“He does that to irritate,” she said in a very soft voice, with a ripple of her rich laughter in it. “Most of the time it’s effective.”
“It puts me in mind of the way my milkbrother used to tease me in front of Lytol, when he knew I couldn’t retaliate,” Jaxom said, surprising himself with such an unexpected comparison. He saw her approval in her dancing eyes.
“Trouble is,” Toric was saying, his voice carrying to them, “that the ancients didn’t leave much behind. Not if they could move it elsewhere and use it. Saving people they were!”
“Oh?” F’lar’s exclamation invited Toric to explain.
The Southerner shrugged. “We’ve been through the mine shafts they left. They’d even pulled up the rails for their ore carts, and the brackets where they must have hung lights. One place had a largish shelter at the mouth,” he gestured toward the smallest nearby mound, “about that size, carefully shut against the weather and totally bare inside. Again, you could see where things had been bolted to the floor. They’d prized the bolts out, too.”
“If this thriftiness applies here,” Fandarel said, “then if anything is likely to be found, it will be in those mounds.” He pointed to a smaller cluster on the edge of the settlement nearest the lava flow. “They would have been too hot or too dangerous to approach for a long time.”
“And if too hot to approach, what makes you think anything survived the heat?” Toric demanded.
“Because the mound has survived to this time,” Fandarel replied as if he were only being logical.
Toric regarded him for a moment and then clouted the Smith on the shoulder. He was oblivious to the startled look awarded him by Fandarel, whom men tended to treat with distant respect.
“Point in your favor, Mastersmith,” Toric said. “I’ll dig gladly with you and hope you’re right.”
“I’d like to see what’s in the smaller humps,” Lessa said, wheeling and indicating one. “There are such a lot of them. Maybe they were used as small holds. Surely something would be left behind in the rush to leave.”
“What would they have had in such big places?” F’lar asked, kicking at the grassy roundness of the large one nearest him.
“There’re hands enough and . . .” Toric took three long strides to the pile of digging implements, “plenty of shovels and picks for everyone to take a dig at the mound of his choice.” He picked up a long-handled shovel and tossed it to the Mastersmith, who caught it in a reflex action as he stared, bemused, at the big Southerner. Toric shouldered another shovel, selected two picks and with no more discussion strode toward the cluster of mounds that were the Smith’s choice.
“Presuming Toric’s theory is correct, is it worth digging here?” F’lar asked his weyrmate.
“What we found in that long-forgotten room at Benden Weyr was obviously a discard of the ancients. And after all, mining equipment they could have used elsewhere. Besides, I want to see what’s inside.” Lessa said that with such determination that F’lar laughed.
“I guess I do, too. And I do wonder what they’d do in this size place! It’s big enough to weyr a dragon or two!”
“We’ll help you, Lessa,” Sharra said, urging Jaxom to pick a tool.
“Menolly, shall we assist F’lar?” F’nor directed the Harper girl toward the tools.
N’ton shook his head as he hefted spade and pick. “Master Nicat, what’s your preference?”
The Masterminer looked about him dubiously but his eyes kept returning to the mounds nearest the mountain toward which Toric and Fandarel moved purposefully. “I think our good Mastersmith might have the right of it. But we’ll spread the effort. And try those.” He pointed with sudden decision toward the sea side of the Plateau, where six smallish mounds made a loose circle.
It was not work to which any of them were accustomed despite the fact that Master Nicat had begun as an apprentice miner in the pits, and Master Fandarel still took long turns at the forges when he worked on something particularly intricate.
Jaxom, sweat pouring from his face and body, had the distinct feeling that he was under surveillance. But when he leaned on the pick for an occasional breather, or lifted colonies of grubs safely to one side, he could see no one looking in his direction. The sensation bothered him.
The big one watches you, Ruth said suddenly.
Jaxom shot a glance under his arm at the mound where Toric and Master Fandarel were working and, sure enough, Toric was looking in his direction. Beside him, Lessa groaned suddenly, jamming her shovel blade into the rough-rooted grass of the mound. She examined her hands, reddened and beginning to blister.
“It’s a long time since these have worked so hard,” she said.
“Use your flying gloves?” Sharra suggested.
“A few moments in them and my hands would swim in sweat,” Lessa replied, grimacing. She glanced at the other work parties and, chuckling to herself, sank gracefully to the mound. “Much as I dislike revealing this site to more people than necessary, I think we shall have to recruit strong hands and backs.” She deftly captured a tangle of grubs and deposited them to one side, watching them tunnel back into the rich gray-black soil. She rubbed particles between her thumb and forefinger. “Like ash. Gritty. Never thought I’d be dealing in ashes again. Did I ever tell you, Jaxom, that I was cleaning the fireplace in Ruatha Hold the day your mother arrived?”
“No,” Jaxom said, surprised at this unexpected confidence. “But then, few people ever mention my parents to me.”
Lessa’ s expression became severe. “Now I wonder why I called Fax to mind . . .” she said, glancing in Toric’s direction and adding, more to herself than to Jaxom and Sharra, “except he was ambitious, too. But Fax made mistakes.”
“Such as taking Ruatha Hold from its rightful Bloodline,” Jaxom said, grunting as he swung the pick.
“That was his worst mistake,” Lessa said with intense satisfaction. Then she noticed Sharra staring at her and smiled. “Which I rectified. Oh, Jaxom, leave off a moment. Your enthusiasm exhausts me.” She mopped at the perspiration on her forehead. “Yes, I think some strong backs will have to be drafted. At least for my mound!” She patted it, almost affectionately. “There’s no telling how deep the covering goes. Perhaps,” the thought amused her, “the mounds aren’t big at all, just so overloaded. We may end up with nothing larger than a wherhole for all our digging.”
Jaxom, conscious of Toric’s scrutiny, continued to dig, though his shoulders ached and his hands were hot and stiff with blister.
Just then, Sharra’s two fire-lizards popped into the air, chirruping at each other as if they didn’t understand what their friend was doing. They dropped lightly to the spot where Sharra had just began to dig, their strong forepaws lifting the dirt to either side, their hindquarters pushing it farther out of the way. They had tunneled almost an arm’s length while Lessa, Sharra and Jaxom watched in amazement.
“Ruth? Would you lend us your aid?” Jaxom called.
The white dragon obediently rose from his sunny perch and glided over to his friend, his eyes beginning to whirl more quickly with curiosity.
“Would you mind digging holes for us, Ruth?”
Where? Here? Ruth indicated a spot to the left of the fire-lizards who had not stopped their efforts.
“I don’t think it matters where, we just want to see what the grass covers!”
No sooner had the other dragonriders seen what Ruth was doing than they called on theirs. Even Ramoth felt inclined to lend her aid, with Lessa giving her every encouragement.
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Sharra said to Jaxom. “Dragons digging?”
“Lessa wasn’t too proud to dig, was she?”
“We’re people, but they’re dragons!”
Jaxom couldn’t help laughing at her incredulity. “You’ve got a jaundiced view of dragons, living among the Oldtimers’ lazy beasts.” He caught her about the waist, pulling her toward him before he felt her stiffen. He looked in Toric’s direction. �
��He’s not watching, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“He might not have been,” she pointed skyward, “but his fire-lizards are. I’d wondered where they were.”
A trio of fire-lizards, a golden queen and two bronzes, were circling lazily above Jaxom and Sharra.
“So? I’ll just speak to Master Robinton to mediate . . .”
“Toric has other plans for me . . .”
“Am I not included in your plans?” Jaxom asked, experiencing sudden shock.
“You know you are, which is why . . . we loved each other. I wanted you while I could.” Sharra’s eyes were troubled.
“Why should he interfere then? My rank is . . .” Jaxom took both her hands in his and retained them when she tried to pull away.
“He doesn’t think much of the young Northern men, Jaxom. Not after coping with fairs of younger sons in the past three Turns who are really,” Sharra sounded exasperated, “enough to try the patience of a harper. I know you’re not like them, but Toric . . .”
“I’ll prove myself to Toric, never fear.” Jaxom brought her hands to his lips, holding her eyes with his, determined by the force of his will to banish the unhappiness in her eyes. “And I’ll do it properly, through Lytol and Master Robinton. You will be my lady, won’t you, Sharra?”
“You know I will, Jaxom. For as long as I can . . .”
“For as long as we live . . .” he corrected her, gripping her hands tight enough to make her wince.
“Jaxom! Sharra!” cried Lessa, who had been far too engrossed in Ramoth’s industry to notice their quiet exchange.
Jaxom felt Sharra’s hands struggle but, having decided to confront Toric in all his arrogance, Jaxom was not about to defer before Lessa. He kept a tight hold on Sharra as they turned toward the Weyrwoman.
“Come and see. Ramoth has struck something solid. And it doesn’t look like rock . . .”
Jaxom pulled Sharra up the slight incline to Lessa’s side of the mound. Ramoth was sitting back on her haunches, peering over Lessa to look into the trench her forepaws had scored.
“Move your head slightly, Ramoth. You’re in my light,” Lessa said. “Here, take my shovel, Jaxom, and see what you think. Clear out a bit more dirt.”
Jaxom jumped into a trench which reached to mid-thigh. “Feels solid enough,” he said, pressing his weight down before he tapped with the shovel. “Sounds like stone?” But it didn’t. The shovel thunked echoingly. Scraping clear a long swath, Jaxom stepped aside for all to see.
“F’lar, come here! We’ve reached something!”
“So have we!” came the Weyrleader’s triumphant reply.
There was a mutual inspection from one dragon-dug trench to the other which exposed much the same material, except that in F’lar’s case the rocklike substance had an amber panel set into the curve of the mound. Finally the Mastersmith raised his huge arms above his head and roared for silence.
“This is not efficient use of time and energy.” A loud guffaw, almost contemptuous in agreement, came from Toric. “It is not funny,” the Smith said at his most serious. “We will concentrate on Lessa’s mound since it is smaller. Then we will work on Master Nicat’s and then . . .” He pointed to his own choice as Toric interrupted.
“All in one day?” he asked, again with a tone of supercilious derision that irritated Jaxom.
“We will do as much as we can, certainly, so let us begin!”
Jaxom decided that the Smith chose to ignore Toric’s attitude, an example for him to follow.
It also proved inefficient to have more than two dragons working on Lessa’s small mound since it was scarcely longer than a dragon. So F’lar and N’ton urged their bronzes to help Master Nicat.
By midafternoon the curving sides of Lessa’s mound had been unearthed to the original floor of the valley. Six panels, three on an arc of the curved roof, tantalized, but their surface, once undoubtedly transparent, was now badly scored and darkened. Attempts to see through to the interior were vain. Disappointing, but no openings were found on the long sides so one end was promptly dug out. The dragons, despite the gray-black dust that now dulled their hides, showed no sign of fatigue and considerable interest in this unlikely task. And shortly the access was unearthed.
A door, made of an opaque form of the material used in the roof panels, slid across the opening on rails. The dirt-clogged tracks had to be cleared and dragon-hide oil applied to the runners before the door could be forced wide enough to permit entry. Lessa, all set to enter first, was restrained by the Smith’s hand.
“Wait! The air inside is sick with age! Smell! Let fresh air in first. The place has been shut who knows how many Turns!”
The Smith, Toric and N’ton, set their shoulders to the door and forced it fully open. The air that flooded out was fetid, and Lessa stepped back, sneezing and coughing. Dim rectangles of tan light fell on a dusty floor, touched cracked and water-stained walls. As Lessa and F’lar, followed by the others, made their way into the small building, dust swirled under their boots.
“What was it for?” Lessa asked in a hushed voice.
Toric, unnecessarily ducking his head, for the top of the doorway cleared even his height by another hand’s breadth, pointed to a far corner, to the now-visible remnants of a wide, wooden frame.
“Someone could have slept on that!” He turned to the other corner, and then with a sudden movement that made Lessa gasp, he stooped and came up with an object which he then made a show of presenting to her. “A treasure from the past!”
“It’s a spoon!” Lessa held it up for all to see, then ran her fingers over its shape. “But what’s it made of? It’s no metal I’ve ever seen. Certainly it’s not wood. It’s more like . . . like the panels, and the door, only transparent. But it’s strong,” and she tried to bend it.
The Smith asked to examine the spoon. “It does seem to be a similar material. Spoons and windows, huh? Hmmmm!”
Overcoming a sense of awe at being inside such an ancient place, everyone began to examine the interior. Shelves and cabinets had once hung on the walls, for marks of paint left outlines. The structure had once been partitioned into sections and there were distinct gouges in the tough material of the floor to indicate that large permanent objects had rested here and there. In one corner, Fandarel discovered circular outlets, leading down. When he checked the exterior, he had to assume that the piping went through the wall and underground. One, he maintained, was undoubtedly for water. But the other four puzzled him.
“Surely they can’t all be empty!” Lessa said in a wistful tone, trying to hide a disappointment that everyone, Jaxom thought, was experiencing.
“One can assume,” Fandarel said in a brisk voice when they had all left Lessa’s building, “that many of these of the same shape were also living quarters for the ancients. They would, I feel, take all their personal things with them I think we ought then to devote more effort to the larger or the much smaller places?”
Then, without waiting to see if anyone concurred with his opinion, the Smith marched straight to the interrupted excavation of Nicat’s mound. This building was square and once they had uncovered enough of the top to notice the same roof panels, they concentrated their efforts on the inner end. The tropical night was quickly descending when they finally unearthed the entrance, but they couldn’t quite clear the door tracks to open it more than a crack. They were barely able to make out some sort, of decorations on the walls. No one had thought to bring glow baskets with them and this second disappointment drained the last of their energy so that no one even suggested sending fire-lizards for glows.
Leaning against the half-open panel, Lessa gave a tired laugh and looked down at her muddied condition.
“Ramoth says she’s tired and dirty and wants a bath.”
“She’s not the only one,” F’lar promptly agreed. He made a vain effort to close the door, then laughed. “I don’t suppose anything will happen overnight. Back to Cove Hold.”
“You
’ll join us, Toric?” Lessa asked, cocking her head to look up at the big Southerner.
“I think not this evening, Lessa. I’ve a Hold to manage and cannot always please myself,” he said. Jaxom saw the Southerner’s eyes on him, the implication obvious to Jaxom. “All things being equal, I’ll return tomorrow for a time to see if Fandarel’s mound proves more profitable. Shall I bring more strong hands and spare your dragons?”
“Spare the dragons? They’re enjoying themselves hugely,” Lessa said. “I need the relief. What do you think, F’lar? Or should we draft some Benden riders?”
“I can appreciate that you’d like to keep this for yourself,” Toric went on smoothly, his eyes on F’lar.
“This Plateau will have to be available to everyone,” F’lar said, ignoring Toric’s implication. “And since dragons enjoy earth-moving . . .”
“I’d like to bring Benelek with me tomorrow, F’lar,” said the Mastersmith, rubbing his gray-mudded hands together and flicking the dried pellets off his clothes. “And two other lads with good imaginations . . .”
“Imagination? Yes, you’ll need a lot of that here to make sense out of what the ancients have left for you,” Toric said, the faintest hint of scorn in his tone. “When you’re ready. D’ram?”
For some reason Toric’s manner toward the old Weyrleader was more-respectful than to anyone else. At least to Jaxom’s sensitive ears. He was inwardly seething over Toric’s insinuation that he did not manage his own Hold but pleased himself. He seethed because it was a valid accusation. Yet why, Jaxom sought to console himself, would anyone have expected him to return tamely to Ruatha, which prospered under Lytol’s expert management, when all the excitement in the world was happening here? He felt Sharra’s fingers curl around his arm, and he reminded himself of his own analogy between Toric and Dorse.
“I’ll have a job getting Ruth clean,” he said with a rueful sigh as he undid Sharra’s fingers from his arm and clasped them tightly, drawing her with him to Ruth.
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 104
