The Skies of Pern (5 page)

“I’m F’lessan, Golanth’s rider, of Benden.”

“Yes,” she said, shooting him a sharp look. Her eyes were set at an unusual upward slant, but she looked away so quickly he couldn’t see what color they were. Oddly enough, she flushed. “I know.” She seemed to gather breath to continue. “Zaranth just told me that Golanth had apologized for disturbing her nap on the ledge.” She flicked him another almost contrite glance, awkwardly clasping her left wrist with her right hand so that the knuckles turned white.

F’lessan grinned in his most ingratiating fashion. “By nature, Golanth is very considerate.” He gave a little bow and gestured toward the volume open on the reading desk. “Don’t let me disturb your studies. I’ll be over there.” He pointed to the far right.

He could just as easily work in the alcove as in the main room and not intrude on her solitude. In no time at all he had collected three of the records he thought most likely to contain the information he sought, and brought them to the smaller reading desk in the alcove. A narrow window gave him a view of the eastern hills and the barest sparkle of the sea. He seated himself, placed the piece of paper that he had brought with him on the table, and started riffling through the thinly coated plastic pages of the COM Tower records. He was looking for one name: Stev Kimmer, listed in the colony records as Stakeholder on Bitkim Island, now called Ista Hold. He needed to find any connection between Kimmer and Kenjo Fusaiyuki, who had been the original Honshu Stakeholder.

In his careful clearing of debris in the ancient dwelling place, he had found the initials SK carved or etched on several surfaces: on the metal worktop in the garage of the ancient sled and on several drawers. No other inhabitant had defaced or initialed anything. The only SK not listed as going north in the Second Crossing—when the Thread-beleaguered colonists had resettled at Fort—was Stev Kimmer. Previous research revealed that the man had disappeared with a sled after Ted Tubberman’s illegal launch of an appeal for help from old Earth. Kimmer had not been seen
again. The loss of a functional sled had been officially regretted; Kimmer’s absence had not.

The interesting point in F’lessan’s earlier search was that Ita Fusaiyuki had continued to hold at Honshu and resisted every invitation to move north with her children. Other colonists, like those at Ierne Island and some of the smaller holds in Dorado, had hung on in the south as long as they could. Eventually all, save perhaps those at Honshu, had immigrated. There had been no reference to Honshu or the Fusaiyukis in the early records at Fort Hold.

The initials, S and K, were distinctively carved. F’lessan needed to find any other samples of Stev Kimmer’s handwriting to be sure of his identification. Not that it mattered, except to him. With atypical zeal, F’lessan yearned to complete the history of Honshu itself as accurately as possible: who had lived there, when they had left, where they had gone, and why.

Honshu was also an excellent example of colonial self-sufficiency. Clearly it had been occupied by quite a few people and designed for many more: a whole floor of bedrooms had never been furnished. Then, all at once and in some hurry, considering details like drawers left pulled out in a workshop that had otherwise been meticulously kept, everyone had left. Twelve of them at least. To judge by strands of moldering material, even garments had been left behind, folded on the shelves, in drawers, or hanging in closets. The fact that all the utensils were still stored and hung about the capacious kitchen argued that, wherever the inhabitants had gone, they hadn’t needed to bring along household equipment. Storage canisters filled with desiccated remnants indicated that few, if any, staples had been taken. There were homely artifacts like rusted needles, pins, and scissors. There had been no human bones to suggest a sudden annihilation from attack or disease.

Although all the other entrances to the interior of Honshu had been shut, the heavy doors to the beasthold had been propped open, suggesting that the ancients had released their livestock but had left the creatures access to a refuge.

He turned page after page of the daily comings and goings from Landing, neatly recorded by the Tower duty officers. He
saw again the reference to Kimmer’s defection with a much-needed operational sled.

F’lessan had already tried to find any notes in Kimmer’s handwriting from his time as Stakeholder at Bitkim. There had been none from either him or Avril Bitra about their mining operations, though the Minercrafthall still excavated the occasional fine gemstones from the clay at their original site.

He closed the final volume with a frustrated soft
whoosh
, and then glanced apologetically over his shoulder for disturbing the quiet. He noticed that the surface of Tai’s worktable was covered with bound volumes. Idly he wondered if she was having any more luck with her research than he was. Craning his neck he could read the spine on the book facing in his direction: Volume 35—YOKO 13.20–28/. The last four digits, which would be the relevant Turn, had been overwritten in red marker to read 2520. The correction had been made in the precise numerals only Master Esselin could produce.

Stuffing the note with the replica of the initials back into his belt pocket, he rose with quiet agility, trying not to scrape the chair on the stone floor. Collecting the volumes he had been consulting, he returned them to the proper shelf. He stood for a moment, fists jammed into his belt, glaring at the rows of records that would not produce the answer to his puzzle. Was there a reason why he had to identify SK? Who would care? He did, for some obscure reason he didn’t understand. He made sure the books were properly aligned on the shelf. Master Esselin was very particular about how his precious volumes were returned.

Hearing Tai get to her feet and push back her chair, F’lessan swiveled around to see her picking up the outsized book she had been studying. She hefted it up, pirouetting gracefully on tiptoe to return it to the special shelf in the case behind her.

“I hope you had better luck,” he said with a rueful grin.

Startled, she lost her grip on the awkward, heavy tome. One edge was wedged against the lower shelf. She struggled to get it up again and into its assigned place, but her hand slipped. Knowing how difficult Master Esselin could be about damage to any artifact in his custody, F’lessan leaped across to catch the volume, just managing to keep one corner from impacting on the stone floor.

“Not a bad save, if I say so myself,” he said, grinning up at her. Why was she regarding him as if he were dangerous? Or shifty? “I’ve got it. Allow me?” With what he sincerely hoped was a cheerful smile, he took the volume from her nerveless fingers and shoved it safely into place.

That was when he saw the raw scrapes on the back of her left hand.

“That looks nasty. Seen a healer?” he asked. He reached out to examine the injury, at the same time fumbling in his belt pouch for numbweed.

She tried to pull free of his grasp.

“Tai, did I hurt you?” he asked, instantly releasing her fingers. He quickly displayed the distinctive green glass jar used for numbweed.

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t try that on me,” he said, mock stern. “I’ll get Golanth to make Zaranth tell on you.”

She blinked rapidly in surprise. “It’s just a scrape.”

“This is Southern, Tai, and you should know by now that even well-tended wounds can develop some peculiar infections.” He cocked his head at her, wondering if he should try a coaxing smile. He had the jar open and passed it under her nose. “Smell? Just reliable old numbweed. Fresh made this spring. My own private supply.” He used the tone that had been effective with his sons when they were tots. He held out his hand again, palm up, wriggling his fingers to overcome her reluctance. “Someone might grab that hand later when you’re dancing and that’d really hurt.” As if on cue, music from the square swelled into an audible finale.

She relented and, almost meekly, extended her hand. He lifted
his palm up to steady her fingers as he turned the numbweed jar over the scrape, waiting for a glob of the semiliquid stuff to ooze down.

“It’s easier to let it take its own time,” he remarked idly, all too aware of her nervousness. The gouges weren’t deep, he noticed, but went from knuckles to wrist. She should have taken care of it immediately. It was, he judged from long experience with injuries, several hours old. Why had she ignored it?

She gave a little gasp as the cool numbweed flowed. Expertly, F’lessan tilted her fingers and they both watched the salve slowly cover the scratches.

“At Turnover one is more apt to require fellis for overindulgence than numbweed.” That wasn’t a particularly clever remark, F’lessan said to himself and gave his head a little shake. “There! That’ll prevent infection.”

“I didn’t realize it was quite so bad. I was in a hurry, you see.” She gave the reading room a quick glance.

“Trying to work without interruption.” He chuckled, hoping that wouldn’t offend her as much as his smile seemed to. “That’s why I’m here. No, wait a few moments longer to let the numbweed set,” he added when she started to move.

He pulled out a chair, indicating that she should seat herself as he dragged another over for himself, switching it around so he could straddle it, resting his arms on the top. She propped her arm on the table, watching as the numbweed changed from clear to opaque on the scrape. Trying to appear more solicitous than overbearing, he let the silence lengthen, wondering what he could ask without giving additional offense. He didn’t usually have problems striking up conversations. He was beginning to wonder if he should have just left her alone in the reading room. Just then the significance of all those
Yoko
records made sense.

“May I ask why you’re interested in the Ghosts?”

She stared at him in such astonishment that her mouth, with its very well shaped lips, fell slightly open. He gestured.

“Why else would anyone be looking over Turns of the end of the thirteenth month? When the Ghost Showers occur?”

She looked everywhere but at him and then, suddenly, blurted out, “I often do some research for Master Wansor and he’d heard
that the Ghosts—which we can’t see down here—but you’d know about them since you’re from Benden—” she stopped, swallowing as if she’d said something untoward.

“Yes, I know that they are not visible here in the southern hemisphere, and yes, they do appear extremely bright and numerous right now. I did notice. In fact, many people have noticed,” he went on encouragingly, “but, having lived in Benden Weyr all my life, I remember that on other occasions, they have been as bright and as numerous. I have studied some astronomy, so would a Benden dragonrider not totally untutored in his local starscape be any help to you?”

“Personal observations are always admissible,” she said rather primly. “Others have noted,” and she gave him the ghost of a smile, pointing to several of the volumes, “their brightness and numbers occur in cycles of seven Turns.”

“That’s right, because I was three when I saw the pretty lights and asked about them, and this is the fifth time I’ve seen them so brightly in their hundreds. Here, I’ll help you put those heavy books away. Spare irritating your hand.”

She seemed about to hesitate, but he stacked five volumes deftly on one arm and walked to the proper shelf. She hastily gathered up more.

“Did you have any luck with your research?” she asked when they had finished racking.

“Actually, no,” he said. “But there may not be a source.”

“With all this?” She indicated the full ranks of shelving around them.

“Aivas didn’t know everything,” he said, once again managing to startle her. “That’s not heretical, you realize, because he couldn’t have recorded anything after the Second Crossing.”

“I know.”

There was an odd note in that simple agreement that he didn’t dare query.

“The answer to my puzzle probably doesn’t even exist,” he added.

“What puzzle?” She inclined her body slightly in his direction.

Ah, she’s curious. That’s good. “Initials.” He reached into his belt and found the slip of paper. “S.K.” He smoothed it out to
show her. She frowned slightly, puzzled but not totally reserved. “I believe the initials are Stev Kimmer’s,” he said.

She blinked. “Who?”

“A real villain—”

“Oh! The man who absconded with a functional sled after the Tubberman launch?”

“You know your history.”

She flushed, ducking her head. “I was very fortunate to be accepted to the Landing School.”

“You were? I hope you were a better student than I was.”

“But you were already a rider,” she said, startled into looking directly at him. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green.

He grinned. “That didn’t necessarily mean I was a good student. If you’re still studying,” and he gestured at the shelving, “then you learned good habits. Did you stay on here when you finished schooling?”

She glanced away from him, and he couldn’t imagine what he had said to alarm her.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I was fortunate. You see,” she explained hesitantly, “my father brought us all here. From Keroon. He was a Smithcraft journeyman and helped—here.”

“Oh?” F’lessan drawled the exclamation out encouragingly when she faltered.

“My brothers were his apprentices, and my mother took my sister and me to the school, in case we were lucky enough to be accepted. My sister didn’t like school.”

“Not everyone does,” F’lessan said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Her quick glance gave him the impression that she had taken to learning as a fire-lizard to the air. “So …?” he prompted.

“Then, during the last Turn when everyone at Admin was so busy, Master Samvel sent me here to work. My father was anxious to find a good place to hold and they went off.”

And, F’lessan thought from the sorrow in the set of her shoulders and dejected attitude, she had never heard from them again.

“Did anyone look for them?”