exertion of his climb, for he carried not only a well-laden tray, but a full wine skin slung over his shoulder. The three harpers had time to make a leisurely meal before the first of the visitors arrived. The harpers then escorted the Lord Holders and T’bor to the Master Harper.

Sebell almost gagged and lost his breakfast when he brought Lords Holder Nessel and Bargen into Lord Meron’s inner room. Menolly was already there with Lord Oterel and Weyrleader T’bor. He saw her mouth working to control the revulsion she was obviously feeling. Only Candler seemed impervious to the odor.

Although Sebell had seen Lord Meron the day before, he was appalled by the change in the man propped up in the bed: the eyes were sunken, pain had lined his face deeply, his skin was a pale yellow, and his fingers, plucking nervously at the fur rug that covered him, were claws with hanging bags of flesh between the knuckles. It was as if, Sebell thought, all life was centered in those hands, feebly holding onto life through the hair of the fur.

“So, I’m granted my own private gather, is that it? Well, I’ve no welcome for any of you. Go away. I’m dying. That’s what you all wished me to do these past Turns. Leave me to it.”

“You’ve not named your successor,” said Lord Oterel bluntly.

“I’ll die before I do.”

“I think we must persuade you to change your mind on that count,” said the Masterharper in a quiet, amiable tone.

“How?” Lord Meron’s snarl was smug in his self-assurance.

“There is friendly persuasion…”

“If you think I’ll name a successor just to make things easy for you and those dregs at Benden, think again!” The force of that remark left the man gasping against his props, one hand feebly beckoning to Master Oldive, whose attention was on the Harper.

“…Or unfriendly persuasion,” continued Master Robinton as if Lord Meron hadn’t spoken.

“Ha! You can do nothing to a dying man, Master Robinton! You, Healer, my medicine!”

Master Robinton lifted his arm, effectively barring Berdine from approaching the sick man.

“That’s precisely it, my Lord Meron,” said the Harper in an implacable voice, “we can do…nothing…to a dying man.”