Chap. 262 Never Run with a Dagger

Chap. 262 Never Run With a Dagger

It’s so typical of people, he thought, that we join the same group we worked with yesterday. I could just as easily walk over to the group Raylan’s in, they didn’t work hay. No one would be the wiser.

But I would know, he thought.

He’d risen early and eaten a big breakfast before flying to Singing Waters Hold. He was still sore from his exertions of yesterday, but not as much as he’d expected.

It was always a thrill to come out of between to see so many other dragons. There was always a bugled welcome.

I’m enjoying being with them. I like being at Landing, but I miss other dragons Raventh said.

Even with Motanith and the other dragons living right next door?

It’s not the same. Some of these dragons are my clutch mates, like Kenth.

He resigned himself to another day of backbreaking labor, putting up hay. The only benefit was that he was in amongst his own kind, dragonriders, and even the ones who were strangers to him accepted him not as a Landing staff member, but as just another dragonrider. I can’t let them down, he thought. They worked just as hard as I did, without complaint.

The worst part would be having to grit his teeth and listen to another day of Morgan verbally attacking F’mart. He, along with everyone else in the group, wanted to kill the man.

The man had badgered F’mart the entire day. K’ndar was astounded at the bronze rider’s acceptance of it. F’mart had never been one to take such verbal abuse. As a Weyrleader, he didn’t have to. Yet F’mart seemingly was deaf to the myriad of insults and slurs Morgan heaped upon him. Morgan assigned him the hardest, dirtiest of tasks, taunted him, questioned his manhood. F’mart merely grinned and did as he was told.

It was the rest of his dragonriders who grew more and more angry. Morgan’s slander merely made an already tight group even more so. They began to resist, turning Morgan’s abuse into a game. “Pimple” became their go to name for each other. “Hey, pimple! hand me that rake, please?”

At the lunch break, the team drank the water barrel dry, and and tried to fit everyone into the shade thrown by the hay wagon.

Two women drove up in a pony cart, set up an impromptu bench and piled their lunches on it. “Can we get a hand here, please? We’ve a full barrel of water for you.” K’ndar was nearest them, having been attracted by the lovely and refined pony. Another man came to help. The barrel was heavy, but the women had maneuvered the cart so that the full one slid easily onto it’s rack beside the driver’s bench. They loaded the empty onto the cart.

One of the women looked over her shoulder. She lowered her voice until it was audible only for them.

“I apologize for the way Morgan’s treating you weyrfolk,” she said, “it’s not right. He hates everyone, it’s not just you. It’s just, I’ve never heard such rot out of his mouth before. We here at Singing Waters Hold, we don’t usually do this sort of crap.”

The other man said, “You’re not to blame, ma’am, we are just wondering why he’s here at all. He’s not worth much more than pig shit.”

She held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, sir. Pig shit DOES have a use, it grows beautiful flowers and nice, strong trees!”

They laughed. Then she shook her head. “I really don’t know why he’s here, where he came from, or why Lord Dorn hasn’t strung him up. He just showed up about six months ago. Rumor has it he’s some sort of shirt tail relative, and was sent here as a last attempt to redeem himself. It’s not working. You’re not the only ones complaining. I think Lord Dorn is just waiting for him to cross a line. He’s a fair man, is Lord Dorn, but there’s only so far he’s willing to allow a sod like Morgan to push him.”

K’ndar remembered his brother’s tale of being on his knees before Lord Dorn, begging for forgiveness and a chance to make amends when it was discovered their father had been cheating the Lord Holder on tithes. Yes, Lord Dorn was fair..up to a point. Push past that point to your peril.

“If you’ll forgive me, we have to go get another barrel for the other teams. And food. Eat up, folks, the handpies are to die for,” the woman said in her regular voice.

K’ndar felt a little better. At least Morgan’s abuse wasn’t his imagination.

Morgan and Aydan unharnessed the draft horses and led them away. They would be replaced by two fresh horses.

Somehow that didn’t seem right, he thought. But one took care of one’s horses. He certainly didn’t want to pull the heavily loaded wagons by hand.

When they were out of earshot, the dragon folk began to beg F’mart to let them kill him.

“Why, sir, are you putting up with this crap? Any one of us, even the non-dragonriders, we’re ready to kill him.”

F’mart levered himself up onto his elbows and grinned. “Thank you, but...have patience. There is a method to my madness. I’m here, right now, as working guest of Lord Dorn’s, just another pair of hands to bring in the harvest.”

“Let me at least clobber him, teach him some manners,” one said. K’ndar recognized him as an older rider, one who’d ridden in the wing opposite his when they were still fighting thread. It felt so odd to hear the deference in the man’s voice to F’mart, who was, after all, two years younger than K’ndar. “Please, sir, this is driving me mad. That arsehole needs a whipping.”

Other voices chimed in, agreeing.

The weyrling gold rider, the ‘tiny’ girl, jumped to her feet and stood in front of F’mart, hands on hips. She unconsciously displayed the body language that someday, would mark her as a Weyrleader.

K’ndar had watched her working just as hard as the men, without a bit of complaint. How can I bitch when this mite of a girl isn’t?

“My lord, you are my WEYRLEADER. This is disgraceful. You shouldn’t even have to to do this,” she said.

Yes. Definitely a gold rider.

He laughed. “Aye, I am, and aye, you’re right. But I have to eat, too, just like everyone else, and this is how I show all of you that we are not better than anyone else. We’re just luckier, because we have dragons.”

“I’m no dragonrider, Weyrleader F’mart. I’m just one of Lord Dorn’s cotholders. I beg of you. Let me hammer him. Just one punch, one solid punch. He doesn’t have a right to say things like this. I’m sick of it.”

F’mart spit and spit until he dislodged a piece of chaff that had stuck to his tongue.

“Have any of you ever hunted tunnel snakes?”

Many of them said yes.

K’ndar could not get over how mature the bronze rider had become. He was no longer the punk and bully he’d been when they were classmates.

F’mart said, “There was an old wise man named Sunsoo who said “he wins who knows when to fight and when not to fight.”

“And that has what to do with tunnel snakes?”

“The easiest way to kill one is to stay just out of its striking range. You make it strike and strike and strike until it gets tired. A tired tunnel snake makes the mistake of extending itself too far. That’s when you cut off its head.

Watch and see what I am doing. Do you see how he’s worked himself into a lather? He’s upped his abuse to no effect. Like the tunnel snake, he’s tired himself out. What’s worse is that he’s furious, having realized that I’m obviously toying with him. He sees me..and all of you! turning it into a game. He’s shot every arrow in his quiver and not hit the mark once-at least with me. I can see it’s bothering all of you. Thank you for that, but stop worrying. I have a very thick skin.”

He scratched at his neck. “But not so thick that this shaffing chaff can’t itch me.” The crowd laughed...but still was unhappy.

The man who’d helped with the barrel related what the woman had said about Morgan being new there as a sort of last chance. He added, “Sir, no one should have to take this sort of abuse. Not a weyrleader, not a drudge.”

“You are correct, but people like Morgan don’t see things that way. He’s the type that thinks that EVERYONE is like him, we just haven’t been caught yet.

Listen. I...you all...have helped tire him out. He’s the tired tunnel snake. He’s made mistakes that I will take advantage of. He knows that I WILL speak with Lord Dorn about his outrageous treatment. Once Dorn gathers as much information as he needs-I’m hoping you all are willing to testify to Morgan’s abuse?”

The crowd roared in unison, along with a forest of raised hands.

“Thank you. I doubt it will be necessary, but keep it in your mind. Now, think. Morgan’s already figured out that he’s already crossed the line that will force Lord Dorn’s hand. So he’s desperate. His only saving will be if he can provoke me into attacking first, especially if it’s in front of Dorn’s staff.

Then he can claim self defense. But I only LOOK stupid. “

“Weyrleader F’mart, I can’t stand waiting an entire month for you to hand him his head.”

F’mart laughed again and stood up. He brushed at his sodden shirt to remove clinging hay. It was fruitless.

“Ah, you’re not going to have to. That “next month” noise was nothing but gas and ash. It’s meant to throw me off guard. No, he’s going to come at me tonight. He’ll probably jump me after nightfall, when I’m coming out of the festivities tent.

He’ll expect me to be drunk. He’ll be alone, hiding in some dark little corner where no one can see the fight, and armed with a dagger. The only way cowards like him can fight is dirty. I can do both.”

Almost to a man or woman, the crowd said “We have your back. We won’t let that happen.”

“Let’s jump HIS arse before he gets to you.”

“No, no, no, I WANT him to ambush me. I want him to think I’m complacent. Let him come to me. He has a plan. I don’t intend to go by it. That’s one way to gain an advantage. That’s how fights are won. There are people here...K’ndar, for instance, my classmate, who know how I fight.”

K’ndar nodded, as did several of the other older dragonriders. He remembered one time being so pissed at F’mart’s taunts that he was about to hit him.

He shivered. I am so glad I held my temper, he thought. That was BEFORE he’d ever seen F’mart in a fight. Now?

“K’ndar? You’ve fought him?” someone asked.

“Fought F’mart? No way. I’d sooner fight a mother wher than F’mart when he’s truly inspired. I can at least outrun a wher,” he said.

F’mart caught his eye. It held something new...respect. He nodded.

“Will Lord Dorn behead him?”

“I don’t know. Verbally assaulting the guest of a Lord Holder is very serious, but not enough of a crime to warrant beheading. Attacking that guest with a weapon is, especially if the guest is wounded, never mind murdered.

Lord Dorn may give me the pleasure of deciding the punishment. Let me think of this this afternoon. It will take my mind off of how bad my hands and back hurt, especially considering this is only day one of a long, long week.”

He snuffed, trying to clear his nose of hay dust. “Now lets get something to eat. We still have half a day’s work ahead of us.”

K’ndar was awed. F’mart had allowed himself to be Morgan’s target in order to draw the man’s abuse from everyone else.

This is all a game to F’mart, he thought. He might have matured but he’s still itching for a good fight.

He’d had enough time for a short, if itchy nap. He got up, feeling refreshed...a little.

“Here he comes with the fresh horses,” someone hissed. Morgan was riding a black gelding, Ayden was riding a bay mare.

K’ndar recognized the mare as one of the draft horses his family had bred. They’d named her Kitten after the cat’s head shaped blaze on her head.

The mare stopped, looked at him, and nickered. Well, of course you’d say hello, he thought, I was there when your mum dripped you. I trained you. You always were a sweetheart.

He made to go up to say hello, but Morgan shouted, “Hey, you lout! It’s back to work, wastrel.”

He bit back a retort. After a moment, he turned and skipped gracelessly back to the crowd, waving his arms and singing in a high pitched tone of voice, “I’m a happy wastrel, as happy as can be!”

_______________________________________________________________

The last bale was tossed into the air by two men. Everyone was exhausted but elated. K’ndar looked around, hoping that there wasn’t one more bale, hiding itself.

Lord Dorn rode up.

“Thank you, all of you, you’ve done a tremendous job! It’s quitting time, and so I’d like to invite you all to the cook tents to get some cold liquids in you, and some of the best cooking you’ve ever eaten. We’ve had a steer roasting all day, I can smell it, I believe he’s done! And my bakers will impress you. The field showers are all set up, I know you’ll want to clean off the chaff! I believe many of you are staying here tonight, so after the dinner, we’re having dancing and music. I would like to have you taste test my wine, Kahrain. Or, if you prefer, some ale from my new alemaster, D’mitran. I can’t drink it myself, so please...help me out!”

The crowd cheered.

“Don’t know if I can dance, not the way I’m feeling right now,” said one, groaning. Another said, “not to worry, mate, I’m right there with you.”

K’ndar saw F’mart walk up to Lord Dorn’s horse and put a hand on the rein. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he did see the result. Dorn’s head shot up and looked at Morgan.

The man had his back turned to them. He was sitting on the bench seat next to Ayden. Ayden clucked to his team and the horses took up the load one last time. K’ndar wished a knife would suddenly appear in Morgan’s back.

The crowd began to make its tired way to the campground.

F’mart nodded, and Lord Dorn rode away.

He saw K’ndar and came over. He stuck out a hand and K’ndar gripped it in a loose handshake. It still hurt.

F’mart worked his shoulders in a circle. “I’ve hardly had a chance to say much more than hello, K’ndar. Are you bunking here tonight? You’re welcome to join us, there’s plenty of room in our weyr’s tents. And the weyrlings need minding. Some of them might just drink while still on probation. Imagine that!”

K’ndar smirked, remembering a certain F’mart who’d done just that. A new weyrling on probation, F’mart had gotten drunk, and mouthed off to a group of seasoned dragonriders who’d just returned from fighting Thread. They taken matters into their own hands. Later on, F’mart had been punished with a month long stint cleaning latrines.

“Thanks, F’mart, but no, I have work to do at Landing. You’re staying?”

“Aye. I have to, my people are all here. Siena’s got everything in hand at the weyr, most of the weyrfolk are doing our own harvest, such as it is.”

F’mart looked at his hands mournfully, then at K’ndar.

“Ordinarily, I’d say you’re looking good for living at Landing, but I’d be lying. You look like shit warmed over.”

K’ndar laughed.

_______________________________________________________________

The second morning was cool, but it held the promise of another hot day.

The haying team was already at the gathering point. He looked around for the hay wagon, Morgan’s throne.

“You missed a fine dance, there, mate,” said one of the cotholders.

He felt as if he belonged. Yesterday he’d been a stranger, someone from Landing. Today he was just another member of a team.

“You don’t want to see me dance. Or sing. It’s probably why I’m still single,” he said. The man laughed.

“I heard you singing yesterday. You’re right.”

They both laughed.

There was no hay wagon, this time. For that matter, there was no Morgan.

Instead, there was Ayden, with a slate in his hand and the air of someone ‘in charge’.

Dare I hope? he wondered, maybe some other group will do haying?

“Good morning!” he called. The group looked around, wondering. Such a different greeting than yesterday!

K’ndar cast a glance at F’mart. The weyrleader was grinning.

“Are you all rested and fed? Because we still have work to do.”

The crowd groaned. Every one of them was still aching from yesterday’s work, and were not relishing another day of throwing hay bales over their heads.

“Today, I’ll be assigning you in smaller groups of two or three. There’s grapes that need harvesting, and carrots needing pulling. So if there’s a task you’d prefer to do, or have sustained an injury that might prevent you from using your arms, for instance, just sound off and I’ll rearrange as needed.”

“Wait...we’re not haying?” said one voice, not daring to hope.

“Well, I have bad news for those of you who enjoyed yesterday.”

Dread filled them. ‘Enjoyment’ was definitely not a word they would have used to to describe haying.

“You all worked your arses off, so well that 95% of the hay is done. What’s left is stuff that was a little late in maturing, so we’re going to let it grow for another week. Us Holders can do that.”

“You mean...no more haying?”

“Aye, no more haying. It’s done for the year.”

“Where’s that arsehole Morgan?”

Ayden shrugged, his eyes rolling as he smirked.

“Ah….he’s..excuse me, he’s indisposed. I doubt we’ll be seeing him again.”

“EVER?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. Lord Dorn has...um, reassigned him.”

“Come on, man, spit it out. We all know what a shit he was, talking to my Weyrleader like he was nothing more than a dog.”

He grinned, obviously relishing his knowledge. “Well, folks, I wasn’t in the camp last night, so I’m not too sure of what happened. Maybe…maybe you should be talking to one of the dragonriders. One of them probably knows better than I.”

Heads turned as one to look at F’mart. He shrugged, then shook his sleeve up his left arm. It had been bandaged. K’ndar recognized the unmistakable scent of numbweed.

F’mart grinned.

“Weyrleader?”

“Well, from what I heard-this is just rumor, mind you. Maybe he was drunk? He fell down on his dagger, somehow managing to sever his own hamstring! And he’s got a few broken ribs. I think I heard the only room for him was in a cell,” F’mart said.