Sebell heard Menolly’s catch of breath as she understood what Master Robinton had in mind to force this issue with Lord Meron. Berdine started to protest, but was silenced by a growl from Lord Oterel. The healer turned appealingly to Master Oldive, whose eyes had never left the face of the Harper. Although Sebell had known how desperately Master Robinton wished for a peaceful succession in this Hold, he had not appreciated the steel in his pacific Master’s will. Nabol Hold must not come into contention, not with every Holder’s younger sons eager and willing to fight to the death to secure even as ill-managed a Hold as this. Such fighting could go on and on, until no more challengers presented themselves. What little prosperity Nabol enjoyed would have been wasted in the meantime with no one holding the lands properly.
“What do you mean?” Meron’s voice rose to a shriek. “Master Oldive, attend me. Now!”
Master Oldive turned to the Lords Holder and bowed. “I understand, my Lords, that there are many seeking my aid at the Hold gates. I will, of course, return when my presence is required here. Berdine, accompany me!”
When Lord Meron screamed for the two healers to halt, to attend him, Master Oldive took Berdine by the arm and firmly led him out, deaf to Meron’s orders. As the door closed behind him, Meron ceased his entreaties and turned to the impassive faces that watched him.
“You wouldn’t? Can’t you understand? I’m in pain. Agony! Something inside is burning through my vitals. It won’t stop until it’s eaten me to a shell. I must have medicine. I must have it!”
“We must have the name of your successor.” Lord Oterel’s voice was pitiless.
Master Robinton began to name the male relatives, his voice expressionless as he intoned the list. When he had completed it, he recited it again.
“You’ve forgotten one, Master,” Sebell said in a respectful tone. “Deckter.”
“Deckter?” The Harper turned slightly toward Sebell, his brows raised in surprise at being corrected.
“Yes, sir. A grand-nephew.”
“Oh.” The Harper sounded surprised, at the same time dismissing the man with a flick of his fingers. He repeated the list to Lord Meron, now mouthing obscenities as he writhed on his bed. Deckter was added as an afterthought. Then the Harper paused, looking inquiringly at Lord Meron, who responded with another flow of invective, demanding Oldive’s presence at the top of his voice. Again, the effort rendered him momentarily exhausted. He lay back, panting through his opened mouth, blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes.
“You must name your successor,” said T’bor, High Reaches Weyrleader, and Meron’s eyes rested on the man whose private grievance with him ran deepest. For it was Lord Meron’s association with T’bor’s Weyrwoman, Kylara, that had caused the death of both Kylara’s queen dragon, Pridenth, and Brekke’s Wirenth.
Sebell watched Meron’s eyes widen with growing horror as he finally realized that he would have no surcease from the pain of his body until he did name a successor, confronted as he was by men who had excellent reason for hating him.
Sebell also noted that T’bor forgot to mention Deckter. So did Lord Oterel when he took his turn. Lord Bargen recited the name first, with a glance at Oterel for his omission.
Sebell knew he would always remember this bizarre and macabre scene with horror as well as with a certain awful respect. He had long known that Master Robinton would use unexpected methods to maintain order throughout Pern and to uphold the leadership of Benden Weyr, but he had never expected such ruthlessness in the otherwise gentle and compassionate Robinton. He schooled his mind away from the stink and closeness of the room, from Meron’s pain, by trying to appreciate the tactics that were being used as Lord Meron was deftly maneuvered into choosing the one man the others preferred among his heirs by their seeming to forget Deckter half the time. For a long while afterward, the flickering of glows would remind Sebell and Menolly of those eerie hours while Lord Meron tried to resist the will of his inflexible peers.
It was inevitable that Meron would capitulate: Sebell thought he could almost feel the pulsing of pain through the man’s body as he screamed out Deckter’s name, thinking he had chosen to displease the men who had so tormented him.
The instant he spoke Deckter’s name, Master Oldive, who had gone no further than the next room, came to give the man relief.
“Perhaps it was a terrible cruelty to inflict on anyone,” Master Oldive told the Lords when they left Meron in a drugged stupor, “but the ordeal has also hastened his end. Which can only be a mercy. I don’t think he can last another day.”
The other heirs, Hittet the most vocal, now barged in from the entry room, demanding to know why they had been excluded from their kinsman’s presence, berating the Lord Holders and Master Robinton for this unconscionable delay and finally remembering to ask if Lord Meron had indeed named an heir. When they were told of Deckter, their reactions were compounds of relief, consternation, disappointment and then incredulity. Sebell extricated Menolly from the knot of chattering relatives and guided her to the steps down to the Main Hall and out of the Hold where they could breathe the fresh, untainted air.
A considerable and silent crowd lined the ramp, held back by the guards. At the sight of the two harpers, they began to shout for news. Was Lord Meron dead? What was happening to bring Lord Holders and the Weyrleader to Nabol?
As Sebell raised his hands for silence, he and Menolly scanned the faces, looking for Piemur in that crowd. When he had their attention, Sebell told them that Lord Meron had named his successor. A curious rippling groan came from the crowd as if they expected the worst and were steeling themselves. So Sebell grinned as he called out Deckter’s name. The multiple gasp of astonishment turned into a spate of relieved cheers. Sebell then told the head guard to send for the honored man, and half the crowd followed the messengers of this mixed fortune.
“I don’t see Piemur,” said Menolly in a low anxious voice, her eyes continually scanning. “Surely with us here, he’d come forward.”
“Yes, he would. And since he hasn’t…” Sebell looked about the courtyard. “I wonder…” As he twisted slowly in a circle, he realized that there would have been no way for Piemur to climb out of the Hold yards. Not even a fire lizard could claw its way up the cliff above the Hold’s windows. Especially not in the dark and encumbered by a fragile fire lizard egg. His eyes were drawn by the ash and refuse pits, but he distinctly remembered their being vigorously spear-searched. His glance traveled upward and paused on the small window. “Menolly!” He grabbed her by the hand and started pulling her toward the kitchen yard. “Kimi said it was dark. I wonder what’s…” In his excitement, Sebell reversed back to the guard, hauling the complaining Menolly with him. “See that little window above the ashpit?” he asked the guard excitedly. “What does it open on? The kitchen?”
“That one? Naught but a stores room.” And then the guard clamped his teeth shut, looking apprehensively back to the Hold as if he had been indiscreet and feared reprisal.
His reaction told Sebell exactly what he needed to know. “The supplies for the Southern Weyr were stored in that room, weren’t they?”
The guard stared straight ahead of him, lips pressed firmly together, but the flush in his face was a giveaway. Laughing with relief, Sebell half-ran toward the kitchen yard, Menolly eagerly following him.
“You think Piemur hid himself among the stuff for the Oldtimers?” Menolly asked.
“It’s the only answer that suits the circumstances, Menolly,” said Sebell. He halted right in front of the ashpit and pointed to the wall that separated the two pits. “That wouldn’t be too high a jump for an agile lad, would it?”