WeyrWatch Chatper 11-12-13

B'ton blinked awake, momentarily disoriented as the light was coming from the wrong side of the room. Next to him Jurille sleepily murmured something about bogberries as she nestled deeper in her sleeping furs. B'ton smiled softly over at her, tenderly smoothing a stray silver shot lock from her face.

Did you sleep well? Wubath, inquired, sunning himself just below the watchheights.

Better than well, my thanks. How is the Weyr?

Quiet, but the Lower Caverns are rousing. Wubath took pride in being an early riser, although B'ton suspected it was mostly to get prime sunning spots.

Good. B'ton was about to sink back into sweet slumber when Wubath showed him the image of the Weyrhealer heading for the Weyrwoman's weyr. Does he wish to speak to me or Jurille?

I shall ask. Wubath, like other dragons, found talking to the Weyrhealer far easier than talking to other non-riders.

He wishes to speak to the both of you.

With a sigh B'ton sat up and tickled Jurille awake.

"Mmmm...? Morning already?" She asked, then yawned.

"Zandur wants to talk with us." B'ton explained, locating his pants on the floor.

"Of course he does." Jurille grimaced good naturedly, and sat up to collect her shift from the end of the bed. "Call down for some klah, please."

B'ton nodded as Jurille pulled on her shift and twisted her hair up into a bun, when there was a cough at the entrance of the weyr.

"Come in, Zandur." Jurille said, slipping on her sandals and padding out to meet him in the sitting room, as B'ton called down the service shaft.

The service shaft rumbled causing B'ton to miss the Healer's greeting in so much as he offered one. Pulling his tunic over his head he listened as Jurille made soothing noises, then picked up the tray and joined them. The Weyrwoman sat on one couch as the Weyrhealer sat on the opposite one. B'ton placed the tray on the low table in the middle. Jurille poured the klah and offered the first one to Zandur, who accepted with a sour expression.

"What can we do for you?" Jurille asked, her tone still soothing.

"I want your leave to attend the three holds we discussed before Fall." The Healer said without preamble.

"That's doable. I can assign a Weyrling-" B'ton began.

"I want C'bay and Mirrth permanently assigned to me." Zandur interrupted.

"Why?" Jurille beat B'ton to the question.

"Because you're not using them, and you know full well that they aren't going to grow anymore." He glared so hard at them that both Wubath and Graesth woke up, and asked their riders what was wrong.

"Well, Master Cici, did deem her a throwback-" B'ton said defensively, then flinched as the Weyrhealer slammed down his mug.

"That is precisely the problem! That word! You've destroyed a perfectly good dragonpair with one word!" Zandur's grey eyes flashed with fury. "So what, she can't last out a Fall, no green can! So what that she's small? She's also the fastest dragon in the Weyr, just ask any of the other dragons! Your refusal to let them participate in their primary function is destroying them! What is their purpose for existence, now that you deem them unworthy to fight Thread? Give them to me, let every holder associate them with me, so that at every Gather and among every ground crew Mirrth is instantly identified with Healercraft. Let C'bay become the face of help, even if I'm not immediately accessible- Mirrth can speak to me as easily as he does C'bay and the lad far more affable than myself. I may not be as exciting as Threadfall, but I can be the purpose you have stolen from them." Finished with his little tirade, Zandur refilled his mug and drank it while Weyrleader and the Weyrwoman collected their shattered thoughts in stunned silence. Jurille turned and met B'ton's glance.

"You- that is, we can do that." She said when B'ton didn't offer any objections.

"Good," with a curt nod Zandur strode out of the weyr.

"How long has C'bay been out of the Weyrling Barracks?" Jurille asked B'ton, still unnerved by the Healer's outburst.

"At least a Turn..." B'ton rubbed the back of his neck. "Gl'tek hasn't released their names to the Lists yet." Privately B'ton wondered why he had failed to notice the inclusion of the smallest green in the Wings. A speedy green was an invaluable asset in the upper flight.

"Please speak with him today." Jurille urged and handed him a warm mug.

"I will." B'ton promised, drinking deeply of that draught.

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Reelon collected his bowl of cereal from one the kitchen, and turned, scanning the 'Small Hall', as the Holders dubbed the utility hall, for his daughter. Charel was chatting animatedly with the wherhandlers, doubtlessly peppering them with the same questions she had asked him the previous night.

"Journeyman." Reelon glanced to his left, curious as to who was addressing him by his title. Fulmar strode up to him purposely.

"Good morning, Captain." He replied politely.

Fulmar smiled at the courtesy and directed Reelon a little to one side.

"A moment of your time," he said reassuringly, "I'd like to talk to you about your daughter."

"Charrie? What happened?" Reelon glanced back over to where Namul was demonstrating hand signals.

"Nothing happened. I spoke with Old Larst, and he thinks your girl has a good head on her shoulders. Namul and Fulsa both spoke favorably about she handled herself with the watchwhers."

"Yes?" Reelon queried, curious as to where this was leading.

"I am also given to understand that you will be sending her to the Beastcrafthall in the summer." Fulmar studied the younger man,

"Yes, she's old enough to be apprenticed."

"Well, it would be a short fosterling, but if you wish, Fulsa and I would be happy to foster Charrie between then and now. She'd learn whercraft from Fulsa and Namul, and swordplay from me."

Reelon opened his mouth then shut it for a moment, considering. "I will need her in the spring for the lambing and shearing. And I'd need to discuss this with my mate." He replied hesitantly.

"Not a problem." Fulmar clapped Reelon on the back. "Enjoy your breakfast."

Charel flashed a smile at her father as he approached the table, and with fatherly affection he listened as she relayed the answers to the questions to her questions from the night before. Namul nudged Fulsa when Charel repeated signal perfect the command signals. Charel paused, and gave him a perplexed look.

"Those hand signals are a lot like hand dancing. Is that because watchwhers see heat patterns?"

"You know, I never thought about it," Fulsa said, toying with her spoon. "But that makes a lot of sense, when you consider that many of the hand signals the deaf use they don't seem to see."

"The deaf have their own hand signals?" Charel asked, her breakfast cold and forgotten.

"Oh yes, there's even Harpers who specialize in their language of signals, so they can teach the childrens' mothers how to 'talk' to their babies. We had one here three turns ago, when the cook realized her babe couldn't hear. Harper Pijac came here for here for oh, eighteen months? –until the cook was fluent in both spoken and signal." Namul said, as Fulsa stole some of his cereal.

"Mmm," Fulsa agreed, "she left a dragonback, to go to Nerat right before Turnover – apparently the Seaholder's firstborn was suspected of being deaf."

"What happens when they get older?" Charel asked faintly frowning.

"Depends on the person, really," Fulsa replied, "but I've heard that Smithhall likes them for smithy work, and the Farmhall likes then for plant work."

"I met one who had impressed a firelizard," Namul added. "Quietest dragonkin I've ever met. But trained up like a treat."

"What did he do for a living?" Charel asked as Reelon finished his breakfast and refilled his mug with klah.

"He was an apprentice Healer, worked in the Hold nursery." Namul's description elicited a chuckle from Reelon, who remembered the lungs on his own baby daughters.

"But he was on his way to try for a watchwher egg, said he wanted to help found a hold for other deaf folk. I wonder what happened to him."

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Mirrth and C'bay were nowhere to be seen, Jurille noticed as she helped set up the healers' station. Usually organizing it fell to Tress, but Jurille decreed all land bound queenriders had to take their turn in doing so, which inevitably freed up Tress to organize the start of the numbweed rendering process. With Fall slated to occur directly over Telgar Hold and stretch out to the Weyr, there was a distinct air of professionalism in the preparation of this Fall, as if the dragons and riders took this direct strike as a personal insult. A small knot of weyrlings were teaching the newest additions the fine art of rope skipping when all the dragons turned their heads skyward.

What's wrong? Jurille asked Graesth, who hissed.

There's been a murder. The Weyrhealer is furious. She replied, curling possessively around her eggs.

You're listening in on Zandur? While it was not unheard of, it was certainly unusual.

He thinks loudly. Graesth retorted, then relaxed. Mirrth comes. Eight heartbeats later the smallest green appeared above them and gently glided in for the softest landing imaginable. C'bay was white under his rider's tan, and wordlessly passed two youngsters, twins with a persistent cough, if Jurille remembered correctly, off to women from the Lower Caverns before Mirrth leapt back into the air.

Where are they going? Where's Zandur? Jurille asked, directing the woman to give the toddlers baths. The two were rank from their own soiled clothes.

To get the Weyrhealer. He's trying to keep the children's grandfather alive from an overdose of fellis. Graesth reported, and watched the going ons from her vantage point on the Sands.

Did he murder their mother? Jurille asked miserably. There was a short pause as Graesth asked.

No, the woman's mate did. The grandfather blames himself, however. Graesth paused again, then, Mirrth is taking them to Healerhall, and then to Telgar, to claim the Murdered's right from the Lord Holder.

"Ballsy and ill-timed." She muttered.

"Sounds just like Zandur." B'ton said, carrying his flight helmet. "I told Wubath to tell him to get Master Cici before going to Lord Kestle. Our healer might be turned away because of his bedside manner, but Kestle would never refuse Cici."

"Wise choice." Jurille glanced at him again. "Red flying jacket?" She asked, noting the new flight gear.

"And brown pants." B'ton quipped, smiling at her and easing the tension.

"Fly safe, youngster, " she said, surprising him with a hug.
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Charel was figuring out the fingering to Keslo's tune when Fulsa approached Reelon. The great fans churned in the background, a soft but pervasive sound, as Threadfall got underway.

"Did my father speak to you about fostering Charrie?" She pitched her question in a low tone, to not alert the girl.

"He did. And I will certainly consider it, although I don't feel right without my mate being in on the conversation." Reelon explained. Fulsa nodded.

"I just wanted to add that Telgarsk really likes her, and folk he likes are often the best wherhandler candidates. Iffin' your girl is still interested after she finishes her apprenticeship, I'll gladly pen a letter of reference to the Wherqueen. "

Reelon blinked.

"That's high praise. I thank you."

"Nonsense," Fulsa grinned. "I'm always on the lookout for good wherhandler material. Your girl's got both the courage and curiosity needed."

"Oh, aye," Reelon agreed with a theatrical sigh, "those she has in plentitude."

Fulsa laughed, then yawned with an apology.

"Sorry, time for me to listen to my own advice and get some rest."

"Rest well." Reelon wished her, as she turned to make her goodbyes of Keslo and Charel.

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The drovers pushed out as soon as the ground crews gave the all clear sign. Charel filled her lungs with the sweet, late summer air and urged the herd forward. A little less than fifty miles lay between the main Hold and the Weyr, with the Threadshelter less than twenty miles away. It was a lot of ground to cover, but doable before nightfall, particularly after the enforced idleness of the morning. The herd was skittish, to be expected with the stink of firestone still in places. Briefly Charel turned back to look at the rapidly dwindling watchwher enclosure.

"Rest well," she murmured then turned her attention back to that task at hand.

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"Tithe's been spotted." Tress reported to Jurille, who was helping Pilana scrub Desirth.

"Good, Hatching will be any day now." Jurille grunted from her less than dignified position draped over Desirth's rump, trying to scrub clean that one hard to reach area all dragons seemed to have, directly behind where the soft membrane of the wing attached to their bodies. Smaller dragons seemed to have an easier time of keeping that area clean, but bronzes and particularly lower flying queens, had to pay close attention that small abrasive debris didn't build up in that crevasse and damage the flight membranes.

"Herdsman Niko has moved the current herd to the west pasturage, so we'll get to rendering tomorrow, if the eggs don't crack."

"Sounds good. The Weyrlings can deliver the numbweed." Jurille scrambled back to the ground. "What of the boys?" She asked, running a hand through sweat damp hair.

"The one's C'bay brought?" Tress asked. Jurille nodded.

"Fortunately, they're young enough not to remember what happened." Tress replied with a frustrated sigh. "But the blood on their clothes would indicate they were in the room when their mother was killed. Elne's got them in the nursery, with her lizard keeping watch." The green firelizard had come from a clutch of eggs given as part of the tithe, some four Turns before. The running joke in the Weyr was that the little green didn't realize that she wasn't a queen dragon, for all the maternal instinct she displayed around young of any species.

"Good idea." Pilana said, walking around the other side of Desirth, wiping her wet hands on a scrap of a towel. "Say, what's the name of the brush, the type they comb out runners with?"

"You mean a curry comb?" Tress asked.

"Yes, that would be the one. Would you ask Niko if he would mind send one up and find a way to put it on a broom handle? There has to be an easier way to reach."

Sorry. Desirth eyed her apologetically.

"Not your fault, sweetling. Flying below the fighting wings is dirty work." Pilana told her queen with an affectionate slap.

"Brush on a stick, why didn't I think of that?" Jurille mused as Tress wandered off to find a weyrling to run down to the herd fields.

"Because you were thinking about two motherless little boys," Pilana's face, where it had not been protected by flight helmet and goggles was streaked with ash. "And before you ask, groundcrews didn't have anything new to report."

"Other than complimenting the lack of work we gave them?" Reema asked, joining them. Like Pilana she was similarly smudged. "They sounded surprised that we fought all the way to the Weyr. You'd think they'd recognize that all the greenery along the road would be choice food for Thread."

"I don't think they realize just how vegetated the road is. Certainly no one's mentioned the moss that lines the messenger's track." Pilana replied, offering the towel to Reema.

"Or how much our beasts dislike Thread falling so close to home?" Jurille added with a faint smile.

"Desirth was a fit to be tied when B'ton called a pause in the fighting over Firestone Valley." Pilana offered with a smile.

Reema laughed. "Wilth too!"

Firestone Valley was a long narrow valley Weyrlings first took their dragons to chew real firestone. The lack of vegetation was as much due to poor growing conditions as it was to repeated blasts of dragonbreath throughout the centuries.

"We never fight Fall over that valley." Jurille addressed the gold. "The empty husks give the Weyrlings something to practice with." Desirth's eyes had gone from green to shot with streaks of yellow and orange during the conversation.

I know. But it doesn't feel right. Desirth grumbled in the queenriders' minds.

"I know what you mean, love. Do you finally feel clean?" The gold dipped her head, mimicking a human nod. "When then, why don't you get some food into that cavern you call a belly?" Pilana teased, thumping her dragon's side.

I will if you will. Desirth snorted, showering the women with droplets of water as she leapt skyward.

"Think she's telling me I need a bath?" Pilana asked cheerfully, shaking the water from her hair.

"If she's not, I am. You two look like you've been eating soot cakes." Jurille remarked.

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Old Larst both barred the door and set watch, Charel noticed and quietly asked her father about that.

"You know that oversized throwing knife Telgar lent you?" He responded. Charel nodded.

"There's been attack on tithe trains recently. Hence the knife."

"Who would attack tithe trains?" Charel asked, appalled that it could happen in the shadow of the Weyr.

"Holdless mostly. So keep a sharp eye until we're in the Tunnel, alright pup?"

"Yes Pa." Charel slept fitfully that night, and in the morning tried to compensate with a double dose of klah. She only recognized the mistake in that action when her need to use the privy struck shortly after Star jostled her in the saddle.

"Keslo!" She called guiding her runner over to him. "I'm going up ahead. Privy."

"As is necessary." Keslo replied, nodding. This was normal protocol for the tithe train. Charel nudged Star ahead and up the trail at a trot, wincing a little as her need was punctuated by the small runner's gait. She finally lost sight of the herd around a sharp bend, and with a grateful sigh dismounted, hurrying into some bushes to relieve herself.

Returning to Star, she started to remount when she noticed green slowly wheeling eyes staring back at her. Her breath caught in her throat as a tiny queen stared at her, then vanished. Giving herself a shake she remounted, then, feeling uneasy, kicked Star into a canter.

Turning the sharp corner in the trail she saw the herd in disarray, the drovers with their swords drawn and her father crossing swords with a grizzled man on the back of a shaggy black runner. Shrieking like a bloodied green she kicked Star forward, her borrowed blade closing the distance and burying to the hilt in the fleshy portion of the Holdless's thigh. Another rustler stepped between her and the herd, and thrust a spear at her. Screaming defiance at him she grabbed the spear and held it away from her runner, kicking the Holdless in the head. He and the spear dropped.

Old Larst bellowed orders over the melee and the drovers regrouped, finally driving the Holdless back. When Tuller and Branth tried to pursue them up a slot canyon, they almost got skewered for their efforts by a barrage of arrows.

"Forget them, round up the herd!" Old Larst shouted, recalling the drovers.

Charel hurried over to her father, biting her lip in worry.

"Pa! Are you okay?" She cried, seeing blood on his tunic.

"T'ain't mine, Charrie, don't worry." Reelon explained, cleaning his sword on a pant leg before sheathing it.

"CHAREL!" Father and daughter jumped as Old Larst trotted up. "What did I tell you about running into rustlers?!" He glowered at her.

"N-no heroics, sir." Charel cringed under his glare.

"Then what in the name of sharding crackdust did you think you were doing charging in like that?" He demanded, his runner practically prancing under him with nervousness.

"Protecting my father! And the herd!" She blazed back, livid at the accusation that she was playing at heroics. "You wouldn't be yelling at me iffin' I was a boy!" She added, fed up with the double standard.

"Wrong lass, I'd yell at any twelve Turn old who did something so foolish." He retorted.

"Thirteen." Charel said stiffly. "I turned thirteen two days ago." She turned Star away, and hurried to help the other drovers reunite the herd. Reelon sighed.

"Any of that blood yours, Journeyman?" Old Larst asked, his tone a shade kinder.

"No sir. Most of it came from the Holdless fool on the black runner." Old Larst grunted and turned his runner back on the track.

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B'ton stood at the edge of the Hatching Sands and marveled as Graesth arranged her eggs, spacing them apart in equal intervals.

"Have you ever asked her why she does that?" He asked Jurille, who was stealing a moment away from the greeting of candidates as they arrived, most on the backs of dragons that didn't look to Telgar.

"I did once. She told me that if the candidates wanted to be riders to her young, they needed to work for it." Jurille explained, chuckling at B'ton's puzzled look.

"In that case I am ever so grateful Wubath hatched from Diligeth's last clutch." He remarked as the thirty-six eggs were positioned and repositioned until they were exactly the same distance apart.

"Has anyone ever measured the distance?" He asked curiously. Jurille laughed.

"Three paces, the exact length of her forelimbs. What's the wager at?"

B'ton grinned like a naughty weyrling.

"Odds are on there being eighteen greens, nine blues, six browns and at least three bronzes."

Jurille snorted. "Conservative odds."

"Oh?" B'ton raised an eyebrow.

"I'm just saying I've seen bronzes hatch from small eggs." She ribbed him, causing him to laugh, remembering that Wubath's egg had been dismissed as a green's.

"Point taken. But an egg almost as large as a queen's, surely that one is a bronze." He pointed to the largest egg on the Sands.

"Freeth's browns tend to be on the big side, why not this lot? Wubath sired those browns." Jurille countered.

"If that's a brown egg, I'll help Weyrlings bag firestone for the next Fall." B'ton said, grinning at her.

"And if it's a bronze, I'll preform the Ballad of the Randy Rider and the Lusty Ladyholder at dinner." Jurille stuck her hand out for him to shake.

"You know that one?" B'ton wasn't sure if he was horrified or excited by that knowledge.

"Know it? I can play that on three different instruments!"

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The Tunnel leading to the Weyr was welcome sight, and Reelon joined the other drovers in a happy shout, startling the herd into entering without baulking. The safety of the Weyr all but assured, Old Larst had Thallon and Branth ride ahead, to alert the Weyr to their arrival and the earlier attack.

Charel leaned back in her saddle, stretching her hands over her head, trying to work out the kink in the small of her back.

"Pa," she asked after a long moment, reflecting on something that had been bothering for a couple days, "Can one be herdcraftsman and a wherhandler?"

Reelon smiled at his daughter, a flash of white in the dimly lit gloom of the Tunnel.

"I don't see why not, the wherqueen is a journeyman herdhealer."

"Really?" Charel cheered up. "Great!" She whistled a few measures of Keslo's tune, as they moved through the long winding Tunnel, the darkness broken by the faint light of a glowing fungus, relative to the better known glows.

"How come the floor is so smooth, but the walls are so rugged?" Charel asked, noticing the knobby walls.

"The Tunnel's an old lava tube." Old Larst said, riding up alongside of her. "But the first dragonriders had masons smooth out the floor." He paused. "Lass, I owe you an apology. You did right, coming to your father's aid like that." He added gruffly.

"That's alright, sir. I shouldn't have tossed my knife like that." Charel replied humbly, clearly perturbed by the loss of the blade.

"No, lass, you shouldn't have, but it takes real courage to charge back in to a fight like that, even with a weapon. Your father tells me he will teach you swordplay this winter. Practice well, I'd like to share the trail with you again." He nodded at them, and nudged his runner forward.

"Y-yes sir." Charel felt her face grow hot, and was very glad it was too dark for anyone to see her blush.

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"Tithe herd was attacked." Tress told Urlyra, having returned from setting one of the more clever fingered women from the Lower Caverns to the task of attaching several curry combs to broom handles of differing lengths.

"Where at?" Urlyra asked, looking up from the Store Records. While Jurille rotated all of the tasks of the queenriders, each Weyrwoman had a preferred task. Urlyra's was accounting.

"Just north of the Threadshelter between here and the Main Hold. One of the drovers saw a gold fire lizard too."

"Hmm." Urlyra tapped the record with her pencil. "That explains how they've been avoiding us. Any injuries?"

"Among the drovers, no, although they lost three head of cattle to the Holdless. One drover claims that the leader of the Holdless got six finger lengths of Telgar steel in his side for his troubles." Tress replied.

"Good. Let that serve as a warning to them then." Urlyra grumbled, then her eyes got that distant look riders got when speaking to their dragons. "Yes... Tress, please see that the drovers are well accommodated and invited to the Hatching." Urlyra said, closing the Record and standing.

"Ah, and where might you be?" Tress asked, confused as usually the Werywoman would have met with the drovers to take their own account of the attack.

"I think Freeth needs to stretch her wings before the festivities," she replied.

"Oh. Happy hunting." Tress bade her.

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Herdsman Niko closed the gate behind the herd, and the drovers followed his weyrling assistant to the stable, dismounting and tending to their runners. Star, Charel's runner, had been shivering and sweating, as had all the runners, which Charel attributed to the proximity of the dragons, as the runner settled down and ate once she started combing it out. After, the Headwoman, a surprisingly young but affable woman named Tress met them and extended the Weyr's hospitality to them.

Already pleased at the prospect of a warm bath and a real bed, Charel was doubly delighted when Tress told them of the impending Hatching.

Gathering her kit, she hared off after the weyrling that showed her to the thermal baths.

"Each of the weyrs have a private bath," Lybae, the weyrling girl, explained to her, "but down here, it was easier to make three really big pools." She lead Charel past a dizzying array of stairs and chambers, most separated from the main hallway by a simple fur. So different was that from the Hold with all its wooden doors that Charel remarked on it.

"That's because we respect each other's privacy here." Lybae said with a knowing grin. "That's not to say we don't know what's going on - living with dragons means having no secrets."

The winding hall opened up into a much wider tunnel, another lava tube, the walls and ceiling thick with the same glowing fungus that lined the Tunnel. Charel gasped, for the tiled pool was easily the length of two gold dragons, put snout to tail.

"This is a bath?" She asked incredulously, dipping her fingers experimentally into the faintly steaming water. A slight current swirled about her fingers.

Lybae laughed. "Yeah. It's nice actually, because at the end of the day when we've been boiling numbweed or leathers, or scrubbing up after a feast all the women in the Lower Caverns come down here, or the Family Pool, and chat and bathe together. Sometimes they even bring chilled juices." She looked around the empty, echoing room. "Actually, it's kinda rare to find it so empty." She shrugged and sat down on one of the stone benches. "Anyway, take your time. None of the dragons are humming yet, so you're in no hurry."

"Thanks!" Charel was already kicking off her dusty boots.

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Freeth rumbled with pleasure, and Urlyra chuckled in response. The gold flew leisurely, catching thermals and gliding effortlessly over the winding pass to the main Hold. Urlyra leaned back letting the riding straps hold her upright, taking joy in this most basic of draconic principles, dragons fly. Freeth wheeled, spooking a flock of wherries, that took to the sky in a panic, their harsh calls heard only faintly over Freeth's laughter in Urlyra's head. The same trip that took the drovers most of a day to travel Freeth accomplished under an hour, at a leisurely pace.

They are well hidden, Freeth announced suddenly, wheeling so Urlyra could see the hanging valley below them, but the injured man's pain is great.

Six fingerlengths of steel will do that. Urlyra concurred. Do they know we're here?

The little queen does. She is thinking of between to confuse me. Freeth snorted scornfully.

Let her think she has succeeded. Urlyra suggested. Do you think you would recognize her mind if you touched it again?

Certainly. Freeth suffered no doubts.

Could you share that with the watchwher?

Yes, Telgarsk would understand. Freeth turned ever so slightly bringing the Hold into view. But he and Namusk are asleep right now.

Don't wake them just yet, I should like to speak to Fulmar first.

Wordlessly Freeth acknowledged, and landed gracefully in the hold courtyard. Lady Holder Minket greeted her on the steps leading to the Hold.

"Welcome and welmet, but is it not early yet?" She smiled at the younger queenrider. Urlyra smiled politely in response, then realized that the Lady Holder thought she was there to convey her and her brood to the Hatching.

Graesth says since we are not needed at the Weyr we might as well bring the Holders. Freeth flicked her tail in annoyance.

We all have to take a turn at the duty, love. Urlyra turn on the charm, and fell back on the protocol of her youth.

"Lady Minket, I hope I have not distressed you with my early arrival." She said smoothly. "You are correct, that today is the date of the Hatching, but I arrived early to speak with the Watch Captain. I will, of course, be delighted to convey you and your family when the dragons announce it is time."

Lady Minket's faint furrowing of her brow relaxed. "This way then, Captain Fulmar is on the practice field." Minket led Urlyra back out to the courtyard, and up to the fireheights stairs to a small, hard packed area, on the clifftop that was the roof of the Hold, overlooking the entire valley.

A group of men were practicing their grappling skills as when the women arrived. Fulmar called for a break in the practice and welcomed them.

Another round of endless pleasantries, then Minket finally left, doubtlessly to outfit her young in their Gather finest. Not that clothes made a wit of difference to the hatchlings. Not that that stopped the Lady Holder from packing off her young to each hatching with the not so secret hope that one of them would be selected from the stands and Impress. Urlyra snorted softly. It would serve the woman right if all her sons Impressed greens. Fulmar coughed, covering his slight laugh at Urlyra's look of distaste as Minket mentioned the Hatching for a third time in her leave taking. Her dragonrider aspirations for her children were well known in the Hold.

"She means well, Weyrwoman." He told her softly.

"Doesn't make it any less annoying, uncle." Urlyra retorted with a mellow smile. "Were you aware that the tithe herd was attacked?"

"No. Any injuries?" Fulmar shook his head.

"Not among the drovers. One of the Holdless took a knife to the side."

Fulmar raised an eyebrow. "A knife?"

"I'm guessing it was a knife, six fingerlengths seems a bit short for a sword." Urlyra explained.

"It is." Fulmar agreed noncommittally. "Did Old Larst get a good look at the Holdless?"

"I haven't interviewed them yet." Urlyra admitted as a waterskin was passed around to the men. "Freeth and I left when we heard there was a gold fire lizard sighted."

"Ah, that explains it then." Fulmar rubbed his chin. "Were you able to confirm the presence of this gold?"

"Confirmed and identified." Urlyra gave him a predatory smile. "Freeth says she can show Telgarsk how to identify the gold. And I have a pretty good idea of where the Holdless are camped out at."

"Do you now?" Fulmar looked intrigued and dismissed his men, telling them to reconvene before supper. "Please, show me, if you have the time."

"Eggs aren't cracking yet." Urlyra said with a droll smile, following him back to his office.