The Trail Goes Cold (2/2)

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 28th April 2019

Characters: Lorican
Description: Lorican gets an unexpected clue to Jilmon's whereabouts
Location: Elsewhere on Pern
Date: month 10, day 6 of Turn 9
Notes: At Lynsferry Hold

Lorican watched the tavern mistress go back inside, then slowly sipped
at his drink, wondering what to do next. **If I was a holdless thief,
and I had something dangerous and valuable...something that I knew some
very unpleasant people also wanted...**

But he was only a craftsman. He'd never had anything to do with people
like that, not until a few months ago. If it was him, he'd have got rid
of the letters as soon as possible; if Jilmon had done that, he hadn't a
hope of recovering them.

"Hey. Smith. I'll tell you something about that man, if you want."

Lorican looked across at the other table, where three old men were
finishing off their drinks. The one who'd spoken was deeply tanned and
wrinkled from a lifetime's work in the fields, his thin hair startlingly
white, but his eyes were bright and intelligent.

"I'd be interested to hear it, uncle," he said, slowly. "Another round?"

"Thank you." The man grinned, showing a gap-toothed smile. Lorican got
up and ducked into the dim interior of the tavern to order another three
mugs of ale for the old men and one for himself. Shortly afterwards, a
rather put-upon looking middle-aged man brought them out on a tray.

The holder man sipped at the fresh glass and sighed with pleasure. "Ah,
that's good. So. You were interested in that scrawny little holdless
fellow?"

Lorican handed him the picture. "This man, yes."

"Well, I don't know where he went, but I can tell you what he was
looking for." He paused. "He asked me where he could find a harper."

"A harper?" Lorican blinked. That was unexpected. What did Jilmon want
with a harper? He'd have thought he'd be avoiding all craftsmen, and
harpers in particular.

"Aye, that's it. I told him, we don't have one here at the hold, but
there's a journeyman who comes round every so often to hear the
youngsters sing their Teaching Ballads."

"Did you tell him where he could find this harper? Does he have a route?"

"Not sure about the route, but he's based up at Cedar Vale Hold. That's
further on inland, cross the ferry and go on west of here, up into the
hills. Big trading post, they get a lot of hunters and woodsmen there."

"A holdless man wouldn't stand out in that place," one of the others put
in. "They get a lot of scruffy-looking strangers. Don't ask too many
questions, either."

"Thanks," Lorican said. He wasn't sure whether to feel hopeful or
afraid. It would, in some ways, have been simpler if he'd lost Jilmon
and had to go back empty-handed. Now, he was only two days behind, and
yet he was bone weary and sore and a decade Jilmon's senior. He might
miss him again.

He thought back, calculating the dates. The meeting, when he was
supposed to hand over the letters, could only be a day or two away now.
He might just make it in time if he left here on a fast runner, but he
didn't have the marks for one, unless he traded all his tools, nor was
he sure he was capable of riding like that, in his condition. It was
possible that his contact would stay there for some days, in case they'd
been delayed. If he went on to Cedar Vale, the timing would be tight.
And he didn't actually know for sure that Jilmon had gone there. Nor why
he wanted a harper...

Then it dawned on him, and he nearly choked on his drink. Jilmon was
holdless, and had been since his youth if Lorican was any judge. He
couldn't read! He'd know that the letters were valuable, but he wouldn't
know why.

"You all right, Journeyman?" one of the old men asked.

"Oh - yes. Just thought of something funny." Lorican put down his glass,
unable to suppress a grin. It made sense. He remembered the contempt
Jilmon had shown when he'd seen the letters for the first time. Not just
because they weren't marks or jewels, but because he didn't have any use
for the written word.

Now, he would have to find someone to read the letters for him. Someone
in a place where they didn't ask questions.

"I might head up that way next," he said casually. "A trading post might
have work for a smith. And I wouldn't mind a word or two with that
scrawny little whersport, if he's there." He'd hoped to have had dinner
at the tavern and a night in a comfortable bed - the first since he'd
left the Weyr - but if he wanted to catch up with his quarry, there was
no time to lose.

"Tell you what," the second man said, his eyes alight with interest.
Lorican wondered if this was the most exciting event that had occurred
here all Turn, or if they just really didn't like holdless thieves.
Perhaps both. "I was thinking of heading up that way myself with a cart
of supplies. The hill holders pay a good price for fresh vegetables and
grain. If you can wait until tomorrow morning, I'll give you a ride."

"I'd be most grateful." He touched his bruised cheek, gingerly. "It's
not been easy, walking all day with these."

"Aye, you look like you could do with a good rest. You walk like old
Relkon, here!" The holder gestured towards their silent companion, an
aged grandfather who looked half-asleep under his straw hat, and cackled.

"I'm feeling three times my Turns, that's for sure. Dangerous creatures,
runnerbeasts." Lorican raised his drink to the three farmers, suddenly
confident that he was on the right path. If he was going to confront his
erstwhile accomplice, he'd need all his strength.

Last updated on the May 2nd 2019

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The Trail Goes Cold (2/2)