Dragon's Fire (37 page)

Tarik yelped and twisted over in his bed the second time a foot kicked him, not too gently, in the shoulder. The light of a low glow dimly lit the tent.

“You!” Tarik growled as he made out the figure towering over him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to renew our contract,” Tenim answered, his eyes glinting green in the glow’s light.

“I’ve lost
everything
and you want—” Tarik’s protests were cut off in a gasp as Tenim dropped his hands around Tarik’s throat and squeezed tightly.

He lifted the miner’s head by the neck, his face nearly touching Tarik’s. Tenim watched emotionlessly as Tarik’s frantic efforts to free himself and gain breath grew feebler and feebler. Finally, as Tarik’s fight for his life was reduced to no more than a frantic look in his eyes, Tenim let go and threw Tarik back onto his cot.

As the miner lay gasping in rasping breaths, Tenim whispered to him calmly, “Everything? Think again.”

He glanced around, found a folding chair, pulled it up, and sat down close to Tarik’s head.

“I hear that the dragonriders are desperate for this firestone,” Tenim said. “I’m sure that they’d pay more for it than Cromcoal.”

“D’gan pays nothing,” Tarik said, his voice still hoarse from Tenim’s crushing grip.

“So? Aren’t there other Weyrs?”

“He knows how much we’re mining,” Tarik replied warily. “There’s only so much a person can do in a day.”

“In a day,” Tenim agreed. “What about a night?”

Tarik considered the notion. “The workers would tire out too quickly. He’d notice.”

“Then we get more workers,” Tenim replied.

“And the food?”

“They can share with the others,” Tenim said.

“D’gan barely provides enough,” Tarik protested. “If we halve that, the workers will die.”

“I don’t believe I care,” Tenim told him. “How soon can you have your first shipment?”

“Shipment?”

“My dray carries two tonnes,” Tenim informed him. “When should I bring it by?”

“But—the workers!” Tarik protested.

“Surely D’gan doesn’t collect every day,” Tenim said in a tone that was almost reasonable. “I’m sure you could spare some firestone before I bring you additional help. Anyway,” he added with a shrug, “I’ll need some money to help in acquiring your additional aid. Shall we say in two days’ time?”

At those words, Tarik’s mind began to work furiously. How long had Tenim been working on his plan? How long had he been watching Tarik’s camp? Did he know that D’gan came for firestone no more than twice in a sevenday?

Another thought caused Tarik to ask, “How can you get a dray here? There’s no road.”

When Tenim didn’t answer, Tarik added, “Where did you get a dray?”

Tenim smiled, touching the side of his nose. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re willing to live with the answer.”

Tarik shuddered unwillingly and remained silent.

“I’ll see you in two days,” Tenim said and, turning on his heel, headed toward the door.

“Wait!” Tarik called out, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. Tenim paused but did not turn back as Tarik said, “For a tonne a day, I’ll need eight strong men.”

Tenim waved a hand in mocking acknowledgment and disappeared into the night.

Tarik spent the day alternately flogging his workers mercilessly for extra firestone and hoping that his encounter with Tenim had merely been a nightmare. By nightfall the workers had managed to produce only an extra three hundredweight. The next day was no better. Darkness found Tarik nervously pacing in his tent, his dinner uneaten. Two workers were in the stockades, their parched and swollen tongues lolling in their heads, as a lesson to the others.

A loud noise caused Tarik to jump as something was thrown in his tent. He dived out the door, intent on catching the miscreant, only to find his legs taken out from underneath him. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him. A hand covered his mouth. Tarik’s eyes found its owner.

“Hello,” Tenim told him softly, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Is everything ready?”

Tarik nodded.

“Good,” Tenim said, releasing his grip and stepping back from Tarik. He gestured expansively in the dark. “My dray is on the far side of that hill, next to your firestone.”

“We can’t move two tonnes that far by ourselves,” Tarik protested.

Tenim smiled a big toothy smile at him. “I promised you I would bring help.”

Tenim’s “help” was a disheveled crew of young teens and children.

“They won’t last long,” Tarik complained as he bullied the new arrivals into hauling the heavy sacks of firestone into the dray.

Tenim smiled at him. “Then I’ll get more.”

“Get ’em older,” Tarik snapped. Instantly he regretted it: Tenim’s fist landed at the point of his jaw and sent him flying.

“
I
give the orders, old man,” Tenim said to Tarik’s sprawled form. He gestured for Tarik to get up. Rubbing his jaw, Tarik rose again.

“Hurry them up,” Tenim told him. “I’ll want to leave before the second moon rises.”

Tarik’s angry protest died stillborn as he caught the deadly look in Tenim’s eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded swiftly.

Two hours later, Tenim rumbled out of sight in the fully loaded workdray, leaving his ten recruits in Tarik’s care.

By the end of a sevenday, frantic in his efforts to meet both D’gan’s and Tenim’s unreasonable demands, Tarik was a hollow-eyed wreck of a man.

“Your workers are slacking off,” D’gan complained as he surveyed the worksite. “Aren’t they getting enough sleep?”

“It’s their nerves, my lord,” Tarik told him. “They are afraid of an explosion.”

“Hmph,” D’gan grunted in response to the explanation. He waved toward the small group of new hands he’d found. “Perhaps these six will help.”

Tarik scanned the group with little hope. He spotted one small body flopped on the ground and pointed. “I’m not sure he’ll last all that long, my lord.”

“We spotted him on our way here,” D’gan said dismissively. “He was extra. Use him as you wish.”

Spotted him? Tarik walked over to the unconscious form, half hoping and half fearing that it was Tenim. Instead it was a much smaller teen. Tarik sighed deeply and then, to cover his reaction, asked, “Where was he when you found him?”

D’gan glowered at him until Tarik recognized his gaffe and corrected himself, saying, “I mean, where was he when you found him, my lord?”

“One of my riders found him near a river not far from here,” D’gan said. “It looks like he’d tangled with something or someone a while back.” He nudged the slumped body reflectively with his boot, adding, “He’s got deep scars that are healed and signs of broken bones.”

“Did he not say where he was from?” Tarik asked, careful not to put the tone of his real question—“Are you sure he was Shunned?”—into his voice.

“He doesn’t talk,” D’gan replied. “We think he’ll recover. And if not, well, he’ll still be able to work for you.”

For a little while, Tarik thought to himself grimly. His eyes strayed to a line of mounds on the other side of his valley, particularly the three fresh mounds of the youngsters who’d died the previous night.

“Can we get more provisions to care for him, my lord?”

D’gan sneered at him. “More provisions? You are too wasteful as it is.”

“I was just thinking,” Tarik persisted, “that it would be wasteful to have to spend time burying the lad when with a few more supplies we could get some work out of him.”

“Mmm, you’ve a point,” D’gan admitted. With a wave of his hand he tossed the matter aside. “Give my wingman your requirements and we’ll see.”

Tarik took D’gan’s words for a dismissal and was relieved to deal with D’gan’s second, a reasonable man who asked few questions.

Still, it was a distraction having to remember every jot and tittle needed to run the mines; he made a note to himself to find someone to act as scribe.

It was a sevenday before the injured lad recovered. He still couldn’t speak, but Tarik was pleased to discover that the lad could write and immediately set him to work compiling the lists of supplies needed to run the mines.

The extra help was not enough to relieve Tarik’s worries. D’gan’s constant demands and Tenim’s nocturnal visits kept him jittery and on edge.

“Who’s this?” Tenim asked when he spotted the silent lad keeping pace beside Tarik.

“Someone the dragonmen dumped on me,” Tarik replied with a shrug. “He helps me manage supplies.”

Tenim peered at the lad for a moment longer in the dark night, then ignored him, turning back to Tarik. “Why not put him in the mines with the others?”

“Because between you and D’gan, I’m managing over thirty men—” There was a note of pride in his voice. “—and I need help with the records.”

“Suit yourself,” Tenim said. “But you’d better be shorting D’gan this one’s share of the firestone, not me.”

“The lad’s saved me so much time, I’m thinking of opening another shaft.”

“Another shaft?” Tenim asked, looking askance. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ll need to if I’m to meet your demands.”

“If you do, then D’gan will get suspicious.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Tarik protested angrily. “There are so many working now that I’m afraid they’ll trip over each other and cause an explosion. And you know what
that
would mean.”

Tenim cocked his head thoughtfully. It was a moment before he replied, “Yes, that would be a tragedy wouldn’t it?

“Do you know,” he went on, his eyes glinting in the dark, “I think you should have four tonnes of firestone ready for me when I get back.”

“Four tonnes?” Tarik repeated in amazement. He spluttered, “But—but—”

“I have to guard my investment,” Tenim told him calmly. “It’s important that I have a reserve in case something happens to my stockpile.”

“Stockpile? I thought you had a buyer.”

“Several,” Tenim lied cheerfully. “Which is why I have a stockpile.” He nodded curtly to Tarik, saying, “So. Four tonnes in two days’ time.” With that, he turned away, ignoring all of the inarticulate noises coming from Tarik.

It was easy for Tenim to do so because he was busily plotting. How much would he get if there was
no
supply of fresh firestone? How much would his stockpile be worth then?

It had surprised him to discover how difficult it was to find a buyer for his firestone, given how all the other Weyrs had complained about D’gan’s stinginess. Tenim had been convinced that it would be easy, and profitable, to sell firestone, so he was much surprised to discover that neither was the case. In fact, Tenim had considered abandoning the effort altogether and switching to a different venture. But now…

Tenim returned to his calculations. How much
could
he get for a hundredweight of firestone?

“Firestone?” Sidar repeated with a horrified look on his face. “You’ve got firestone?”

Tenim didn’t move a muscle. He’d come to Sidar after exhausting all his other resources. The man was known to cheat, steal, and murder for his profit—methods Tenim preferred to reserve to himself—but when he paid, he paid well.

“Where do you store it?” Sidar asked, looking around the room carefully. “The stuff explodes with the merest contact with water.”

“Like this?” Tenim asked, throwing a small pebble into one of the cauldrons hanging over the hearth. There was a small hiss, followed by a bluish flare.

“Shells, are you mad?” Sidar asked, jumping to his feet. “If the dragonriders catch you, you’ll be Shunned for certain.”

“So will you,” Tenim said in bored tones. “In fact, one must wonder how you’ve done so well as to avoid it so far.”

“Indeed, particularly when one considers the full implications,” Sidar agreed, his lips twisted into a small smile as he countered Tenim’s implied threat.

Tenim waved aside the issue, saying, “The question remains—how much will you pay?”

“Pay?” Sidar asked incredulously. “For something that might explode at any moment? Are you mad?”

“No,” Tenim said. “It’s not just that firestone bursts into flame so easily—it’s that firestone’s the only thing that dragons can use to flame Thread.”

“They can always get more,” Sidar replied sourly.

“And what if they couldn’t get more?” Tenim asked. “What would firestone be worth then?”

“All Pern depends upon the dragons,” Sidar replied. His tone made it clear that Tenim had overstepped his bounds.

Tenim shrugged. “Only when Thread is in the sky,” he replied, and glanced up to the ceiling. “The Red Star is still a long way off.”

“All the more reason for the dragons to train now,” Sidar replied. He rose, indicating that the discussion was at an end. “No, your best bet is to return those goods whence they came and get far away before—”

“Before what?” Tenim interjected, his arm twitching slightly in the dim light. Suddenly he had a dagger in his hand. He toyed with it and glanced up innocently at Sidar asking, “Would there be a problem?”

“Leave,” Sidar growled undisturbed by Tenim’s sudden display of a weapon. “Leave before you find yourself as lifeless as your wares.”