“Mmm, you’ve a point,” D’gan admitted. With a wave of his hand he tossed the matter aside. “Give my wingman your requirements and we’ll see.”
Tarik took D’gan’s words for a dismissal and was relieved to deal with D’gan’s second, a reasonable man who asked few questions.
Still, it was a distraction having to remember every jot and tittle needed to run the mines; he made a note to himself to find someone to act as scribe.
It was a sevenday before the injured lad recovered. He still couldn’t speak, but Tarik was pleased to discover that the lad could write and immediately set him to work compiling the lists of supplies needed to run the mines.
The extra help was not enough to relieve Tarik’s worries. D’gan’s constant demands and Tenim’s nocturnal visits kept him jittery and on edge.
“Who’s this?” Tenim asked when he spotted the silent lad keeping pace beside Tarik.
“Someone the dragonmen dumped on me,” Tarik replied with a shrug. “He helps me manage supplies.”
Tenim peered at the lad for a moment longer in the dark night, then ignored him, turning back to Tarik. “Why not put him in the mines with the others?”
“Because between you and D’gan, I’m managing over thirty men—” There was a note of pride in his voice. “—and I need help with the records.”
“Suit yourself,” Tenim said. “But you’d better be shorting D’gan this one’s share of the firestone, not me.”
“The lad’s saved me so much time, I’m thinking of opening another shaft.”
“Another shaft?” Tenim asked, looking askance. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“I’ll need to if I’m to meet your demands.”
“If you do, then D’gan will get suspicious.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Tarik protested angrily. “There are so many working now that I’m afraid they’ll trip over each other and cause an explosion. And you know what that would mean.”
Tenim cocked his head thoughtfully. It was a moment before he replied, “Yes, that would be a tragedy wouldn’t it?
“Do you know,” he went on, his eyes glinting in the dark, “I think you should have four tonnes of firestone ready for me when I get back.”
“Four tonnes?” Tarik repeated in amazement. He spluttered, “But—but—”
“I have to guard my investment,” Tenim told him calmly. “It’s important that I have a reserve in case something happens to my stockpile.”
“Stockpile? I thought you had a buyer.”
“Several,” Tenim lied cheerfully. “Which is why I have a stockpile.” He nodded curtly to Tarik, saying, “So. Four tonnes in two days’ time.” With that, he turned away, ignoring all of the inarticulate noises coming from Tarik.
It was easy for Tenim to do so because he was busily plotting. How much would he get if there was no supply of fresh firestone? How much would his stockpile be worth then?
It had surprised him to discover how difficult it was to find a buyer for his firestone, given how all the other Weyrs had complained about D’gan’s stinginess. Tenim had been convinced that it would be easy, and profitable, to sell firestone, so he was much surprised to discover that neither was the case. In fact, Tenim had considered abandoning the effort altogether and switching to a different venture. But now…
Tenim returned to his calculations. How much could he get for a hundredweight of firestone?
“Firestone?” Sidar repeated with a horrified look on his face. “You’ve got firestone?”
Tenim didn’t move a muscle. He’d come to Sidar after exhausting all his other resources. The man was known to cheat, steal, and murder for his profit—methods Tenim preferred to reserve to himself—but when he paid, he paid well.
“Where do you store it?” Sidar asked, looking around the room carefully. “The stuff explodes with the merest contact with water.”
“Like this?” Tenim asked, throwing a small pebble into one of the cauldrons hanging over the hearth. There was a small hiss, followed by a bluish flare.
“Shells, are you mad?” Sidar asked, jumping to his feet. “If the dragonriders catch you, you’ll be Shunned for certain.”
“So will you,” Tenim said in bored tones. “In fact, one must wonder how you’ve done so well as to avoid it so far.”
“Indeed, particularly when one considers the full implications,” Sidar agreed, his lips twisted into a small smile as he countered Tenim’s implied threat.
Tenim waved aside the issue, saying, “The question remains—how much will you pay?”
“Pay?” Sidar asked incredulously. “For something that might explode at any moment? Are you mad?”
“No,” Tenim said. “It’s not just that firestone bursts into flame so easily—it’s that firestone’s the only thing that dragons can use to flame Thread.”
“They can always get more,” Sidar replied sourly.
“And what if they couldn’t get more?” Tenim asked. “What would firestone be worth then?”
“All Pern depends upon the dragons,” Sidar replied. His tone made it clear that Tenim had overstepped his bounds.
Tenim shrugged. “Only when Thread is in the sky,” he replied, and glanced up to the ceiling. “The Red Star is still a long way off.”
“All the more reason for the dragons to train now,” Sidar replied. He rose, indicating that the discussion was at an end. “No, your best bet is to return those goods whence they came and get far away before—”
“Before what?” Tenim interjected, his arm twitching slightly in the dim light. Suddenly he had a dagger in his hand. He toyed with it and glanced up innocently at Sidar asking, “Would there be a problem?”
“Leave,” Sidar growled undisturbed by Tenim’s sudden display of a weapon. “Leave before you find yourself as lifeless as your wares.”
“It was Tenim,” Halla declared as she stood up from her examination of the footprints surrounding the tracks of the stolen workdray. They were at a trader camp just north of Keogh, a smaller hold to the southwest of Crom.
“Are you sure?” Veran asked.
“He taught me how to track,” Halla told him.
“Did he teach you how to steal, too?”
“He tried,” Halla said. “I didn’t like it much.” She cast her gaze in the direction of the tracks. “It looks like he was heading due north.”
“We didn’t find anything that way,” Veran told her.
“He would have found a way to hide the tracks,” Halla said.
“There are no roads in that direction; he couldn’t get far.”
Halla nodded to indicate that she heard him, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Why would Tenim steal a workdray? She could understand his desire to take one of the brightly colored domicile drays for himself or his profit, but what would he need a workdray for?
“—that workdray could only haul two tonnes at best,” Veran was saying. “We’ll absorb the loss. It won’t hurt as much as if he’d taken a larger one, and it wasn’t even loaded.”
“Not loaded?” Halla repeated bemusedly.
“In that respect we were lucky; there was a larger one right next to it, fully loaded with Cromcoal.”
What would Tenim want to haul away, if not Cromcoal? Halla wondered. What could be more valuable than that?
“Could I get some supplies?” Halla asked, turning back from her inspection of the distant trail after being certain to memorize sufficient landmarks.
“Supplies?” Veran asked. “What are you going to do?”
“I think I’ll see what Tenim is doing,” Halla told him.
Veran looked dubious. “That doesn’t sound much like what I heard Lord Fenner ask of you.”
“How will the traders react when the word gets around that someone like Tenim has stolen one of your drays?”
“Word’s already gotten around,” Veran confessed. Sheepishly he added, “And we traders are none too happy about it.”
“So how will the traders feel when
they hear that the dray was tracked down by someone else like Tenim and returned to its rightful owners?”
Veran gave her a long, thoughtful long. “Are you sure you’ve only twelve Turns?”
Halla shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been told,” she said. “I’m not certain.”
“Not certain,” Veran muttered to himself. “That’s not right.”
Halla nodded, saying, “That’s what Lord Fenner said, too.”
“He’s a good man, Lord Fenner,” Veran said by way of agreement. He looked down at Halla and frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be able to track him?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And what if he finds you?”
“He won’t,” Hall declared, trying to sound calm. “I’m a better tracker.”
Veran looked at her a long time before responding, with a sigh, “I just hope you’re a better tracker than you are a liar.”
Halla smiled up at him and patted his arm. “I am, honestly.” She paused a moment, then asked, “So, can I get those supplies?”
“You want to leave now?”
“Soonest is best,” Halla said. She gestured to the trail. “The trail’s days old; I can’t wait—it might get wiped out.”
Veran shook his head reluctantly. “Maybe you’d better reconsider. There’s been rain since that dray was stolen; there probably aren’t any tracks.”
“I’ve got to try,” Halla replied.
“It was a good idea of yours, my lord, to send the extra supplies,” Tarik told D’gan when next they met, knowing full well that it had been the other way around but now recognizing the need to flatter the Weyrleader. He put an arm around his aide’s shoulder. “This one has turned out to be a real timesaver when it comes to toting up tallies.”
“Has he?” D’gan drawled in icy tones. “And here I’d hoped to see him get more firestone to protect Pern.”
Tarik blanched. “Well, my lord, in a way he has. By freeing me up to work more on mining chores than on numbers, I’ve been able to up our output.”
“Really?” D’gan turned away from the busy mine shaft to the firestone dump opposite it where weyrlings were carefully loading up sacks full of firestone and disappearing between. “I could scarcely believe that from the amount of firestone you’re storing.”
“We need more bags,” Tarik told him. Beside him the silent youth gave him an odd look, which vanished before either Tarik or D’gan could comment upon it.
“More bags?” D’gan repeated. “We brought in more than enough bags.”
“Well, some of them have ripped,” Tarik told him nervously.
“Have someone repair them,” D’gan ordered. He waved a hand at the silent youth. “Him, for example.”
Tarik’s mouth worked up a protest, but under D’gan’s glare, he never voiced it, instead bobbing his head obediently.
“Seeing as you’re doing so much better,” D’gan continued, “I think we should expect more firestone from this mine.”
He looked around appraisingly. “You’ve done well,” the dragonrider admitted. “I think you’ll have no problem producing another tonne before we next arrive.”
Tarik’s face went white. Feebly, he stammered, “My lord?”
D’gan nodded firmly. “Yes, I think that will do nicely.” He turned to look Tarik in the eye. “My men need a good full Weyr training, so we’ll have the extra sacks for you.”
“Yes, my lord,” was all Tarik could say in response. Irritably he waved at the teen standing at his side. “You, go start fixing those torn firestone sacks.”
“And be sure to do a good job,” D’gan added.
The youth gave Tarik an inscrutable look, then nodded, handed Tarik his slates, and headed toward the shed where the firestone sacks were stored.
Neither D’gan nor Tarik paid the youth any attention while the firestone was being ferried away. D’gan turned down Tarik’s feeble offer of refreshment with a sneering, “We send you the swill that’s deemed unfit for dragonriders. Why do you think I’d want some now?”
Finally the last of the sacks were gone and D’gan took his leave, allowing an exhausted Tarik a few hours of respite. Irritably he sought out the silent boy and thrust a stack of new slates at him. “If you didn’t keep count of what the dragonriders took, I’ll tan your hide.”
The silent youth nodded and quickly made new marks on the slates he’d been handed. Disgusted at the lad’s diligence, Tarik cuffed his head—“Just to keep you on your toes.”
To his surprise, the blow rocked the small youth. Slates fell everywhere—some shattered.
“Now you’ve done it,” Tarik growled as the lad tried desperately to collect all the slates. “If you don’t have this fixed by dusk, you’ll spend the night in the stocks, do you hear me?”
With a sullen look, the boy nodded and scampered off toward his work tent.
Alone for a moment, Tarik heaved a deep sigh. He looked around him: The once green valley was now a dry, dirty bowl dotted only with stone sheds, tents, and tracks for the carts—all his.
A screech from the sky brought Tarik’s attention back from his musings. He looked up and picked out a black dot moving swiftly in the dark sky above him. Tenim was on his way. It was time to rouse the night crew.
Wearily he turned and trudged off to the secret meeting place. He was halfway there before he paused, swearing, and turned back. He’d forgotten his scribe!
Tarik stood torn between being late and doing without the lad’s handy services, before finally muttering, “I don’t need him.”
He failed to notice a small figure lurking in the shadows beside him. As Tarik turned back to his trail, the figure silently followed him.
“You’re late,” Tenim snarled when Tarik arrived. He looked around. “Where’s your shadow?”
“Huh?” Tarik muttered. “Oh, the lad!” he exclaimed when enlightenment dawned. Hastily, he lied, “In the stocks.”
“Good,” Tenim said. “I never liked him. You should consider keeping him there—he knows too much.”
“He’s useful,” Tarik protested. “He saves me a lot of work.”
“He could tell D’gan all about us,” Tenim responded, “and all you worry about is your comfort.”
“He won’t talk,” Tarik replied. “Shells, he can’t talk.”
“Can’t talk?” Tenim asked, cocking his head in sudden interest.
“Not a sound,” Tarik said. “At first I thought it was from whatever hurt him. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Tenim grew quite still as his thoughts outpaced him. Could this be the egg carrier come back to life?
“No matter,” he said aloud. He would merely kill the boy again, along with everyone else. Yes, that would work. Tidily. He turned to Tarik, another dead man, and said, “Have you got my firestone?”
“Our firestone,” Tarik corrected. “Of course.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Tenim replied. He pointed into the shadows. Tarik could just barely make out the outline of a workdray, a patch of darkness in the shadows. “Get your lads to fill it up.”
Tarik nodded. With a whistle, he roused the children Tenim had provided. He unhitched the whip he kept looped off his belt and gave it a loud crack. Shadows shuffled out around them. Suddenly the dim light of a glow could be seen shining eerily in the night like a dragon’s giant eye.
“Bring the dray over and start loading,” Tarik called. He turned back to Tenim. “They’ll be no use for any other work tonight.”
“No use, why?” Tenim asked. He pointed to Tarik’s whip. “Can’t you use that?”
“Not in the mines,” Tarik replied. A pair of youths passed by grunting as they hauled a full firestone sack between them. “It might make sparks.”
“And sparks are bad?”
“Of course,” Tarik said. “In fact, there’s so much gas building up that we’ll have to get more pumps soon or risk an explosion.” He frowned, adding, “We’ve had a few close calls already; workers have been pa
ssing out from the fumes, and we’ve had to wait until we can fan in more fresh air.”
Tenim said nothing in response, preferring to watch the dray’s loading. The conversation died off until the dray was loaded and the workbeasts, gaunt old things, were hitched up.
“I’ll see you soon,” Tenim told Tarik.
“You’ll not need more firestone?” Tarik asked in surprise.
“No,” Tenim told him. “I think you’ve done enough.”
A look of relief, almost gratitude, crossed Tarik’s face, plainly visible in the light of Pern’s two moons. Then relief was replaced by suspicion. “When will you be back?”
“Soon,” Tenim repeated, flicking the reins to urge the workbeasts on. As the dray moved off, Tarik resignedly turned back to the work of the dawning day.
When he arrived back at the camp, he banged on the work tent where he’d last seen his scribe.
“Boy! Wake up, boy! It’s time for work,” he shouted, determined that as soon as he had everyone working hard enough, he would allow himself a well-deserved rest.
When, after several moments, the boy did not stir, Tarik stuck his head inside the tent, shouting, “Boy, you’d best hope—” But the tent was empty.
Tarik’s swearing was enough to rouse the rest of the camp.
The boy, who had been following Tarik earlier in the evening, watched Tenim’s departure carefully, noting the direction the young man took. He was about to return to the camp when he noticed that Tenim had stopped. Why?
Curious, he silently moved toward the workdray. He stopped abruptly when he spotted a figure walking back toward him. Tenim. He was carrying something on his arm.
“Remember how I taught you, Grief.” Tenim’s voice drifted clearly on the early morning air. “The water buckets.”
They were on the hill overlooking the firestone camp and the dam that had been one of Tarik’s earliest projects. Tenim stepped closer. The boy recognized the bird on his arm and the partly filled firestone sack hanging from his shoulder.
Dragon's Fire Page 28
