The Skies of Pern (10 page)

Master Sintary rose, giving Toric a bland stare for such a terse introduction. Toric enjoyed giving subtle jabs, especially to harpers and dragonriders. And where were the dragonriders who should be here? Toric glared out across the tanned faces, looking for the Weyrleader. If K’van hadn’t come … Then Toric located him on the left, where trees and the ferny shrubs of this highland formed a bordering park. He counted at least fifteen dragonriders and the three queen riders! Shards! He could make no complaint that they had been delinquent in performing this Weyr duty.

Sintary had taken two steps forward, an easy gesture of his hand waving Toric to the other chair on the platform. Deftly unrolling the traditional scroll with his right hand, he proceeded to read, winding it up with the skill of long practice.

Toric took the chair, crossing his arms on his chest. He was almost
as annoyed now as he had been this morning when he’d awakened. The dragonriders were in attendance. They—and far too many other people—would eat of the feast a Lord Holder was required to produce. And how could Sintary make himself heard so effortlessly? He hadn’t even raised his voice, just intensified it with some harper trick.

To occupy the time it would take Sintary to get through that thick scroll, Toric surveyed the polite faces below him. Spotting his brother, Mastersmith Hamian, Toric uncrossed his arms, because Hamian had assumed a similar stance. Hamian and his new Plastics Hall. Plastic indeed, when he should be working metals: especially that lode of—what was it called? box-something—that produced very lightweight and malleable ore. Toric hadn’t encouraged his young brother to pursue his Mastery in the Smithcraft only to have him fritter his skills away on some Aivas nonsense. The summarily exiled MasterGlass-smith Norist had been right to call the artificial intelligence an Abomination.

The sun was now midheaven, and even in his loose clothing, Toric was beginning to feel the heat. Packed rather tightly together, the crowd was becoming restless, fanning themselves and shifting weight from foot to foot. Those who had no one to leave their children with were beginning to sidle to the edge of the crowd, taking the fretful whingeing brats away.

Was the Harper speeding up the tempo of his recital? Well, why not? The scroll would be displayed on the notice board when the reading was over. He caught the change of pace and heard Sintary’s concluding remarks.

“Now, I can start taking your private petitions, which, I assure you, will be scrupulously dealt with.”

Sharding Harper Hall, meddling with what was Hold business. His holders had no right to complain. They worked hard and they got what they deserved.

Toric quickly scanned the assembled to see if any petitions were being removed from belt pouches or dress pockets.

Sintary finished reading. Cheers, loud calls, whistles, and other raucous noise welled up, and that combined with the heat brought back Toric’s headache. While the bloody Harper descended the steps, Toric went down the back way, into the cool shade. He
needed to find Dorse. The man had said he would be back by now from his latest trip north.

H
is public duty completed, Sintary stepped off the platform, aware that Toric had scooted off as soon as he could. Just as well. The Harper could collect petitions without Toric’s interference. He whipped open the sack he’d brought for the purpose and, securing the scroll of the Report under his belt, took the petitions shoved at him as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps.

“They’ll be read, I assure you. Harper’s word on it. Thank you. Yes, the Council will see this. Thank you. It will take time but this will be read.” He repeated these phrases as he made his way through the crowd to post the Report. “Yes, yes, this will be read.” It became a litany. “They’ll be read’s” to the left, a “harper’s word on it” to the right, and “let me through, thank you” as he made his way forward until he reached the notice board. He handed the scroll to the apprentice in harper blue and held it flat to be tacked up.

The days of laborious copying by cramp-fingered apprentices were now well gone. Council reports were printed by Masterprinter Tagetarl’s speedy presses on some of the new heavy paper, made in rolls and then plastic-coated so the notice could not be easily defaced. Copies had been sent to every major and minor hold to be read on this day of Turnover. Even Toric would have to let it remain displayed, at least until the Turnover crowd had all departed to their holds. Which, knowing Toric’s ways, would be as soon as possible. However, judging by the number of small craft, it would be the work of two days, at least, to clear the harbor.

Not that Toric was a bad Holder. Quite rightly, he insisted that everyone earn his or her right to hold on his land. The man had had to put up with the vagaries of the Oldtimers as well as incursions by thousands of folk streaming south, hoping for easier living. For all the tribulations the immigrants left behind, they acquired as many new ones here—but many of their supposed grievances would be minor.

Sintary left most of the eager petitioners behind as they began to read through the Report or went to look for shade, food, and drink. He was given two more crumpled sheets on his way down to the Harper’s hall and slipped into a small entrance when he spotted Dorse and one of the hard-faced men Toric used as guards hurrying up the stairs. They were busy watching their feet, but he particularly didn’t like the obstinate and sly expression on Dorse’s features. Sintary knew that Dorse often did “errands” for his Lord Holder.

When the two men had passed around the bend out of sight, Sintary continued on his way. That’s when he heard the crash of glassware and the dull sound of an axe hitting wood. But Dorse and the other man were on their way up. So who was throwing things about?

With the petitions weighing him down, he decided to get them safely to his hold before he returned to investigate the noise.

Masterhealer Oldive eased back from the worktop, closed eyes bleary from peering so long into the microscope, and sighed deeply. So similar and yet the samples did not match anything from Aivas’s pathology files sufficiently to call them the same virus. Ah, what splendid, and frightening, new dimensions for learning—and Healing.

Slowly, aware that his body was cramped from inactivity, he extended one leg as far as he could from the rung of his stool. Letting it hang down, and gripping the seat of his perch, he stretched the other leg. Then he raised his arms as far as his deformity allowed before rotating his neck to ease those aching muscles.

“Oldive?”

“Oh, my word, Sharra!” He swiveled the stool so that he could face her in the corner where she, too, had been single-mindedly peering into her microscope. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

This laboratory was such a pleasure to work in and today he and Sharra had it to themselves, since anyone with any sense was up at Fort Hold’s Gather Square enjoying themselves. Through
the wide expanse of special triple-plated glass, he could see the banners displayed from the windows of the Hold and yet not feel the cold that was gripping the northern continent. While he wished he could be in two places at once—and right now, one of them would by preference be the large sunlit Landing Healer facility—he was still luxuriating in the new headquarters at Fort. “Head quarters”—such a lovely concept and such splendid “quarters,”—with sufficient teaching rooms and airy dormitories, as well as more aspiring healers than ever before. More need of them, too, he admitted.

“We do get involved, don’t we?” Sharra commented with a tired smile. “Have you been able to identify that virus?”

He shook his tired head.

“Could it be one of those mutations that are mentioned in Pathology Records?” she asked. “Considering what we’ve learned about such things, there’s been plenty of time for them to alter from the specimens Aivas had.”

“And that would account for the fact that the plague can decimate otherwise healthy holds,” Oldive said sadly. He gave himself a little shake. No sense being morbid. “But such things have been with us a long time and are, fortunately, not upon us right now. While this
is
the last day of Turnover, and you should be with Jaxom and your children.”

“They are all very well occupied with Ruatha’s festivities,” she said fondly. “Jaxom had to read the Report and accept petitions. I could do much more here than sit there and be bored, you know.” She indicated the slides that she had been studying. She kneaded the nape of her neck, arching her back against having hunched so long over her instrument. “Will we ever have one of those electron microscopes that Aivas mentioned?”

Oldive permitted himself a chuckle as he carefully descended from the high stool. Had his spine developed normally, he would have been tall; his legs were long. They were the same length, but the malformation of his backbone had resulted in a pelvic slant. With a slight lift in one shoe, his limp was barely noticeable.

“There are so many calls on Master Morilton’s skills,” he said ruefully, and gestured to the cabinets filled with special glass
products, the myriad paraphernalia that had been created by the Glass-Smith for healer use.

“A start, of course, on the quantity needed to equip all Healer Halls,” Sharra said in an acid tone, “especially when the Council unanimously—for once—agreed that the Healer Hall has priority. We are concerned with the health and well-being of everybody, not just new gadgets that we’ve done without for twenty-five hundred Turns.”

Though Oldive completely agreed with her, he raised a hand in gentle rebuke as he walked across the airy room to the small stove where the klah pot was kept warm. Someone had brought in a tray of food. He flipped back the napkins and saw the generous servings. When had these been brought? The meatrolls were still warm. He oughtn’t to concentrate to the exclusion of everything else.

“Someone brought some food,” he informed her.

“Oh, yes, I should have told you,” she said contritely as she slipped off her stool and joined him. “I just wanted to finish that tray of slides.” She poured klah for them both.

“Oh, we do very well, my dear Sharra,” he said, talking around a mouthful of roll. “We have achieved all this—” He gestured around them. “—and Morilton is considering dedicating one Hall to nothing but Healer requirements.” He glanced back at his workstation and his unidentifiable virus smear. Then held up his hand as an odd sound impinged on the silence of the laboratory.

Sharra listened hard. “Sounds like breaking glass. Breaking glass!” She repeated, setting down the mug and rushing to the door. As soon as she’d opened it, the noise was far more audible, and far too close.

“Meer, Talla,” she cried, calling for her two fire-lizards.

“What’s the matter? What’s going on? What clumsy apprentice has been let loose?” Oldive cried.

Despite his physical disability, Oldive could move swiftly, but Sharra, after one startled look to her right, hauled him back from the threshold and closed the door, throwing the latch.

Ruth!

The white dragon might be asleep on Ruatha’s fire-heights, but he’d respond to her mental call from any place. Meer and Talla arrived, midair, mouths open to shriek panic, but Sharra’s stern command aborted that instinct.

“I don’t know who, Oldive,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “but there are people crashing about in the stillroom as if they thought no one would hear them.”

Once again the intrepid Masterhealer attempted to leave the room and she caught him by the arm.

“There shouldn’t be anyone else here but us,” he said grimly. He had given leave to even the lowliest apprentice to enjoy this last day of Turn’s End.

“But there are,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anger as she opened the door to the noise of considerable destruction. A shadow fell across the long window of the laboratory and she grinned, pointing. “However, we shall deal with it.”

Oldive gasped at the sight of a white body, wings outstretched, all but plastered against the glass, his eyes flashing the red and orange of alarm.

Ruth!
Sharra said, relieved that he had responded so quickly.
Tell the Hold’s fire-lizards to attack the intruders
. Fire-lizards held Ruth, the white dragon, in awed respect and would obey him without question. She gave him a very clear mental image of what she had seen in her brief glimpse down the hall. Meer and Talla cheeped once and disappeared. Scant seconds later, both she and Oldive heard loud cries, angry fire-lizard bugles, shouts of pain, and more banging and crashing.

Sharra opened the door wide enough to see down the hall. A mass of fire-lizards was trying to enter the stillroom. Then the mass split into several groups, which zipped off, screeching challenge, swooping down the stairwells at each end to the other levels of the hall.

There are several groups throwing things about in the Hall
, Ruth told her.
That is wrong. Fort dragons come
.

She and Oldive watched as the fire-lizards drove four people out of the stillroom. They could hear human cries echoing from other points. Oldive groaned in dismay.

“They’ll be damned sorry they ever thought of this,” she told him angrily as she started purposefully down the hall. “Damned sorry.”

“I never thought of—intrusions—when we built here,” Oldive murmured, shaking his head in bitter denial of the event as he followed. He’d been so proud of this new Hall, with its marvelous equipment, its spacious and well-organized facilities. The previous quarters had been better protected in the angle between the Harper Hall and Fort Hold. But the Healer Hall was usually so busy that, on a normal day, no unauthorized persons would have been on this floor.

Sharra reached the stillroom first. The reek of spilled liquids and wet herbs was nothing to her appalled survey of empty shelves, cabinets with broken doors, glass shards everywhere. Even the marble worktops had been cracked. She slammed the door shut to spare Oldive the sight.

“Everything’s ruined,” she said tersely and pulled him toward the stairs, dreadfully certain now by the sounds of screams and shouts from the lower floors that there would be more damage elsewhere.