Shun the Smuggler! [open!]

“You’re like a herdbeast in a Craft Hall!” someone yelled querulously from the kitchens, in response to a loud clatter of dishes; only to appear moments later brandishing a wooden spoon as if a hot iron, and using it to shoo an unabashed lad, whose hands were loaded with a plate of meatrolls and cheese, from her presence. “You stick to those stables or down with the glows, but otherwise the only reason you should be here is to feed that bottomless pit you call a stomach!” She glowered at the boy, and Sebolaren flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile in return.

“As you will, my lady,” he responded demurely with a half bow, to which the woman scoffed and wagged the spoon at him for good measure before returning to her work. Sebolaren laughed softy and then turned on his heel, scanning the room for a good place to sit and perhaps company to sit with; and he found it quickly, not that he could have ignored the brightly garbed boy if he had tried, nor the canine that stood loyally by. He smiled at the pair as he walked over.

He set the loaded tray on the table in front of the boy, shook out the arms of his long-sleeved tunic, and inclined his head with another smile. “It appears as if I’ve been thrown out, but I wouldn’t mind company if you and your companion are willing to share space?”

Sebolaren laughed well naturedly and nodded, taking a bite of meatroll as he sat down across from the fellow; he recognized the quick and lilting speech pattern, and, was pleased to find himself in such good company. He made quick work of his bite of food while Xirofel tinkered with his harness—studying it with his eyes until the lad’s question, and Sebolaren’s bite, was finished.

“I fear my crime is the affinity Pern has for me, I can scarcely walk upright a’for she calls me back to her bosom. I believe we’ll be a few meat pies short for dinner tonight thanks to me.” He grinned unashamed, but easily slipping into a more relaxed pattern of speech—he did, after all, know one thing about this man, regardless of whether he was Candidate or Dragonrider. “You’re Trader stock, you are, and please take no offense to that. Happy to see you, I am. Although I didn’t know the Weyr attracted such free spirits, are you a Candidate, Rider, or neither? And what sort of activity saw you banned from the kitchens? May I?” Sebolaren questioned, gesturing to a meatroll and tilting his head toward Xirofel’s canine—he knew better than to spoil an animal that wasn’t his.

“And you know,” he started with a slow smile, “we Herderfolk have some tricks for harnessing even the smallest of runners. I might be able to help you with that wee bit you have there, no questions asked.”

Sebolaran’s eyes were alight with twinkling mirth that was echoed only by his deep rumbling laugh—a laugh that was possibly the first since his arrival at Dalibor Weyr. “Aye, and she pulls me all the harder here where instead of thick tufts of sweet summer grasses and dark loamy soil there is naught but sand, stone, and more sand. Though,” he paused and let his lips purse in contemplation, “I haven’t had time enough to explore beyond the walls of the Weyr. Some keep runners here, so I assume there is at least ample land for them to stretch their legs.”

He flashed the trader an innocuous wink as answer enough to his so-called illicit theft, but he had been then benefactor of trader hospitality in the past—filched or otherwise—and who would complain ‘from whence came?’ to the food in their bellies or drinks in their hand when company was as fine as men bound only to their family and their trade.

Sebolaren gazed at the man unabashedly, watching him as he worked his harness and spoke as freely as the trader-folk do, which is no more nor less than they need: Though they always seemed to have more worthwhile words to speak than the Holderfolk who considered them less than beasts—beasts who didn’t have the smarts to know where home was. ‘…Not been a lifelong dream of mine…’ Xirofel said decisively and Sebol nodded in return. “Room for runners, maybe, but a man’s soul needs more freedom than a holding of any sort can provide—be it Weyr or Keep. Although I’ve never known a true sense of freedom, it may have taken me a few candlemarks to adjust to the smell of salt on the air, but it took a sevenday to realize I’d need a Dragonrider to find my way off this island.”

He bit into another meatroll himself, rather than tossing it to the canine, and when he had finished his bite, he gave Xiro a deeply approving smile: Not that the trader needed his approval, but a man of animals recognizes that care in others. Sebolaren had always respected the Holdless for their disciplined life: The road was a hard place for any man, much less the burdenbeasts that made travel possible. “I once made the mistake of feeding a Traderman’s dog without permission when I was a young lad. He was as firm with me as he would have been with any adult—‘”Ye spoil ‘em, they become no better than pets!”’ –he told me,” Sebolaren smiled as he recounted the memory, though he had been deeply shamed and embarrassed at the time. He cleared his throat and spoke the words, memorized from many years of thinking on them, with as correct an accent as he could manage.

“’Ye c’n see how the Holders are like that, ye know a soft life, ye ne’er haf’ta wonder where yer food is comin’ or if’n it’s comin’. Not us folk, we always haf’ta wonder! An’ ‘cause we wonder, our animals wonder, an’ they know th’ value of honest work. They aren’t spoilt like ye Holdfolk are. Nothin’ is easy fer ‘em’”

Sebolaren chuckled softly, “You know, at the time, I was horrified; I thought they’d run all our beasts out of the pens because I’d shamed them so badly. Was only a few turns later after I’d had time to grow on it, that I realized he was teaching me like he would teach any other child of the world. You don’t mince words or play nice when the world won’t hesitate to claim the life of the ill-prepared.” He poured himself a mug of juice from a chilled pitcher on the far end of the table, and poured a second for the trader, setting it down away from his busy hands—nodding with a smile.

“Ay, does appear to be quite a few Herderfolk here, the stables have been full of them. I suppose it’s because we have an affinity for animals? Or maybe it’s because we’re the easiest to uproot and drag away!” He flashed his own wink this time, as if he’d really put up such a fuss at being carted off a-dragonback to a new place. Leaning forward in his seat, he stared thoughtfully at the small harness Xirofel held, and then he lifted a finger and pointed along its length. “I’m not sure how you want it to settle around your friend however; if you take this flankpiece and loop it around here,” he said while pointing to the strap that would brace along the ribs, “you can form a chestguard of sorts that would keep the harness centered. You’d only have to loop it around the neck and knot it so it could slide.”

Nearly wistful, he cupped his scruffy chin in the palm of his calloused hand. He would have to shave later. The absentminded thought passed through him as both he and the trader contemplated their possible new life of stone and sand. “I would agree, the land did call to me once, but now—now I’ve been called elsewhere, and it might actually be the wind that releases us.” He smiled faintly, still recalling how the world looked from between the two blue sails that cupped and manipulated air itself to achieve flight.

“A trader’s heart? Perhaps, friend. I have yearned for freedom such as you have experienced for many turns, I never expected to find it. I certainly never expected to end up in a Weyr, standing before it’s dragons, with the possibility of becoming a Dragonrider.” Who could have imagined such a possibility though? True enough Thread would fall again and the Dragonmen would be called to defend the lands of Pern, but safe inside Hold and Hall not much thought was given to the dragons in terms of one’s own life. Perhaps he could have expected to travel with the Tradesmen or barter with them for runnerstock, but a Dragonrider?

“Sail? I’ve never been in a boat,” Sebol stopped to consider that notion. “I find boats lovely, in their own way, but I much prefer a thinking creature. I’ve heard that there are shipfish in these waters, perhaps one of the dragons could find a couple for us. We could ride them to shore!” He chuckled at his own, mostly crazy idea, and raised his mug to his lips for another long cool pull of the sweet liquid. He only laughed at the jab moments later, “Perhaps you’ll have to teach me the proper trader accent and that sweet talking you do to convince our Holderwomen to purchase all manner of goods!” He grinned and then nodded, because Xiro’s statements and questions had bled into one another.

“My father was also a firm man, Master Herder of Ruatha—where I was born—and he always did business with Traderfolk. More business there than I’ve known to happen elsewhere with the Traders. He always said to me—‘I don’t right understand their way of life, but their beasts are their life more than ours are for us, and any Trader who passes through looking for stock is welcome to barter here as long as his beasts are healthy’—perhaps he had a Trader heart, he wasn’t an intimate man, but he did work hard for his family, and he raised me in his own beliefs. “ Sebol nibbled thoughtfully on another meatroll, he had never considered that his father might have yearned for freedom as much as he had: The man had never done him wrong in all his years.

He lifted his eyes back to the trader and nodded emphatically, his face expressive to show the truth in the statement that Xiro had just made. “I stick to the stables as much as possible—I’ve spent many a night in the stables at home whether to care for a foaling runner or a sick draybeast—the inner caverns will take some getting used to, as will living in windowless quarters high above the bowl should we Impress.”

He polished off another meatroll while the trader fiddled with the harness, and a pleased smile spread across his face when Xiro found the advice worth taking. He did not hesitate to extend his arm and clasp the trader’s wrist—not even considering if the Traders shook as the Herderfolk might, never having sealed a bargain as his father had—“Well-met, Xirofel, I am Sebolaren—however that might be too long a name to yell while we’re sailing away on shipfish…so feel free to call me Sebol.”

Sebolaren chuckled softly, but the notes were bitter as they left his mouth. He hadn’t felt very free since arriving at the Weyr for an entirely different reason. His fingers tugged listlessly at the long sleeve of his tunic and he snorted with contempt. “Freedom with the Dragonmen, perhaps, for those who deserve it.” He bit into another meatroll perhaps with more gumption than was necessary—simply to keep the remaining words locked inside where they belonged.

Even Traders would find more respect in the Holds than he would.
Still, his new-found friend seemed to enjoy the thought of shipfish, and to be honest he had yet to visit the beaches of Dalibor. If they were even allowed to venture to the sandy areas alone—perhaps one of the Rider’s would join them, maybe even J’von or J’en or Tasa.

Tasa’s green did love the shipfish—he recalled. He arched a singular brow at Xiro and smiled. “So what is our plan then, to go flounder through the water like so many lost at sea and hope a shipfish happens upon us?” He chuckled again, more brightly, “because I’m not entirely opposed to the idea—if we’re allowed to visit the ocean that is.”

He snorted softly and feigned shame when Xiro waggled him off—“ of course if we sail by shipfish for the nearest caravan…or start our own…you’ll have to teach me.” The grin he leveled on the trader was bright, and mischevious—certainly he was up to no good. “Wouldn’t want your wherry-brained partner fouling your deals with his Holder notions!” Laughing softly at himself he emptied his mug of the cool liquid, swirling it around his tongue before swallowing.

He raised his finger and nodded before replying. “I found my first experience a-dragonback exhilarating. The heights took some getting used to—and I’m sure they will again by the time our dragons are old enough to fly—but at the same time. To see the world so open. To see the world from above. It was amazing to me. Flinging myself from the Weyrledge by dragon…I agree…that would take the passing of a few marks to grow accustomed—but only a few.”

“And actually…I needed some sewing work done to my Candidates robes. As I have no talent for the needle I bartered away my talent for the beast—double shifts for a sevenday, you should see me there often!” He grinned, honestly happy to have a skill he could use to trade for what he needed—and rather proud of his accomplishment. He was even happier when Xiro seemed well pleased with his new harness.

“I’m glad that once again a Herder of Ruatha could find way to help a Trader of Pern. Perhaps we both will break down walls as Dragonriders.” In more ways than one, he thought with mental irony. Still, he couldn’t stay broody for long with his new friend—and possible partner in escape—so thrilled. “Perhaps you can teach me some Trader knots? Watching you—I have an inkling my father knew some of them himself—but I love to learn.”

He paused long enough to refill both of their glasses once Xirofel had finished drinking. “Besides,” he said, raising an eyebrow “,now that we have the means of a working harness system, the knots to tie it, the names to call, and a destination—we should be hunting out shipfish and fitting them for their own duty.” His teeth flashed as he smiled and lifted his mug to the trader “to freedom, and our health!”