The Skies of Pern (41 page)

“Now,” he announced, grinning at her, his eyes glittering with high spirits, “let there be light!” He tapped out several sequences,
inhaled deeply when the monitor came to life, entered another series of commands, and then folded his arms on his chest. “Remember to breathe, Tai!”

She did, smiling because she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

The monitor cleared and they had an image of the skyscape of the northern horizon, the direction in which the telescope had pointed, covered, for centuries. “So,” and F’lessan rubbed his hands together, “let’s run the pointing calibration. I’ll use Acrux as the first check.” His eyes crinkled in a smile as he reminded her of the stars she had pointed out to him the first evening she was at Honshu.

Tai caught her breath, for this was another example of how he endeared himself to her without really trying.

“I’ll allow for the time elapsed since we last checked positions.” He went on and she rose to stand behind him as he tapped in the commands, daring to put her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Good ones to start with.” While waiting for the system to respond, he lifted her right hand to his lips and kissed the palm, his eyes never leaving the screen as the scope began to shift in obedience to the coordinates for Acrux. “When we have a chance, we can automate this procedure but I can’t resist the temptation to show off a little. You’ve had so much more time on a working scope than I have.”

He put her hand back on his shoulder, giving it a final pat. “Ah, here we are!” He flourished his hand as the winking pulse of Acrux appeared on the monitor, centered. He leaned forward as the calibration came up to one side, confirming the focus. “And no optical aberrations noticeable.”

He grinned up at her, his gray eyes sparkling, infecting her with his exuberant enthusiasm. He was so boyishly pleased with Honshu’s performance—as if it were all his doing—that she couldn’t resist rumpling his thick hair. He laughed softly, pleased by her spontaneous caress.

“Now Becrux,” he said, tapping in its position and obediently the focus altered. “Sudden idea!” And he turned to her, his expression one of recklessness, “Once we’ve done enough calibration
to be sure the focus is accurate, let’s dispense with the rest of Honshu’s catalogue and focus on whatever strikes our fancy. Some of those globular clusters I was just studying about. Or the spiral nebulas. Or something that isn’t anywhere close to Pern!”

She gawped at him, unaccountably thrilled at such a suggestion. She’d often wanted to just “look” beyond this dark corner: to the cloudy canyons with dark holes, the cartwheels in various orientations, ghostly circular shapes of planetary nebulae, wisps of gas lit up by newborn stars. She did so want to see the eternal and changing magic of the universe.

“And we’ll take some images of the ones we like best, shall we?”

She grinned back at him. But, before he did anything else, he kissed the dimples in her cheeks.

Tagetarl spent a terrible day, trying to conduct himself as he would any normal day in front of apprentices and clients alike, all the while wondering what “normal” should look like. For instance, on a normal day, he wouldn’t have made so many pots of klah before dawn nor washed so many cups. He did have a fresh pot ready at the usual time that he opened the outer gates for his apprentices and unlocked the double doors of the Hall. He noticed that there was a slight shine to the wood but, though he sniffed deeply—causing his oldest apprentice, Marley, to regard his Master oddly—the smell was composed more of the prevalent odor of fish and toner than paint. He regained some of his usual composure by assigning the day’s tasks.

He heard the whistle, had to think for a moment, and then saw two grimy fellows rolling in two big barrels.

“Just as you ordered ’em, Master Tawgurtall,” the older man said, chewing his words as he deftly shifted his cask into a corner by the right-hand door. How like Pinch to mangle his name, so Tagetarl merely nodded at the shabbily dressed drudge. His equally scruffy associate rolled a second barrel into the opposite side. “As required.” Then, with that cryptic statement, they both left.

“As I was saying, Marley,” Tagetarl went on, tapping the copy to get Marley’s full attention.

He tried to concentrate on the usual tasks of a day, making up a new order for different weights of paper from Master Bendarek—well, he could delay that for today. He checked the two girls stitching bindings, made sure Delart was cutting the leather economically, that Wil was trimming only the paper edges neatly and not his fingertips with the extremely sharp edge of the wide blade. Idly Tagetarl wondered if he could detach that broad knife and use it against the Abominators tonight, or whenever they attacked his Hall.

On brief trips across the court, he did notice that Ola seemed to make a great many short dashes from roof to kitchen window, checking on Rosheen wherever she was. He hadn’t told Rosheen yet because she seemed happy today, and had possibly forgotten her uneasy presentiments. She also had a complicated Smithcrafthall manual to proofread. He didn’t recognize Bista’s pale gold hide among those coming and going on the roofs, but she was as sly as Pinch. There seemed to be no more than the usual wild ones, sunning on the slates. Or were they wild? Tagetarl couldn’t tell and decided it didn’t make any difference. Fire-lizards were volatile creatures.

He had no appetite for lunch and fretted over how Rosheen would scold him for not letting her know the danger the Hall was in. He usually told her
everything
. But why should she spend the day worrying, too? She had to keep her mind on the manual; that was one task he could
not
handle today! He did not see any of Pinch’s helpers, nor did he see Pinch again in any guise. He didn’t know whether to transfer paper from storage to the Hall as he usually did at the end of a day. But then would anyone be watching to see that he kept to his usual routine? He kept running a hand over the wood of doors and frames but couldn’t really feel any difference, much less recognize a substance that could retard flame.

He was anxious because no one came to his office with new work, but also relieved. How did you tell an Abominator from any other ordinary man or woman? It was the set of their minds: their self-appointed mission to deny choice to others, to neutralize
all the useful things that were already in operation. Aivas had made available a great deal of knowledge, some of it information miscopied over the Turns that only needed careful research in the Archives and invaluable to all the Crafts to rectify. Any thinking person would examine what was sensible to add to what Pern already had—like printing, but he required no one to read or buy his books: that was their decision. For all the amazing diversity of processes and products that the Ancients had known and used, just learning how to faithfully execute some of the designs was enough to discourage making the unnecessary. As Master Menolly said—and he knew Sebell basically agreed with her—not everything and anything new meant an improvement. But people should make that decision themselves, not have it arbitrarily denied.

The five-note whistle that Pinch said was a warning startled Tagetarl: it seemed to float across the court from nowhere. He wrenched around to face the outer gate, trying to compose himself. He, Master Tagetarl, who had never flubbed an entrance or forgot tune or words, felt himself unnaturally stiff with fear and apprehension. What should he say? What could he say to someone who had decided to destroy his livelihood? People were passing by the Hall on the road outside. Then in walked the man of Pinch’s sketch: there was the missing joint of the left index finger and the zigzag scar on the forehead, all but hidden under the black knit cap. The man stood for a moment looking across the court with narrowed eyes, his expression disdainful and his lips twisted scornfully—as if, Tagetarl thought, he was anticipating the changes that might shortly be made to the order and serenity of the Printer Hall.

“Good evening,” Tagetarl said as affably as his wariness permitted. He reached for the book he had placed on one of the barrels.

“Come for the book. You said a sevenday,” the man said as if he had no faith in that promise. He spoke tonelessly, as if coming for a book was only an excuse.

He kept his lips over his teeth as if hiding them. Pinch’s drawing had not included that detail or the smell of the man: stale sweat, campfires, and beast dung. Nor was he wearing hill-style
clothing. In fact, the black leather jacket and trousers looked barely used, his boots were definitely new, if road-stained. The man sauntered deeper into the yard; Tagetarl following him, trying to give him the book and get him out of his Hall.

“That’ll be three marks,” Tagetarl said, amazed at how even his voice sounded in his ears. Was this Scar-face the leader? The man seemed determined to make a final close assessment. Tagetarl intercepted his circuit, pushing the book at him and holding out an open hand. “Three marks.”

Digging in one pocket of his jacket he wore, Scar-face dropped two full marks and two half marks, all weaver stamped, into Tagetarl’s hand.

“Weaver marks good enough for you, Master Harper?” he asked without the usual inflection of a question.

“MasterPrinter,” Tagetarl corrected automatically. “Weaver marks are well guaranteed!” Shards, did the man want to provoke a fight? Or spread word that the Print Hall disdained weaver marks?

Scar-face took the Ballads from Tagetarl’s hand much as one would cautiously grasp something dirty or repulsive. Tagetarl, loving the books he published so that at times it was hard to sell them on, had to grip hard on the worn marks to prevent himself from grabbing the volume back. The man shoved it roughly into a pocket of his jacket.

“MasterPrinter,” the man said with a queer grin. “You’re kept busy?” He kept darting glances to the Hall and around the courtyard where the genuine apprentices were sweeping the cobbles and tidying up in the Hall. Then his eyes settled briefly at the heavy leaves of the outer gate and his lips twitched across his teeth.

“Busy enough,” Tagetarl admitted, wondering how he could get the man to go. He heard the rumbling of a cart on the road outside, and then saw one being pushed through the outer gate, dropping wisps of the straw that cushioned the wineskins inside. Tagetarl knew very well that he hadn’t ordered anything from his local supplier and was about to protest when he remembered what Pinch had said and turned casually about.

In the moment he had looked away, Scar-face departed.

“Shipment for Master Harper?” the wineman announced, lifting his hand for attention.

“MasterPrinter,” Tagetarl corrected for the second time in a few minutes and wondered why no one could give him his proper rank today.

“Ahem, sorry, sir, MasterPrinter Tagetarl?”

“I am he.” And Tagetarl hoped that Pinch was listening somewhere.

“Promised to deliver this myself,” the stout man said with a hearty air.

“Indeed, and who might have required extra service from a busy man like yourself?” Tagetarl asked, noting the second set of new black leather jacket, pants, and boots of the day. The reek from this man was sour wine but no improvement. He did wear the proper journeyman’s Craft knot. Tagetarl admonished himself that he hadn’t noticed which knot, if any, Scar-face sported.

“You had no message to expect this delivery?” The man looked shocked and pulled up his paunch as if the waistband of the pants needed easing. “Runners are getting lazy.”

Tagetarl heard a muted oath and spotted the shabby drudge collecting the straw wisps.

“As you can see, it’s a fine Benden red,” and the wineman turned the tag for Tagetarl to read.

“Yes, indeed, it is,” and Tagetarl was impressed. “A ’forty-two! Excellent vintage. I shall enjoy that. Whose health do I drink tonight since the donor’s message is overdue?”

“Why, the Lord Holder’s, of course,” the man replied easily.

Tagetarl beckoned for the drudge to put his broom down. “You there, take this into the kitchen and we’ll all drink the health of the Lord Holder tonight. I expect he must be pleased with my latest publications,” he added mendaciously.

“Cellar to cellar is our boast. I’ll take it in myself. Wine needs to be handled carefully.” The wineman held an arm up to discourage assistance.

“Very good of you, I’m sure,” Tagetarl said, sternly motioning the drudge to obey, ensuring that the wineman wouldn’t enter the
hold. “I see you’ve other skins. Would you happen to have a Benden white among them, of a good vintage?” He stepped forward to look at the labels hung from the neck of the skins in the cart.

“No,” and now the false wineman intercepted Tagetarl—every bit as good as a Gather play, Tagetarl thought, experiencing a flash of amusement and stepping back. “Nothing as good as what I’m delivering to you now.”

With unexpected agility, the drudge had deftly got under the wineskin to slip it to his shoulder in a way that would not muddle the wine unnecessarily and, straightening, carried it to the steps and up into the Hall. There was an unmistakable air of disappointment on the wineman’s face. Wanted to have a good look inside, had he? Tagetarl thought.

“Too bad,” Tagetarl said heartily. “Had some marks to spend.” He gripped the weaver circles tightly in his hand. “Do stop by again if you should have a good white ’forty-five,” and maliciously Tagetarl named what he knew had been an inferior year.

“Good choice, Master-ah-Printer.”

Tagetarl escorted him to the outer gate in firm dismissal and watched him push his cart away, up the hill. He sprinted back to the hold then, to see what Pinch—if that had been him under the rags—had done with the wineskin. He was not in the kitchen, which was as well since he could see that Rosheen was busy getting supper. She’d’ve wanted to know where they had acquired a dirty drudge as well as a wineskin. Hearing footsteps echo on the steps down to the under-cellar, Tagetarl followed. When he reached that level, the wineskin had been deposited into one of the flint laundry sinks and the drudge was unwinding his holey tunic and reaching into a belt pouch.

“Carefully pour out a measure, Tag,” Pinch said, drawing out a small vial which Tagetarl knew contained one of those invaluable powders that most long-distance travelers carried to check the potability of stream water.