Chapter 7

At Highspire Hold, M'gol felt unable to settle, and spent some time prowling around its lower caverns. He was looking for the quiet bustle that he associated with lower caverns, comforting busy women and pleasant smells. The bustle was thee, but the comforting atmosphere he would have expected to find at High Reaches Weyr, or Benden, was conspicuous by its absence. Sullen cooks and drudges went unwillingly about their work, obvious cliques obstructing other factions in whatever petty ways they could. Stupid and childish pranks seemed to be the order of the day, heedless of the safety of others. M'gol almost got caught by a trip rope at the to of stairs; and seeing a face lurking round a door,, hurled his way in as soon as he had ripped out the offending rope. He grabbed the pasty faced perpetrator by the neck of his tunic.

"And what by the Red Star do you think you're doing trying to kill me?" he raged. "Shards, I don't even know you! How can you have that bad a grudge against me?"

The young man – scarce more than a boy – gave a nervous, embarrassed giggle. M'gol found him a disgusting object, looking up with an ingratiating expression.

"I thought you were one of Lady Dalia's men" he excused himself.

"Well I'm not. I'm with Tragen." Growled M'gol. And if I were, it'd still not give you excuse to attempt murder."

The youth paled

"I weren't going to murder no one!" he wined. M'gol shook him; it gave him great satisfaction.

"What do you think would happen then if someone fell over your rope? That they'd turn into a firelizard and fly downstairs? If the recipient of your stupidity were lucky, they might just break several bones. But the length of those steps, it's my belief you'd kill 'em." He dropped the lad. "Faugh! At your age you ought to know better. I'd expect a kid of four or five turns to have grown out of that sort of thing."

There was the sound of footsteps passing, with glassware clinking; and the youth moaned,

"Now he's gone and you've spoiled the trap and all her fancy glassware's going to get to her intact. You're a spoilsport!"

"Didn't you understand what I was saying?" M'gol was outraged. "What kind of a pathetic creature are you that you waste your time playing ridiculous and childish pranks?"

"There's no call to bad mouth me." The youngster made a moue and flounced off. M'gol heaved a deep sigh of exasperation, and determined to keep a close eye out for further traps and tricks!

M'gol continued to prowl; and although the obstructive behaviour was heedlass to the point of being reckless, there were no signs of bullying as such. This was not, however, a happy place at all! M'gol found at last a relatively cheerful looking drudge girl with a good figure and a superficial resemblance to J'nara; and offered to help her with heavy chores in exchange for gossip and information. The girl Clemelly was willing to oblige; and intimated that she was willing to oblige in other ways too. Suddenly M'gol felt that she was less attractive than he had at first thought; and wondered vaguely why. He flirted with her gently anyway; and obtained the information that the holder here, Trabin, in addition to Lady Dara his wife had a mistress known as Lady Dalia. The supporters of the two ladies accounted for two of the factions and almost the whole of the Hold took sides. There was a third faction – the supporters of Trabin's daughter Trassela, the child of a yet previous marriage who had died. Trassela apparently detested both of her father's women. Clemelly giggled.

"I'm clever enough to get on the steward's staff. Not only does he hold himself impartial, he's too vital to the running of the Hold for anyone to mess with his people!"

M'gol managed to sound admiring; and claimed that he was supposed to check in with Tragen for orders. Clemelly pouted; and M'gol felt no urge to either give her a suggestive wink or chuck her under the chin. Frankly, pretty though she might be, she did not attract him! Besides, he could here in his head the disapproving sniff that he knew J'nara would give!

M'gol had much to think about as he made his way back to Tragen's quarters. It appeared that those in power needed to do more than enforce discipline and law in a firm but merciful way… all below would take their tone from those above them – and disharmony above would lead to disharmony below. He shuddered to think of the atmosphere amongst the drudges at Southern Weyr with the continual squabbles between Mardra and Merika. It was, he realised, F'lar and Lessa at Benden and T'bor and Pilgra at High Reaches, backed by R'gar and T'lan that set the tone for the entire weyr.

M'gol was quite overwhelmed by this thought. It seemed that the responsibility of leaders extended far past what they said and into the way they acted.. which meant, he realised, that his own behaviour could have an effect on his own wing.

And Keerana had passed on to him a complaint that one of his young riders had been over insistent in demands of one of Keerana's cooks.

M'gol shook his head angrily to clear it. For this lesson alone it was worth this cold, horrible trip! He resolved to apologise to J'nara for his thoughtlessness over his behaviour towards women. Though he meant no harm or threat, that might not always be perceived – either by the women he flirted with, or those taking their tone from him! Blast the girl – he had to admit she was right!

One thought did, however, brighten his day.

Clemelly had fancied him without knowing that he was a Bronze Rider!

The second day of travel was miserable. It snowed. They had descended far enough off the heights for the flakes to have warmed somewhat; and they fell large, damp and implacable, wet and clinging they penetrated every crevice of clothing and soaked heavily into woollen mufflers. From time to time the wind moaned through narrow gorges and valleys almost like the keening of grieving dragons, and M'gol shuddered. Almost he could have preferred Thread; at least with that old, known enemy he had the chance to fight back!

Z'kan suffered more than M'gol. He had become used to the heat of Southern, and the cold wet was unadulterated misery to him. M'gol sat close to him to share warmth on the occasions they could ride the big troika; and persuaded him to stay aboard when it came time to break trail. He told the others that time at the forge fire had thinned his brother's blood; and as no-one wanted to lose the good health of the smith he was accorded the same courtesies of the jockeys! Z'kan tried to get out to do what he could; for he was a strong, fit man and did not want to be cosseted. But M'gol persuaded him to stay aboard at least for half the excursions, and Z'kan was as grateful as he was angry with himself for a weakness. In private speech he said as much to M'gol; for there were not after all many turns between them. M'gol shrugged.

"But you have seen more suffering than I – to come forward 4oo turns has not done your health any good – I know that you have some problems. And I am used to the cold, for Benden can get pretty chilly. You were at Fort Weyr before – and before you came forward. It's much further south, even without the years in Southern to…"

"To soften me." Said Z'kan bitterly. "I will not be foolish about it, but I must harden myself again. Though I must look to T'ron as I swore to do, I want to do my duty as a dragonman and help out at High Reaches too."

"Not to mention keeping Z'linda happy!" grinned M'gol. Z'kan sighed. He was missing his new weyrmate; but conversations via their dragons helped. Z'linda had decided that it would be better for them to eschew all contact during this trip, to make it easier for Z'kan to keep in role. Moreover, she was close to the danger time in her pregnancy, and she would not therefore risk their child by going between. It did not, however, thought Z'kan, make it easy to feel charitable towards M'gol right now; though his thoughtfulness did help assuage the resentment! Z'kan managed all he could, taking out his anger at his inability to take cold on the offending snow they shovelled, warming himself with hard work and – so said M'gol – raising the surrounding temperature with his blistering imprecations. M'gol was quite impressed by his colleague's imagination and fluency!

It seemed to take forever to reache High Reaches Hold in the interminable, hypnotic swirling grey. As they climbed again, the flakes grew smaller, drier, stinging rather than clinging and the path was icy and treacherous. All fell at least once, and M'gol respected even more D're's trek to the Weyr with his fair of invalid children. The man was a fardling Hero! At first. M'gol had been uncertain what to make of D're's Impression of Bronze Esruth, seeing only the devil-may-care trader that the man Daire had used to hide behind. Now he saw just how much bravery the one-legged Ruathan had – well worthy of the only Bronze of that clutch! He said as much to Z'kan; and the Brown rider nodded.

"Bravery – and compassion. They're needed in a Bronze rider. For all and any might be weyrleader someday." He commented. M'gol wondered if that were a crack aimed at him – but if it were, it was a justified remark. Though he always did try to be compassionate. Perhaps the comment had not been pointed at all; he was over sensitive that the Oldtimer might be criticising him.

The shout went up from ahead that the Hold was visible as brief glimpses when the snow thinned momentarily; and they pushed on with renewed vogour! At last they were within, out of the biting wind, seeing first to the animals with fingers almost too numb to feel bar the pain in them undoing harness and straps. Numbness warmed to a burning tingle as the beasts had to be rubbed down; and when fed, at last the men could see to their own wants.

M'gol was happy to share a hot bath with anyone who was there; for the first time in his life the concerns of status and privacy took not only a back seat but ceased to exist as concepts in his thoughts. He sighed happily as he immersed into the deep hot water, a sigh echoed all around him by the others!

It was soon borne upon M'gol that the larger the political entity, the more likely aberrant behaviour was to occur in a sub unit.

Attitudes might very well come from the top; and Lord Bargen had the reputation for being a fair man. Thus in general was his Hold a fair Hold. But in this huge Hold, Lord Bargen was an august and distant figure, rarely encountered by most. His immediate underlings were hand picked; but of those, one or two had shown poor judgement in picking their own underlings. And it was from these superiors, concerned with day-to-day running of various tasks that the subordinates took their tone. So it was that the kitchen ran harmoniously; as did the stables. Most sub units showed more or less efficiency; but some places M'gol found very badly run. The store rooms functioned for the most part well enough that Kitchen had nothing concrete to complain of, but within the staff, M'gol made mental notes of acrimony and bullying and not a little dishonesty. M'gol started a log book on leaves he had cadged from H'llon, for he felt it would not give Lord Bargen offence to receive a written report of things he was himself unlikely to see. M'gol based his belief on Bargen being hard to offend on T'lana's estimation; but he also reminded himself that the gregarious little weyrwoman was wont to refer to Lord Groghe as 'an old sweetie'.

It was while snooping around the lower caverns of the Hold that M'gol ran into his first real taste of trouble. Coming quietly round a corner in a little frequented wing he was in time to see three men passing what seemed to be packing cases to unseen recipients through a small Thread-shuttered access way. The click of marks being passed back aroused his suspicions; it did not seem to be a regular or sanctioned transaction and M'gol stared transfixed. It did not occur to him to withdraw; indeed he was about to stide forward and challenge these men when one of them turned. His knots showed him to be some kind of supervisor or foreman employed at the Hold, the yellow that took the place of gold for lower ranks and indicated a major hold was intertwined with the distinctive dark blue and tan striped cord that was High Reaches colour. His eyes flicked to M'gol and noted that his jacket bore the simple worker's knot in Northfork's sienna and yellow with the silver strand of a minor Hold; and he scowled in an intimidating way.

"Get the Red Star out of here." He growled to M'gol. "You didn't see nothing, right?" he raised a threatening fist.

M'gol remained rooted to the spot.

"Are you STEALING?" he asked, almost unable to believe the evidence of his own senses, so incensed that anyone should so betray their own Hold and people that his presence of mind completely deserted him. As it happened his outrage could be easily mistaken for simple-minded naivety, and he was to realise this later with relief.

The foreman sneered at his shocked face.

"None of your business, you runner-shit drudge. Now go bend a tail elsewhere." He chose to reinforce his words with a clout to M'gol's head while the dragonman was wondering at the preoccupation with order in his maledictions; and the act of unnecessary and mindless brutality almost caught M'gol by surprise. Without thinking, the tall Bronze Rider blocked the blow effortlessly and let swing with a counter stroke. It connected painfully with the foreman's chin, for the man was too slow to block it and so unskilled he could not ride it. He leaped back and touched a finger to the bloodied lip where it had torn against his teeth. His expression spoke volumes of malevolence.

"You'll pay for that!" he snarled, the blood doing little to improve his ugly expression. "Grab him, you two!"

The other men seized M'gol's arms. He realised that they too were slow; and he fought back, inflicting not insignificant damage. However, just as it seemed he would wrest himself free from them, one produced a knife from his belt; and held it where M'gol could see it, pointing at his throat. M'gol gave up. He might yet win; but if those were the tactics to be used, it represented an unwarranted risk to Luruth!

The foreman unbuckled his belt as the men held M'gol firmly. Again and again he struck M'gol with the buckle end, ripping tunic and skin alike. Then he punched M'gol hard in the kidneys, wringing a groan from the dragonman, hitherto scorning to cry out. Deftly, and obviously with much practise, the men turned M'gol round so that the foreman could hit him hard, twice, in the face.

"Now" the foreman was panting !If you mention this matter and what you saw to anyone, next time I'll fardling well kill you. And all your friends from whatever pokey little Hold you inhabit. You get me?"

M'gol managed a nod. He felt sick and giddy, mostly from the blow to his kidneys, a tender and easily damaged spot for dragonriders as the effect of between on the kidneys could be detrimental. He reflected that he could be needing to use the design T'lan had incorporated into crippled Sh'rilla's riding chair, with the leathern bottle, well insulated, that could be filled with hot water before Sh'rilla took trips between. Meantime, he dropped into a defensive squat, his back towards the rocky wall of the passageway. There he managed to ride the savage parting kick that was aimed at him and fall relatively gently.

When the malefactors had gone, M'gol dragged himself to the nearest necessary to retch, and to clean himself up as best he could. Then he made his painful way back to his party. Those who met him in the corridors gave him a frightened look and fled; though M'gol was not sure if they fled from his ghastly appearance or from fear of whoever had inflicted it!

Tragen caught sight of him first as he entered the common cavern given over to Northfork's use and hurried over, catching Z'kan's eye as he did so. They bundled him into Tragen's own room, and the Runnerholder pushed him firmly face down on the bed as he started to soak the tatters of M'gol's tunic away from the drying blood.

"I want to know what happened." Tragen wasted no words. M'gol shrugged, then groaned.

"I caught…three men… stealing." He winced, talking through a bruised mouth. Z'kan handed him a damp cloth to hold on the worst, and he nodded thanks. "One of them hit me to persuade me not to talk. I hit him back. Aahhh!" he sighed with relief as Tragen smoothed numbweed into his wounds. "He was a forman, can you credit that?" he said indignantly "He got the others to hold me – one of them had a knife. Then he beat me while they kept me still. Snivelling coward!" he added. Tragen looked at Z'kan.

"It happens." Said Z'kan. "It's how things that shouldn't get to Southern. And petty pilfering will always occur, even performed by those in positions of trust."

"It wasn't – ouch – petty!" declared M'gol, struggling to rise, and being pushed back down by Tragen. "There were several packing cases going out!"

"Would you recognise them again?" asked Tragen.

"Oh yes" gritted M'gol. "They're recognisable to anyone right now. The foreman has a split lip that should have puffed up nicely; one of his friends has a black eye, and as the third was leaking nicely from his nose, I might just have reshaped it for him" his voice had grim satisfaction. "and if I get that tunnel snake on his own…"

"You'll do nothing – Marthengol." Said Z'kan. "Remember that you are too dim to have run away whenyou saw it first. If I see the man I shall tell him that – and that the dummy will keep silent. You're not here to take on every comer. Put it in your report for Lord Bargen later."

M'gol pulled a painful face; but he nodded.

"I shall have a quiet word with steward Nordar, if you do not mind." Suggested Tragen. "And I will ask him not to act until you are gone."

M'gol got a fair bit of offhand sympathy from the others from Northfork over his battered visage: but the general advice was to stay closer to them in future instead of wandering off in a strange place. It was generally held to be asking for trouble!

"And" said Kirissa "We need you intact and in good shape for the curling. And the first heats are tomorrow morning."

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