"Can I trade a song for a haircut?" Charel asked two nights later, nursing her busted lip.
"A haircut's not going to stop a holder lad from hitting you." Old Larst told her sourly, overhearing the barter attempt.
"He was hurting the watchwher!" She blazed back at him, surprising all the drovers, and even herself. "And the poor thing wasn't even doing anything, it was just trying to sleep!"
Old Larst held his hand up. "I'm not saying you did wrong, lass. I'm just saying that if you plan to fight, you'd better learn when to take a stand, and when to let it go. What if that lad had been the Holder's son?"
Charel bit her lip, and promptly winced, causing the wound to reopen.
"Shards." Old Larst swore, and handed her a worn but clean bit of hide to hold to her lip. "Reelon, you talk some sense into your lass." He stomped away.
"Pa, I-" Charel looked entreatingly at her father as he approached.
"Sit, and listen while we trim your hair." He said, pointing to a flattish rock for her to sit on. Meekly she sat down, and Keslo very carefully began shearing.
"What you did today makes me both proud, and terribly angry." Reelon squatted, so Charel wasn't craning her head to look up at him. "Proud, because I know for certain that when my daughter is called upon to make the hard, but correct choice, she's going to stick it out, no matter what. Angry, because you didn't think your actions through." He held up a finger at her. "First of all, you didn't tell anyone what you were about. All we saw was you haul off and swing at a holder. Secondly," he held up a second finger, "you took it upon yourself to punish him, not the proper authority. " A third finger joined the first two. "Thirdly, you hit a holder. There are enough problems 'tween Hold and Hall that you needn't exacerbate them by starting a brawl. And if you behave like that at the Crafthall, you'll get thrown out."
Charel's eyes slowly filled with tears as Reelon rebuked her.
"I - I'm sorry, Pa. T'won't happen again." She whispered, trying to blink back her tears.
"I know. That's why I'm telling you. You're a good lass, and you mean well." He poked her forehead gently. "But you've got to start thinking. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Good, now you finish up and get some sleep. I have some nerves to sooth." Reelon said, standing and following Old Larst.
"For what it's worth, I think you acted admirably." Keslo said quietly. He didn't generally speak a whole lot, and that admission surprised her.
"Even though I caused all that trouble?" She asked mournfully.
"Especially because of it." He put the shears down and pulled out the small shaving mirror he carried with him. "Do you like it?"
Charel sniffled, and took the mirror, holding it up to catch the firelight. "It looks nice. Thank you."
"No, thank you." Keslo sat back a little putting his gear away. "I still owe you a story. Would you like to hear why I think so highly of your action?"
Charel nodded, a lump still in her throat.
"I was born in Crom, and when I was eight Turns old I fell into an abandoned mineshaft. I had both feet then, but I broke both legs in the fall." He explained with patience as he wound her cleanly sheared braid. "I was trapped there for three days before I was found. Even though I could hear the search parties looking for me, calling for me, my own voice was too weak, for I had fallen a long way. And although I heard tunnel snakes from time to time, none made it down as far as where I was." He titled her chin down to make sure the hair fell evenly. "It was the third night when Cromsk, the Hold watchwher, found me. How he got loose from his chain I don't know, but he crawled straight down the shaft, picked me up by the collar of my jacket and climbed right back up, and flew with me in his talons all the way to the courtyard of Crom. The healer said he scratched at the Hold doors until someone opened it, and carried me by the collar all the way to the healer's office." Keslo smiled a little. "The Hold Harper made a song about it, called the 'Watchwher's Search'."
"Is that when you...?" Charel didn't know how to frame her question in a tactful manner.
"Lost my leg? Yes, but my father, a journeyman smith, had read about replacement limbs once when he was transcribing records, and set about making me a new leg." He pointed to the metal rod protruding from a joint that attached to his leg. "It works almost as good as the original, which is good, because I never wanted to be a smith." He grinned openly at her. "I like being able to sleep out under the stars, and chase herdbeasts all over on runner-back. Being a smith means being stuck at a forge all day. I'll pass on that, many thanks all the same."
Charel smiled back tentatively, feeling the knot in her stomach ease. "Will you teach me the 'Watchwher's Search'?" She asked shyly.
"When your lip heals enough play your funny pipe, I will." He promised, and offered her the long plait of hair. Charel wrinkled her nose. "T'aint worth anything. Just chuck it in the fire."
"Keep it for your mother, they tend to have the most curious attachment to these things." Keslo suggested, placing the braid in her hand.
"Okay. And... thank you." Charel wished him a good night and wandered off to find her sleeping furs.
B'ton paced in the Masterharper's quarters, going over the conversation he had with the Mastersmith again in his head.
You did nothing wrong. Wubath rumbled in his mind sleepily from the fire heights of Fort Hold.
"Then why-?" B'ton asked aloud, as was his habit when he thought he was alone.
"Why what, Weyrleader?" Masterharper Degal asked, coming in, wiping his stained hands on a rag.
"I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" B'ton instantly felt contrite in the presence of the older man.
"No, never. Please, have a seat. Catkal is sending some of her tartlets up." Degal eased himself into the padded seat next to his rarely used sandtable, and peered at the young Weyrleader with thinly concealed worry. "In truth, I was wondering when I'd see you."
"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow. " B'ton said, his brow furrowed as he took the offered seat. "I hadn't thought my request to Search would have caused such problems."
Degal shook his head, and put the rag aside. B'ton could see the discoloration of woodstain flecking his hand. "No, you are well within your rights, Weyrleader. Master Vesher refused you on the grounds that you are a dragonrider." He watched with concern as B'ton absorbed that statement, and was relieved to only see confusion at his response.
"But... why? Telgar Weyr has never abused tithe, and whenever we have been asked to ferry people, or anything, we've happily done so." B'ton replied.
"You, aye, but Benden Weyr and C'seld in particular haven't lived up to their obligations." Degal put his rag aside and rifled through a stack of parchments. "And not just with the Smithcraft. This," he held up a sheet, "is a list of all the women in Hall and Hold who have had children fathered by dragonmen, that the Weyr will not acknowledge." He handed the page to B'ton. The bronzerider took the page, then started when he saw the length and breadth of the list.
"All of these women?" He asked incredulously. "And you have verified their claims?"
Tiredly Degal nodded. "This is the list of claims we could validate. I have a list three times as long of speculated births."
"This... this is staggering." B'ton finally said. "and almost..."
"Systematic? Yes, I had noticed that too." Degal nodded. "If you will note the dates next to the births, you will see that this started a turn after C'seld took leadership at Benden.
B'ton swallowed and returned the list to the Masterhaper.
"And he denys all these claims?" Incredulous, he leaned back in his seat.
"Worst. He blames randy Holders and claims the Weyr hasn't the resources to investigate the claims of fallen women." Degal held up his hand as B'ton looked up in anger. "His words, not mine. As it is, I believe he knows, and chooses to turn a blind eye to it."
"I... I don't know what to say." B'ton admitted, staggered by the sheer arrogance.
Degal smiled sympathetically at the younger man.
"There really isn't a lot to say." He handed back to the list to B'ton. "Let your Weyrladies see this." He settled back in his chair. "Sometimes they have the best solutions we menfolk haven't thought of."
Catkal, the Harper's wife arrived with a plate of pastries, and B'ton spent a couple much more pleasant moments with the Masterhaper before politely begging off.
Reelon was never certain what spooked the herd. He was helping Old Larst tend the breakfast fire when two hundred panicked herdbeast stampeded through the camp. He grabbed the old drover and pulled him behind the scant protection of a smallish boulder. Through the confusion of hooves and rolling white eyes Reelon saw Charel on his runner, swept along with the herd.
Charel was saddling the roan when the stampede started, and managed to pull herself up into the tall runner's saddle just as the roan caught the beasts panic, joining the herd as they surged down through the campsite and down the narrow chute to the trail. Over the heads of the beasts she watched the drovers scrambling to safety. Fear squeezed her heart when she realized she didn't see Keslo with those safely out of harm's way. Then, a mere dragonlength ahead of her, she saw the one legged drover fighting a losing battle to cling to the crumbling rock wall. Even as she watched he slid with agonizing slowness back to the level of the trail.
Charel urged the roan to the wall as the first few beasts missed the drover, kicking off her stirrups, and wrapping her left leg around her saddle horn as she leaned all the to the right over the side and grabbed the small drover around his waist.
Keslo grabbed for a stirrup and together Charel and he pulled themselves back up into the saddle. The roan grunted and slowed a little as the weight on his back doubled.
"We have to turn the herd!" Kelso shouted in her ear, situating himself behind her. It took a moment for Charel to make out what he was saying, over the noise and fury of the stampede, but when she did she blanched, realizing what he meant. With the lightest of kicks she spurred her runner forward, urging it to the front of the herd.
As the herd thundered onward the path broadened until six beasts could run abreast, and the tall roan eeled his way through the herd, the two riders making themselves small against his neck. Out here, in the badlands of the Telgar foothills the trail would branch off on deceptive meadows that would abruptly end in one of the many little streams, several queendragon lengths below. If they did not turn the herd before it came to one of the branches the entire herd could stampede off the edge of the cliff to their deaths.
The tall roan, true to his racing pedigree moved to the front of the herd and after a seeming eternity of dust and crescendoing hooves broke out and past the two leading animals. Charel, having long ago given the runner his head, gently tugged on the reins to the left, and the worthy beast complied, staying on the path. Behind her, Charel could feel Keslo let out a sudden sigh of relief when the herd followed them. She smiled, suddenly realizing she too had been holding her breath. They thundered past two more such exits before the herd began to lose speed. By now the path had wended down to the riverbank, and the herdbeasts continued to slow as thirst gripped them, and at first a few, then more and finally the beasts directly behind them stopped and lowered their sweat flecked muzzles into the sweet cold water.
Charel finally reined in the roan, who was all too happy to comply, and greedily sucked water from the river as Kelso slid off.
"Well run, Drover." He said, and flashed a relieved smile at her.
"Socks here did all the work, not I." She demurred, patting the roan's neck affectionately.
"So he did." Keslo laughed. His laughter was infectious and Charel joined in, and if their laughter had a slight hysterical edge to it, the runner didn't complain.
"So then, what should we do now?" Charel asked after their laughter finally died, gazing back down the trail, and the scattered herd.
"We stay at this end. The others will be along, and bring any stragglers with them." Keslo explained, stretching his arms over his head. "I don't suppose those saddlebag have anything edible in them?" He added hopefully.
"Oh! Um..." Charel let out a sad little sigh, pulling out a square pot with a handle. "Sorry." She said, holding it and two tin mugs up.
"That's fine, we can at least make trail klah," he pointed to the gnarled tree growing out of the riverbank less than fifty paces away. It took Charel a moment, but then she recognized it as the oft sought species that was prized for its spicy bark.
"You need a pick-me-up after that wake-up call?" She asked him incredulously, dismounting with the careless grace of having been raised to ride before she could walk. Keslo snorted his laughter, and stretched out his real leg.
"No, this mug's to calm me down! Can I ask you to kindle a fire while I make the brew?"
"Fair trade. But I want to comb out Socks first." She said, undoing the cinch.
"By all means, he's more than earned it." Keslo replied, and ambled over to the tree.
Jurille was speaking to the Weyr Herdsman, when B'ton found her. Although he found the details of running the Weyr at times tedious, he was endlessly fascinated with the Weyrwoman's interactions with Weyr staff. Sometimes cajoling, sometimes cool, rarely stern, but she always walked away with the result she sought. Jurille glanced at him, as he waited patiently for her under the tall sugarfruit tree, its ripening fruits turning purple against the grey green foliage.
"You cut a handsome picture there, a sun-bronzed man beneath a jade and amethyst tree." She said by way of greeting, smiling at him. B'ton felt his ears redden at the unexpected compliment, and hoped that his hair hid the flush.
"Ah, thank you, and I hope I've caught you at a good time?" He stammered, then mentally berated himself for sounding like the greenest of apprentices. Wubath, sunning himself by the lake, sent him a burst of wordless encouragement.
"Now is always a good time." Jurille said, joining him in the shade of the tree, and smiling at him, making his heart race a little more. Biting the inside of his cheek, he reminded himself of his duty, and pulled the list from his belt pouch.
"Were you aware we refused Search privileges from Smithhall?" His question came out harsher than he intended, and he physically flinched away from her look of outrage.
"Why?" She all but spit out.
"Benden. C'seld's letting his riders dally with the womenfolk of Hold and Hall, then denying the father's obligation." B'ton explained apologetically, handing her the Masterharper's list. Jurille scanned the list front and back, then looked back up, chewing her lower lip.
"This is... disturbing. Is this a complete list?" Her question caught him a little off guard.
"Degal says he has a list three times as long of suspected births but these were the only ones he could confirm." B'ton explained.
"Then we should presume the problem to be three times as large. Degal was always meticulous, to the point of being conservative with his estimates." Jurille replied, studying the list a bit closer.
"He's made lists for you before?" B'ton was appalled at the thought.
"Yes, but not for things like this, bronzerider. " Jurille flashed him a reassuring smile. "We were fosterlings together at Fort." She frowned at the list then looked up at him. "With a couple of exceptions, these are all bronzeriders." She said, clearly picking her words with care. B'ton frowned, trying and failing to see the significance.
"I'm sorry, I don't follow."
Jurille gave him a patient look.
"C'seld Egoth has flown all four queens in Benden for the last decade, according the records." She explained.
"That's... usually discouraged, isn't it?" B'ton knew from past expeience that previous Weyrleaders had found tasks well away from the Weyr when any of the junior queens rose to mate.
"It is." Jurille agreed. "The other queen riders joke about the Benden Harem, but I've heard other Weyrwomen express concern about this practice. It's not healthy, particularly since C'seld won't allow the 'Harem' to have bedmates other than him."
"Wait, wait, he's controlling the queenriders?" B'ton looked incredulous, and with good cause. Queens outranked bronzes, even the Weyrleader.
"No, C'seld has made it known to his riders he will not tolerate any others in their beds as long as Egoth flies their queens." Jurille tapped the list. "This is the natural outcome. He's denying these children, because to do otherwise would be to acknowledge that he has a problem." She looked down once more at the names and sighed. "Too bad they are all so young, there's doubtlessly good candidates in this lot." She said tucking the list into her own belt pouch. "Let me talk to the other Weyrwomen about this. These children are scattered across the continent, we may be able to cover the father's obligations for Benden, and to our eventual advantage." She patted his arm.
"Thank you, B'ton, you may leave this to me." She smiled easily at him.
"Thank you, Jurille. You lift a great weight from me." He replied with a slight tilt of his head.
Welcome and thank you for reading my fanfiction. Please don't be afraid to leave notes, questions or critical reviews, I can only hope to improve if you respond.
Random Reader with no return address: I apologize that I haven't got more of the story written, but I promise there's more going on than just the Benden Weyrleader scaring off bedmates for the Queenriders. I'll reveal more as the plot allows me.