2

North Telgar Hold to Igen Hold, Present Pass, 02.04.12

Thella heard about the spring Gather at Igen Hold on one of her dark-night forays to Far Cry Hold, where she had gone to acquire seedlings from their starting beds to renew the small garden she had just begun. Hiding behind bales of dry fodder, she overheard a conversation between the beastmaster and the barnman; both were plainly envious of those chosen to make the trip to Igen, despite the dangers of such a journey during a Pass.

Knowledge of a Gather was very reassuring to the renegade Telgar Blooddaughter. Before she could hope to attract folk to work in her high mountain hold, she would have to supply basic needs, and legitimately. In one trip to a large Gather, she could quite possibly acquire all she needed. She was already making plans as she waited for the men to leave so she could sneak to the greenhouses and help herself to the seedlings.

It had taken her all that first Turn to recover from the shocking frustration of Threadfall. Thella did not cope well with failure. Not only had she lost two of her fine runners to the disgusting stuff—well, the animals had panicked with dragons flying over them and run off a precipice—but all her careful and ambitious plans had had to be abandoned. The disappointment had plunged her into a deep roiling depression. She had planned so carefully: if Thread had only held off until the following Turn, she would have established herself in her own hold.

She had found the place during one of her ramblings in the high country. Someone had once lived—and died—there, for she had removed twelve skulls, the only part of the dead that mountain snakes had been unable to masticate. What had killed the holders would always be a mystery, although Thella had heard of instances where entire hold populations had been wiped out by virulent disease. But they must once have lived well. The hold still held wooden furnishings; the stout slab table and the bedframes, dry and dusty, were usable. The metal fittings and utensils had a thin coat of rust, but that could be sanded off. There were cisterns for water and basins for bathing. Most of the south-facing apertures, protected by deep embrasures, had retained their glass. Four good hearths for warmth and cooking needed only to be cleaned to be used. In her initial investigations as a young and optimistic girl as yet unthwarted by the Threadfall that had destroyed her plans, Thella had even found cloth, brittle with age, in the stone storage chests of the sleeping quarters and grain in the beasthold. There were stone walls around enough highland pastures to support adequate meat animals, and pens were set into one side of the cavern. Thella knew the Masterherdsman had hardy strains that would thrive on mountain fields. She did not like the notion of sharing her living space with beasts, but she had heard that it was one way of generating additional warmth. One would need all the heat one could get in these hills.

But the hold could have been completely reestablished and hers! Hers! If she had just had the Turn or two. The ancient Contract Law of Pern gave her that right. She could have insisted that the Conclave of Lord Holders permit it, once she could prove her competence. Her father had told her, in answer to discreet questions, that anyone could form a hold, so long as it could be proved to be self-sufficient and remained well managed. And a discreet check of the record hides told her that a Benamin Bloodline had once established that mountain hold, but that it had been untenanted since before the last Pass.

Only Thella’s determination to prove her competence—and her pride as eldest daughter of one of the proudest Holds on Pern, direct descendant of its founder, in whom the best qualities of her Bloodline were manifest in her beauty, intelligence, and skill—had kept her alive that first Turn. But she had been reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence which even traveling folk would have scorned. Cursing every step of the way, she had been forced to leave her mountainhold that first winter, before the snows blocked the one trail down, or leave her own skeleton for snake fodder.

Insult was added to injury as once again all of Pern, Hold and Hall, had to rely on those wretched dragonriders who should have been thoroughly redundant. Her father had held that opinion. No dragonrider had minced through Telgar’s Hold since that last Pass had ended. It was all part of a giant concatenation of circumstances ranked against her, Thella of Telgar. But she would prove her durability and resilience. Not even Thread would thwart her in the end.

So by the coming of the second spring of that improbable—but actual—Pass, Thella had finally wintered comfortably, having located three secure, well-concealed caves that were small but adequate for shelter. She had left each of them provisioned for reuse should she require them again. By that time she had become deft at extracting supplies from minor holds in Telgar and Lemos. Except for boots. She had hard-to-fit feet—rather long, wide across the ball, and narrow in the heel—and no matter where she had looked, she had been unable to find suitable footwear. Before she had always had the hold cobbler to supply her boots and shoes; she had left behind a locker full of them, and as hard wear had lacerated worn leather, she regretted her lack of foresight. But then, she had not anticipated living in the rough for nearly two full Turns.

She had acquired all other items of clothing as needed. There were quite a few tall men in Far Cry and one of the other nearby holds, so clothes were plentiful. She took only new trousers and shirts, of course—not even in extremity would Thella of Telgar wear used clothing. She had no trouble getting her hands on an appropriate jacket, a shaggy winter hide, and she had lifted furred sleeping bags, one for each of her three boltholes. Those supplies, along with the food she took, were after all no more than a modest portion of the tithe due a Lord Holder’s family, so she had no compunction about her acquisitions; she merely did not wish to be seen—yet. But boots … boots were another matter, and she might have foregone principle to get decent boots.

A journey to Igen Hold for a Gather would be the best way to end the footwear problem and satisfy one or two other minor needs that would fulfill the rudimentary requirements of her prospective holders. Perhaps she would be able to hire a likely herdsman, preferably one with a family to supply her with drudges. They could camp in the beasthold section and not interfere with her privacy. She had not wanted to take on anyone local, and Gathers were an excellent place to find suitable, and reliable, persons.

Igen’s Gather was slated to begin in ten days. The maps she had taken from Telgar—and had committed to memory—gave the position of camping caverns all the way down the Lemos Valley to Igen, so she did not expect the outward bound journey to pose her any problems. According to what she had overheard, there would be one Threadfall—falling to the north over High Telgar—and she would have to wait out another one hitting Keroon and Igen. She wished, and not for the first time over the past eighteen months, that she knew exactly when Threadfall was due. She had had some very narrow escapes—both from Fall itself and from being seen by ground crews and sweepriders. It did not suit her—yet—for any suspicion of her whereabouts or plans to be known.

She made the trip with both runners, switching from one to the other so that she could set a good pace. She would quickly outdistance the Far Cry travelers whom she did not wish to meet on the trace, although they had a head start. She had been forced to alter her overnight plans when one of her intended campsites proved fully occupied. But her fury over that was diverted when she discovered a hitherto unmarked cave with a small stream making a pool by its inner wall—she had been able to hobble the runners inside and treat herself to the luxury of a bath. She marked the spot unobtrusively so that she could find it again, secure in her infallible memory for places.

From then on, she made a point of finding secondary caverns and thus avoided any unnecessary encounters. An astonishing number of folk were on the move—understandable, since this was evidently the first spring Gather held in the new Pass.

By the night before, she was no more than an hour’s quickstep from Igen. In the dawn darkness, she had watered her runners at the wide river and left them hobbled in a blind ravine, its slopes greening in the swift verdant growth of the desert springtime; her gear she stored behind a boulder. From a careless cotwife she had acquired the voluminous draperies worn by desert holders, contrived a suitable band to secure the headdress and conceal her sun-streaked blond hair, begrimed her face, and used charcoal to thicken her eyebrows, giving her a grimmer cast. Then, with the traditional waterskin of the desert holder slung across her back, she was jogging along the high ground above the river even before she could make out the Gather flag flying from the drum tower of Igen Hold.

She quickly overtook groups of excited chattering folk headed in the same direction and merely grunted acknowledgment of their greetings; desert folk tended to taciturnity, so conversation would not be expected of her. And as she had elected to run, she passed all those who were proceeding at a less demanding pace to their destination.

She arrived in full dawn to find the Igen Gathergrounds well populated and gave an ungrudged quartermark for several pockets of hot bread, fresh cooked on a metal sheet over a crackling hot oilbrush fire. Slices of a soft cheese inside the bread made a filling breakfast. She was a bit irritated when she was grossly overcharged for a misshapen clay mug for klah. But it was pay or go without, and the smell of the beverage after long abstinence was more than she could endure. She had never had to bring utensils to a Gather, having always been accommodated in the Lord Holder’s hall, and she had not thought to bring any from her travel pack. Fortunately, though the mug was imperfect, the klah was freshly made, not something that had aged on the hearth all night. Nearby, cooks were busy trussing a dozen herdbeast carcasses onto spits over glowing firepits, the aromas soon to remind Gatherers of the excellent spices that always seasoned Igen roasts.

Replete, she strolled toward the great, colorful Gather tents, her critical gaze noting storage creases and recent repairs to tunnel-snake holes. Igen Gathers had unusual accommodations. With the sun at near equatorial intensity by midday, traders could not have endured its fierce glare, so stalls were erected under a square of tented corridors, where flaps could be rolled up to provide both ventilation and quick exit. Thella had already noted scrawny brats sneaking in and out. At the first corner entrance the Gathermaster was overseeing the setting of the poles for an awning against the vicious noonday sun. The air inside was still cool from the chilly desert night. Already many stalls were ready, journeymen enticing the trickle of Gatherers walking the tented square.

Thella gave the tannercraft stalls a cursory glance, noting that a workbench had been set up and a variety of trial lasts and tools laid out, ready to ensure perfect fittings. Apprentices were still unpacking travel panniers under the eyes of the Master, who was arranging attractive displays of his wares, and an older journeyman was fussily adjusting the price boards attached to the tentpole. Thella walked on, suddenly taking in the meaning of the sign announcing that the Master’s leathers were Threadscore-proofed. She snorted. Threadscore-proofed indeed!

She ignored weaver and smith craft stalls for the moment and stopped to fill the wretched mug with fruit juice. It was so refreshing that she stayed for another, wondering how soon the porous, badly fired clay would begin to leak. The tent, despite ventilation, was beginning to warm up as more people pressed in to do their buying before the noonday heat forced everyone to rest. She walked the entire square and then, to assuage her wrath against the extortionate potter, picked up a rock that someone had used to pound in tentpegs and lobbed it deftly over her shoulder at his stand. As she slipped back into the tent, she heard a satisfactory shattering and pained outcry, and smiled.

Feeling equable again, she was ready to see about boots. When the Mastertanner politely turned her over to a journeyman so that he could serve some better dressed clients, she seethed once more and wondered how she could repay his discourtesy; but her mood altered as the journeyman, a soft-spoken man with big hands, fingers scarred from leatherknife and needle, was soothingly deferential and efficient. He fitted her immediately to a good stout pair of midcalf hide boots and a pair of ankle-high wherhide semiboots, then took careful measurements for full leg boots, assuring her that they would be sewn and ready before high noon. She paid him for the hide boots, which she immediately put on, and the semiboots, which she tied onto her waterbag, and gave him half of the price of the third pair. That way, if her plans altered and she could not pick up the boots, she would not be out too much credit. She waited as he summoned an apprentice to begin cutting the sole to the pattern he had just made. Then, appeased, she left the stall.

It was during her second stop at the bake fire that Thella noticed the big man. Even at a Gather he was exceptional—exceptionally ragged, too, with a brooding angry look that made people give him a span or two of distance from themselves. There was something almost pathetic about his air of aloofness, as if he knew, and even expected, to be shunned and avoided. He grudgingly gave up a quarter credit to pay for bread, carefully choosing the biggest of the pieces on the metal sheet, then waiting for them to finish baking. But he was very strong, and that commended him to her. She would need strong men, preferably ones who would be very grateful to her for taking them on.

Suddenly it came to her that there seemed to be an unusually large number of holdless at the Gather, if their status could be judged by their scruffy appearances. Few actually ventured into the Gather tent, which was as it should be if they had no marks to pass, but they circulated freely among the crowds outside. Her belt pouch, full of good Telgar currency, was hidden from view under her loose robes, but nevertheless she unobtrusively shoved it under her shirt as she looked about for the guards Lord Laudey ought to have posted to forestall disturbances and deal with petty theft. And this Gather was particularly crowded, it being the first spring Gather in the Pass.

Ah, that was it, she realized. There were always more holdless during a Pass. Holders, with absolute authority over those within their walls, made sure that everyone they supported in such parlous times was efficiently worthy of his or her keep. A holder, major or minor, could withhold shelter from travelers even if the leading edge of Fall was close. In such times, people worked harder and obeyed right sharp, or they lost their sanctuary. As it should be, Thella thought with complete approval.

If she had only had a little more time before the Pass had started, she would have been able to exercise such time-honored options. She still would, or die in the doing. In one way, the Pass might work to her advantage. For the promise of shelter within stone walls, there would be those eager to work even in a high isolated hold. She began to scrutinize the holdless with an eye to the shoulder knots of their crafts, assessing their strength and desperation. Her holding might not be much yet, but it had possibilities. She wandered around the stall square again, keeping an eye on the progress of her third pair of boots and listening for any news or helpful information.

What she heard was better than a harper’s tale. A lot had happened since Thread had started falling on Pern again. Benden Weyr had tried desperately to cope with the Falls. Then, in an act of heroism unparalleled even for Pern’s legendary heroes, Lessa, rider of Ramoth, Benden’s only queen, had risked her own life and the life of her dragon in order to bring the five lost Weyrs of Pern forward, going back 400 Turns to a past time when there had been six full Weyrs and persuading them to assist the seemingly doomed present.

Thella found the mechanics of the feat hard to believe, but the fact was clearly demonstrated by the appearance of swaggering dragonriders wearing the colors of Telgar, Ista, and Igen Weyrs, as well as Benden. And all too clearly, Hold and Hall deferred to them in everything.

On a later circuit, when she saw the apprentice in an ingratiating pose with an Ista dragonrider, she gave him a stern glare. The young man blanched, apologized, and returned to stitching her half-finished boot. The very idea of his deferring work for a Telgar.… Reluctantly Thella realized that she no longer had that Blood advantage and stalked away in a savage mood.

Those dragonriders! Acting as if the Gather had been put on just for their benefit. She saw girls surrounding most of these dragonriders, and juveniles hanging on the words of the others! Insidious group! And yet, despite her disenchantment, Thella noticed a definite difference between riders from Benden and those of the other three Weyrs. The—what was the term she had heard? Oldtimers?—the Oldtimers walked with the unmistakable swagger of those totally assured of their eminence, while equally obvious was a certain eager, almost apologetic deference in the Benden riders. Thella approved of neither stance. Without the Lord Holders’ support, the Weyr—Weyrs, she corrected herself, though she still found it difficult to believe in the restoration—could not have continued to exist.

It was becoming stuffy in the tented square, but by the time she had eaten her nooning under the canopies that had been raised near the firepits, her boots were receiving a final polish. The Mastertanner stamped his approval on the finished product, and she paid over the second half. Her boots were handed to her, neatly encased in a rough cloth bag that she hung with the other packages.

During her circuit of the Gatherstalls, Thella had purchased seed for late-maturing root vegetables, guaranteed by the Masterfarmer in attendance to give a good yield. She also purchased spices; a few small sacks would not weigh down her runners and would be very welcome to season wild wherry meat. The noon sun was pouring down on the tents, making the air within uncomfortably hot. People were beginning to look for places in the lounge areas to wait out the worst of the heat. Though she had not yet hired any workers for her hold, Thella had half a mind to leave, but it was an impossible time to travel. So she found a space in the western course of the Gathertent and, despite some long moments brooding about possibilities, made herself as comfortable as possible, her new boots forming a pillow. Then reassured by the sight of guards patrolling to protect the nappers, she fell asleep.

A sense of movement near her outstretched hand awoke her. She had become sensitive to the slightest sound, even the near-silent approach of tunnel snakes, in the past Turn or so. Opening her eyes, she saw a small figure bending over a sleeping man just beyond her, a dirty hand reaching with a knife to cut the bulging pouch. Stupid of him not to conceal such a temptation, she reflected. Her knife was instantly in her hand, jabbing at the bent back. She shoved the blade deftly into the fleshy part of a thigh, heard a stifled intake of breath, and the figure bolted, slipping under the tent flap. She looked back at the owner of the pouch, whose round wide open eyes were on her bloodied blade.

“You’re quick indeed,” he said, shoving his pouch into his shirt and rearranging his clothing to hide the bulge. His Craft-knot, Thella saw, identified him as an Igen herder.

“You should have done that before you slept,” Thella muttered, disgruntled. She hated being aroused, and she had been sleeping deeply. She wiped her knife on the tail of someone else’s cloak, aware of the almost suffocating blanket of heat even though a little breeze stirred the tent flap. She would never get back to sleep again, and it was still too hot to think of returning to her runners.

“I had it under me. I’ve turned in my sleep,” the herder replied, equally disgruntled. He waved one hand over his face, courting the breeze. “I’m not that green, I’ll have you know. I chose my spot among honest men and women,” he added in a querulous aggrieved tone. “Look at the guard, fast asleep on both feet.” But even as he spoke, the guard could be seen eyeing them. “It’s getting so honest folk”—he gestured to their sleeping mates, who were indeed a prosperous-looking lot, wearing the brand-new knots of minor Igen and Keroon holds on their best Gather clothes—“can’t be protected at Gathers with so many holdless about. It’s time to complain about this shocking disregard for privacy. Make some examples. Should be stopped. The more of us who speak out, the sooner there’ll be a remedy to such behavior. You’ll speak, of course?” His voice had grown louder with each sentence, and some of the sleepers stirred. The guard warned them with a hand gesture to be quieter.

“Speak?” Thella was briefly astonished at the man’s audacity. “No.” Then, seeing that she had offended him, she added, “I must be on the road at dark. Shocking problem, I agree.” It cost her nothing to be conciliatory.

He seemed suddenly indecisive. “A long way to go?”

She nodded, ostentatiously settling herself to resume her rest.

“North, perhaps, along the western bank?”

Thella gave him a long look of surprise, quite forgetting for the moment that she wore rough guise and was tall enough to be mistaken for a man.

“For a ways.” She thought of that pouch, bulging with credits. He was much older than she was, and did not look particularly fit. Get a ways out of earshot, knock him on the head, and she could have that pouch and whatever he carried in his travel sack with little trouble to herself.

“I’d make it worth your while to see me to my holding,” he added, winking meaningfully. “You’d be there before the moons set. And a harper halfmark in your hand for your company.”

“Aye, for that I’ll match my steps to yours then,” Thella agreed after a thoughtful pause. How easily deceived an honest man was, seeing his own honesty in others, she thought. She gave him a nod and closed her eyes. She would need the rest of her nap.

The murmur of renewed activity roused her the second time. She and the Igen herder emerged into the cooling twilight and made for the latrine pits. She eluded him in the general shuffle for privacy and sought him out at the washing basins.

Harpers were already playing in the Dancing Square, though no one would be treading any measures yet. The evening air was heavy with the tantalizing smell of roasted spiced meats, and by common consent, Thella and the herder joined the lines, waiting for a skewered slab of the seasoned meat. The herder paid for two cups of wine.

“A thanks for your timely intervention. Have you seen anyone limping?” the herder asked. Thella shook her head, but she had not been looking for the culprit; instead she had been watching the big man she had noticed earlier grab a fallen piece of meat and run off with it. Hungry enough to eat it, sand and all, she thought, irritated by the sight. Gatherers ought to be able to enjoy their food without such intrusions. Still, if the man were that far down on his luck, and that quick and strong … she wished she had not promised to accompany the herder.

Then, because she knew such courtesies were expected at a Gather even between new acquaintances, she bought a second round of wine. Drink made a man unwary. She also made certain as she dropped a halfmark in the vintner’s wine-stained hand that the herder saw that she was well marked herself.

She bought several more slabs. “For my nooning,” she told the herder, who then assured her that he would provide her with that meal.

“I thought you said we’d be at your croft by the moonset,” she said, giving him a quick stare.

“To be sure, to be sure,” the herder hastily agreed. He said no more as she folded the meat into the pocket of the waterskin.

But she had caught a note in his voice, an air about him, that she distrusted, though she was quick enough not to give him any clue of her suspicion. He bought them both more wine, and she let most of hers leak out of her cup while she pretended to match him sip for sip. Winking at Thella, he paid the vintner to fill his travel bottle. She was beginning to find him tedious indeed.

Well, no one was likely to miss him when she took him out, so she set off with him, leaving the Gather site, passing the encampment which by then was nearly as merry as the square, and joining the wide track by the river, which sparkled in the light of Timor Moon. Belior, the speedier moon, was just beginning to rise. Soon the way would be as bright as daylight and considerably kinder to the eye.

They had gone along the track for some minutes before senses sharpened by the adversity of the last months told Thella that they were being followed. They were well beyond even Igen’s own beastholds and the cots that ranged on either side of the main Hold. There were no travel lanterns in either direction anymore. She judged the follower to be on their left, taking advantage of the slope and the sparse groundcover.

“What a magnificent night!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out and swiveling on one heel so that she got a good circling turn. Yes, there was someone to their left about four lengths behind them.

“Yes, yes,” the herder agreed. “And Belior just rising. We must hurry.”

“Why?” Thella demanded, deliberately acting contentious, as if she were slightly inebriated from all the wine he thought she had drunk. “We’ve made a good Gather, I’ve new boots”—she slurred her speech—“and if I hadn’t so far to go, I’d’ve stayed longer with such good company. Whoops!” She feigned a stumble on the stony track. As she rose, she came up with her belt knife shoved up one sleeve and a smooth stone in the other hand.

“Easy now,” the herder said, ranging himself on her right side, hands outstretched as if to support her. He spoke more loudly than he needed, and she knew it was not the wine that caused it.

Ahead of them a rocky spur jutted out, causing the track to veer back toward the river. So, someone thought they could drop her. Well, she would see about that.

They were in the shadow of the shelf when she heard the faint scrape of shoe in sand. Every sense alert, she waited a fraction of a moment longer, then grabbed the herder and yanked him over just as a body hurtled through the air, dagger flashing in the moonlight. She grinned as the herder cried out once, the assailant’s knife slicing his throat. Then she acted, her own knife on the nape of the attacker’s neck, pricking his skin as she shoved a knee in his back and pushed his head down, half smothering him in his victim’s cloak and travel bag.

“Don’t!” a muted voice cried. Slowly he held out his knife hand, letting the dripping blade fall to the ground.

“Easy now. Don’t make me nervous,” she said, roughening her voice. She grabbed his wrist and, when he made no resistance, flipped his arm back and up, twisting it tight against his shoulderblades. She could feel the thick muscles and wondered that she had mastered such a big man. But he was breathing shallowly, obviously unfit for such exertions. She gave his arm a painful twist, hearing him grunt where a lesser man might have cried out—she knew how to use such a hold to her advantage. “Was I marked out?”

“Aye, you were.”

“Any others? It’s early on a Gather evening.” When he had been silent long enough, she twisted again, and he grunted. “Any others?”

“Aye, he’d marked others. Finish you off and go back for another.”

“A fair Gather for you. What’d he promise?” Thella thought the big man simple to trust the herder and go back to the Gather. The herder could as easily turn his helper in to the guard.

“Half what we took. He said it’d be enough to buy into a hold.”

“Buy into a hold?” In her surprise, Thella forgot to deepen her voice.

“Yes, there’re holds where you can buy a place for a season. If you satisfy, you get taken on regular. I’m good with a flamer. I just don’t like it with Thread falling and me with no place to shelter.” The phrases came out in grunts, but he made no attempt to struggle against her hold. She was beginning to wonder how long she could continue to exert the pressure necessary to cow the man. He was big. He could easily be the one she had noticed in the morning, but she had not seen the herder in anyone’s company during the afternoon so the scheme must have been arranged earlier. Well, at least he was not whining about wrongful treatment and holder abuse.

“And how much loyalty could a holder expect of you—and your knife?” She felt his body twitch beneath her knee.

“Lady, give me a hold during this Pass, or shove your blade in.” His muscles seemed to relax, as if he was tired of striving against the odds of life. He was at her mercy, and she was tempted to see if she had the strength to kill him, as she had had the wit to subdue him.

“But it’s so easy to kill to live,” she said, her voice coaxingly smooth.

“Aye, easy enough to kill, but not easy to live holdless. Not easy at all.” He sounded very weary indeed.

“Your name?” she asked. “And previous Hold?” It was customary to circulate the names of brutal murderers, shunned from Holds, to all Lord Holders to protect them from taking on such offenders.

She could feel his muscles tense and wondered if he would lie to her. If she felt he was not telling the truth, she just might push home that knife. But she needed a strong holder more than she needed the gratification of a kill.

“I can, of course, tie you up and go back and get Laudey’s guards,” she said when he did not answer immediately. She wanted to make him sweat a little longer. Such power gave her a sense of ineffable superiority.

“Dushik, I was called. I was beholden to Tillek.”

She recognized the name from a list sent around several Turns back and smiled, somewhat disappointed. Well, she must keep even the bargains she made herself. And he would be more useful to her alive.

“Ah, so you’re the one,” she said as if she remembered more than the name. “Mind that I can still turn you in, Dushik,” she said, releasing him. “And during a Pass, you can be chained out in Fall as execution, for it is my word against yours.”

“Aye, lady, I understand. But I acknowledge you with heart and mind as Lady Holder and will give loyal service.”

He actually sounded as if he meant it, so she released her hold on his arm and jumped backward, replacing her belt knife with her dagger in a fluid motion but ready to throw both at him if he made a suspicious move.

He waited a long moment, slowly working his arm down and around. He got first to his knees and then to his feet, his movements indicating deep weariness.

“Throw me his pouch, Dushik,” she said, holding out her left hand. He gave her a long measuring look before he complied and then stood waiting for her next order.

As she thrust the bulging sack into her shirt she realized that the scuffle had loosened her headcovering and her braided hair had fallen forward.

“Now, see what else he had that’s useful,” she ordered, gesturing curtly with her dagger.

By the time Belior had risen, Dushik had exchanged the corpse’s clothing for his own and, on Thella’s orders, had heaved the body into the river. She made him discard the bloodstained cloak.

“There seemed to be plenty of other holdless wights at the Gather,” she said disdainfully. “Would you say that any of them could be trusted to do a good day’s work for their keep?”

“For you, lady,” he said deferentially, going down on his knee to her, “I would see that they will.”

Thella was well pleased.