Runner Legs and Shipfish Fins [Sakky]

The ride to the coast was more restrained than Sebol wanted—than even the spirited mare beneath him wanted; which he was secretly pleased to discover. Ever the responsible guardian he could not simply send her into terrain he did not know; she was far too valuable an animal to waste her life on a misstep or a snakehole. Her collected three-beat was agile enough that he could scout the ground around them without difficulty, and luckily it appeared that many other riders of Dalibor had passed this way before—though that wasn’t the case for long. Rider and mare snaked off the somewhat beaten trail into truly dense foliage as he chased the sound and smell of open ocean.

* * *

When the crashing of underbrush, and Requias’ unnerved shuffling, heralded the Trader’s arrival at the Northernmost beach-head, Sebolaren had already relieved the mare of her tack and thoroughly groomed her—shirking not an ounce with his careful attention to her feet. In fact he was still checking her hooves when Xiro’el made his grand appearance; and even though a mouth click brought the mare to heel it still earned the Cyanrider a slightly darkened look. True he might have earned it for their first encounter and the scratches the Trader had earned, but burdenbeasts were far different from dragons.

His hands sought and reclaimed the fore-hoof he had been working on before he replied. “Once I’ve made sure the mare won’t founder while we’re drowning I’ll be ready” and he settled back into work—which was only interrupted once more when Tigreath exploded from the brush; though this time Req did not shy. He rewarded the mare instantly; it was obvious to him that she learned fast and had perhaps been only a little stable-shy from such a long wait between workouts—but he was still staring askance at the Cyan. What a peculiar expression.

He finished his work on each hoof in turn, chuckling under his breath as the Catdragon collapsed into sweet sunlight and announced her reason for looking so unkempt: At least this would give him time to be properly attentive to his borrowed mare, and give the Cyan time to recoup. Half a mark had passed before he conceded that Req was unharmed, and certainly not winded, from their ride up the coast. He had chosen this spot for a freshwater stream that ran out to sea; he tethered her with a release knot well within the shade, and with enough line to reach both water and fodder. He knew without a doubt that if something should threaten her she’d manage to loose herself and return to the Weyr—but they wouldn’t be that far anyway.

He snorted under his breath as the Trader joined him at the mare’s side, apparently awakening from his nap— “You snore like a dying draybeast.” Yet Xiro was already making for the breaking waves at usual top speed. Sebol sighed with a smile on his face and stashed the tack high and dry on a tree-branch: Out of reach of Req should she become bored enough to destroy something valuable. With a final pat along her grey flank he set out after the trader; though he began to feel the slightest hint of apprehension as he grew closer to the salty water.

Would Xiro think less of him if he mentioned he’d never been in the sea? Hell, he hadn’t even seen the sea until that first day astride the Blue and his Rider who whisked him away from Ruatha. He never had much of a reason to leave the Hold or its fields of runnerbeasts. Yet here he was—feeling oddly humbled by the vastness of it all. How in the sharding—the Shipfish could be anywhere! His faltering face was saved by a grin at that thought. Well if anyone could find the blasted creatures it would be Xiro, the Catdragon, and himself. Certainly that was true.

He stripped his feet of their boots and left those on dry sand—little did he know they’d be gone if the tide came in while they were out—and then stepped bravely onto the wet sand that marked the shoreline. He walked toward the water as it receded; chasing it and achieving vertigo as it seemed he was standing still and yet moving even further away. Then the waters rushed back and swept into his ankles, and then his calves, and then his knees as he moved ever further in; but when his toes touched a sudden drop-off in the shore he felt that uncertainty return.

“What if something that isn’t Shipfish finds us first…”

“Uh-huh” he muttered sarcastically under his breath at Xiro’s coaxing words; and so intent was he on contemplating his possible death at the hands of some unnamed sea-monster that he hadn’t even noticed the Cyan was missing. Which of course would have set him on immediate guard; because of course the Catdragon would not appreciate her (thus far) danger-enabler. That, however, was not how things played out, and when Tigreath lept from the water every bit the creature of the deep he had expected; the only things that registered in Sebolaren’s mind were danger, no—wait…Tigreath.

This rush of pure adrenaline was followed by a near-hysterical peal of laughter; because it was funny—until he felt her cool tongue against his bare flesh. Bare flesh. Bare. Bare. The word pealed in his head like a ship’s bell and he felt his blood run cold in chilling response. The tiny dragon’s head had already turned to face her rider: Of course it would, what was to be expected but that. Instantaneous communication. And now the Trader was drawing closer as curious and determined as his Catdragon—and there wasn’t even a chance to pull away or hide. Well.

He felt a steel resolve close around him. There wasn’t much use for excuses or cowardice or lies at this point. There wasn’t much use for apologies or stuttered explanations. Then he was there: Nearly a foot shorter yet somehow—in this position—more threatening than a giant. Sebol would have preferred a sea monster. The Cyanpair extricated claws from tattered tunic and then waited before him expectantly, but it was Xiro’s eyes that held his. He rolled his jaw slightly and then set it before pulling his right sleeve with his left hand; following the motion in an arc so the shirt came off fluidly—leaving him standing there in the daylight that seemed harsher and unforgiving.

For once observation was not on Sebolaren’s mind. For once he wanted to forget the look that would pass across Xiro’el’s eyes as it had passed across Delilah’s—as it would probably pass across all others. Shock, bewilderment, fear, disgust. That was before the hatching; now he would see something else echoed back at him in those eyes—understanding. ‘So this is why no dragon chose him’ He didn’t want to see it. Not from this man. So he didn’t. His eyes unfocused over the turquoise waves as they rolled to the shore; he studied instead the clouds in the sky and the seabirds that floated on rippling thermals.

And then he felt the man touch him. If his eyes had been daggers he’d have lost his own arm under their penetrating gaze; which wavered not on the man himself but on his hands. Hand’s that didn’t seem repulsed or afraid. And the man moved closer. The proximity of anyone after so long hiding had him certain he could feel the Trader’s breath on his flesh like dragonfire, and the the inquisitive fingers—apparently certain that his filth wouldn’t rub off onto them—sent lances of ice down his arms that rippled into gooseflesh. Sebol’s nostrils flared and he fought the urge to shake his head like a confused beast; instead contenting himself with standing still—waiting for the axe to fall.

Then Xiro spoke, and the Herder grunted a quick response—too quick, because he was soon stumbling over it. “Wait…” he started and eyed the Trader with a fierce speculation. “Beautiful? Not anything else. Anything like vile, or repulsive, or evil, or unbecoming, or unfit, or betrayer, or dangerous, or untrustworthy…” to his credit he didn’t stumble over the litany as he sang them out, as if a cord in him had been cut and was releasing some of that venom to be washed out to sea.

His imploring gaze was turned on the Cyan dragon as her rider asked his question in that direction. And an affirmation of apparent disregard for what the tattoo should mean. Then again; when did the Holdless follow the terms laid down by Pernese society? Perhaps he should have expected this response from his friend—of all people—but it was still difficult. He appreciated the sentiment of the Catdragon, to be honest, though even Agnith had seemed far more excited about his ‘pictures’ than her rider. Xiro, however, wasn’t exactly a Hold or Hallbred man full of the notions that those who lived in stone walls adhered to.

He allowed himself to relax; and as he did so his mind snatched on to the words that Xiro spoke. “The markings. You’ve seen them before? On other Traders? Do you know what they mean? Do you…” The words fell from his mouth as he dropped into silence and he set his jaw against the surge of emotion—most of it anger—that he felt simply asking those questions. There had been plenty of time for him to ponder the reasons for what had happened to him while at the Weyr; and what was once something bewildering and mischievous had taken on an all-too malicious tone with every passing day that he felt bound by this ink prison.

Sebolaren’s muscles rippled as the man’s fingertips once again found his flesh unexpectedly; and in his haste to bring his rushing thoughts to heel so he could focus on the Trader’s movements, his body relaxed—belying the urge he felt to shrug off or push away the questing hands. After so long it was almost a painful intrusion to be studied so—to be touched; but Sebol’s mind was far too scattered to choose between fight and flight.

“I thought you might. Had hoped—they were done by Traders.” Sebol’s eyes scanned Xiro’s face as if he could glean the very secrets of his own past from the man as he spoke, and when his words ended with an unasked question—Sebolaren did not hesitate to supply the answer. “They were passing through Ruatha. One of the longer-circuit Caravans we only saw once a turn; and they were on their way to their wintering grounds before the far Northern roads became snow-covered. It was three of them actually. I hadn’t recognized them from the previous passage—“ his eyes fled from the Trader then; back out to sea where they could follow the lines of the ocean waves and windswept clouds.

The mistake he had made that life had cost him dearly—may have cost him everything—and it was a regret he had yet to swallow and accept. “I should have been smarter—in many ways—but my curiosity has always been piqued by the Tradermen. Colourful wagons that pale only in comparison to the colourful personalities; colourful women who aren’t afraid that the dirt of a day’s work will rub off on them. They command the open road, and they answer to no man.” He paused in his passionate speech to give the ocean a wan smile before shaking his head and exhaling slowly. “I was protected, in a way. As I told you before—my father gave them what they needed and the trade flowed smooth as the words from their lips: It never occurred to me that there would be…” even now he couldn’t find the words for them.

He wasn’t one to damn an entire people because he’d lacked the wits to keep his head around a group that might not have the best intentions. It was still a compulsion he had—after years of pleasantries—to speak only kindness of the Holdless and their kin. Yet what words could be used for what had happened. The truth, with no judgments. Quick and painless—as if tearing a soiled bandage from a wound—mostly. “They shared their fire with me. They shared a drink—that I’d never had before—and that is all I remember. I woke up as I stand before you now…” he spread his arms and stared down at the markings. “That, Xiro, is why I have only questions.”

The pause seemed far greater for Sebol than it probably did for the man who held silent. His eyes wandered casually around the open expanse of water while air tickled across his flesh in a way that made him dizzy with the consequence of it all. How long had it been since his body had seen the sun? Tan hands faded to a colour reminiscent of grasses scorched by burning light. The sun on his shoulders was certainly warmth he had missed, and he lifted his face to bask in its radiance while awaiting the response that—for all he knew—might never come. When it did come, finally, it was sudden; and he stared at Xiro with open curiosity.

He followed the words as they were spilled, and pieced them together like a shattered puzzle within his mind; his lips pressed to one hand as his chin rested on the thumb, and he supported that arm with the other. So it had been a drug. A revelation that made a bitter moment somewhat more acceptable. Flagless? His stomach churned as the previous forgiveness seemed swept away by another crime. The absent flags should have been the first thing he had noticed. His mind filled in excuses; had only seen the wagons briefly in the darkness. Excuses. The arrow of fault was again at his throat.

Freedom. A funny sort of way to show it—but what the Trader said next made Sebol’s blood run cold. And then hot. And then he felt as if it all had washed away—had he visibly paled? Did it matter at this point? “Not even Traders.” the words escaped him in a breathless whisper—save that the agony of it made it more a dying curse. The hairs along his neck stood on end as if hackles and the air seemed to suddenly chill; whipping across his exposed body and bringing forth gooseflesh. His eyes moved to briefly meet the Trader's gaze, but the surprise, and concern, there told him everything he needed to know about how crazed he truly looked—so he spared them both that horror and returned his gaze to the sea.

“To achieve Master rank in my Craft I would have meticulously lived this lie for turns well beyond what my luck would give me—and well past that point unless I wanted that rank stripped from me. So I accepted the Searchrider’s offer, only to leave the sands alone. Now I wait as if a man prepared for the gallows to see if I Impress, to see if I can be vindicated of that which was done to me. Yet I had always believed…somewhere…that those who did this were simply seeking to indoctrinate or pad their numbers. Orphan one man from his Hold at a time and build a larger Caravan.” The bitter words filled his mouth like stones; and he choked them out one at a time: His voice had long since fallen flat save for the bitterness that tinged each syllable.

“I assumed that, were I cast out from the Weyr—or aged out of Candidacy—I could seek out the Caravan that passed through Ruatha that day. Now what am I, Xiro’el. I cannot return to Crafthall, would certainly be laughed at by any Caravan I sought wearing this—brand—of known impostors. What will I do if Dalibor sees fit to send me on my way? The one man Caravan left for Thread.”

Sebol nodded absently as the Trader spoke. He took no offence, nor really paid the words any heed. “Dragon’s may not care, but the Weyrleaders might. What if they decide that it’s bad enough their dragons throw sport colours without one of them being ridden by a man marked by the Holdless of Pern.” It was a good question, but one that could not be answered—not yet. “My vindication still eludes me, and I stand here as imprisoned as I was that morning. My position here is tenuous as Candidate—they could easily bid me go and never risk the chance of me Impressing.”

He gave his own bitter chuckle that turned into a smile which broke his face harshly. “Still condemned to night-time swims and long tunics—and pray my new roommate never catches a glimpse. He seems nervous enough a boy to run directly to the safety of the Weyrwoman’s weyr crying about the viscious man who had crept into his room to murder him.”

Sebol gave a wistful smile—wishing things could be somewhat simpler—but where would the fun in success be if every challenge was a small obstacle. His eyes returned to Xiro with mild speculation; and they were finally awash with his usual curiosity, and not agony or anger. “You’ve never spoken about your time with the Traders. Were you part of a Caravan? From whence do you hail? I feel I’ve shed enough poisoned words to hear some Trader’s tales. Tell me of the waters of your home-lands, Xiro'el.”

Sebol flashed the Trader a grin, and what it lacked in usual luster it made up with genuine—if faint—happiness. “Come now,” he said, squeezing the man’s shoulder with a hand and then patting him; rather like he would a runnerbeast. “I know many Holdless have Impressed. There is one standing here before me. I think it’s natural for Candidates to worry about whether or not they’ll be chosen, especially if they’ve already Stood once and weren’t. My worries with the Weyr are separate. They would have every right to turn me away—and I’m sure you’ve seen narrow-minded folk do far more over far less than these markings.” He sighed softly, though his mouth was turned up in a rueful grin.

“Delilah of Pink Agnith knows—she’s known since long before the hatching. I’ve spoken to her since she Impressed; my secret is still safe.” He paused to stretch, bones popping as he shifted for the first time in what seemed like ages—shuffling his feet along the sandy seabed and inwardly bemoaning his wrinkled salty feet. “And no, she did not find out because I bed her—as much as I’m sure you’d be keen on hearing all about that. And I get the distinct impression that Daymar will think whatever he pleases.” He gazed off himself as Xiro took over speaking, his mind creating fantasies out of those few flashes of Trader-life. Gathers, wilderness, fights—even if he couldn’t live the life; he wished that he could visit it. An experience like none other.

“That sounds lovely, although impersonal. I don’t really want to know about the Gathers, or the Wilderness—unless it involves cleaning yourself with a bushel of ivy; because that would be both personal and funny. His eyes gave the Trader a speculative look; though it took his last emotional reserves to ensure the mirth he felt would not show up and spoil the Trader towards him. Nothing like feeling you’re being mocked. “Tell me something personal, Trader. Animals you owned; where did you get them—what did you name them. What was your flag? Did you have a wagon? Was it yours alone or your families? Do families paint their own wagons?” the questions flowed easily from his lips, and it took a great effort to stop them before the Trader was overwhelmed.

Sebol held up a hand momentarily forestalling any response the Trader would have given him; he spied, with his eyes, the water level coming dangerously close to the boots he had discarded some time ago. He flashed Xiro a token grin and gave him another good-natured; if possibly heavy handed, pat on the back motioning him to follow before exiting the ocean water. For his part; Sebol hadn’t even thought to check if the man would follow; it wasn’t necessarily that he was used to being obeyed, more that he slipped easily into leadership roles. If anything he felt stronger for his admission to the Trader, because the trader had not treated him differently; confidence was always a welcome supplement to his daily dose of worry.

He rescued his boots from the stray waters and stalked back to where he had hung the tack; pausing only to confirm that Req was still there, still happy, and not at all dead or mangled; Sebol simply sat where he was standing and glared at his bedraggled pant legs. “I know you have a knife, Trader, because I should have one, and I don’t. I’m sure you’re prepared to stab whomever corners you—so hand it over.”

Sebol grinned at the affirmative and accepted the large knife happily, immediately putting it to use cutting off his trousers at the thigh: If his chest was going to get sunlight then by Hold and Hall his legs would get some as well. He finished quickly—sloppily—and waved the knife at the Trader. “Questions, Xiro’el. Answer them!” his eyes caught the handle of the blade as he waved it around in front of his face and he grinned broadly. “Mighty interesting colour choice. I remember you wore a shirt in these colours. You don’t seem the type to accessorize. Did your family paint the wagon such, and did your family own the Caravan? Or tag along with it?”

Sebol eyed the resting Cyan with speculation which might have been more concerned if he had known that she had intended to feast upon his borrowed runner. The majority of his attention was focused on the Trader; who was doing his best to seem not at all terrified at the prospect of a Herder with his knife—and avoid every question he possibly could. Sebol began to trim his nails with the sharpened blade and stare Xiro down between the edges of his eyebrows.

He disinclined answering to the Trader’s query and simply settled back to watch him as he answered those few questions he chose as…suitable probably. Well that wouldn’t do. Sebol didn’t just hand his greatest secret to the resident loyalty-less Trader. He’d sell that information for as much as he could get—if it got him out of the Weyr and back up North. Which questions was he avoiding. Family. That’s what he was avoiding: and that was the trap he apparently stumbled in to—probably from his nervousness at seeing Sebol’s mad knife skills.

The Herder wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Xiro’s smile—other than the fact that he was probably going to avoid even more questions, so he simply filed that away; listened, and then responded. “Good life, lonely, dangerous. So dangerous that you said even I could not do it—at all, but especially alone. So certainly you don’t expect me to believe you were birthed out of a hole in the mud and onto a green and gold wagon, forever to roam alone with canine and un-named runner.” Sebolaren returned that flashing grin the Trader had used and teased the knife-blade along his thumb.

“So, Trader, under what colours were you born. How large was the caravan, and how long did you travel with it before striking out on your own?”

“People such as your own kin?” Sebolaren flashed him a jovial smile—weren’t all traders mostly kin anyway? Still he was enjoying watching the man squirm. He had to keep the man entertained somehow though, so he began tossing the blade between his hands. Thankfully that didn’t require much skill at all; aside from understanding balance and how the object would bend in the air—but it probably would be more than Xiro’el would expect his little Herder friend capable of doing.

Of course Xiro had decided to be quite kind and deign to answer some of the questions—but those questions only lead to more questions, and Sebol found himself standing again before he released another litany of queries. “Who owned the Caravan, or was the head of it. Your blood family? How close in kingroup were you? What did you do to make a name for yourself, what talents and skills did you pedal at Hall and Hold?”

He was quite sure that Xiro had run himself an impressive “one-wagon-caravan” as it were—but he wasn’t so certain that the reason for being alone was of his choosing. “Afterall…” he finished the inner thought out loud. “Aren’t the Holdless bound by oaths that can bind tighter than blood or marriage? Were you an oathbreaker, Xiro’el?” Sebol tapped the knifeblade against his palm idly.