Chap. 372 The Pickers.
“Wasn’t that a race! I couldn’t believe how high those bronzes went,” P’jar said, stuffing his winnings into his pouch, “You did bet on 1, didn’t you?”
“Nah,” K’ndar said, “I liked the looks of 2, but I didn’t bet anything. Just collected my winnings.”
“Ours was a good race, K’ndar, you and Raventh won it fair and square,” P’jar said. “Falconth gave it his best but we were both shocked to see you passing us as though we were standing still.”
And I’m glad I told my weyrmate to bet on you, he didn’t say. She made a killing, and I remember her saying she was going to hunt down one specific vendor to buy something from him.
“Are you kidding me, Pojar? DON’T bet on you?” she’d protested, using his pre-Impression name when it was really important to her and the kids weren’t around.
“I’m serious, love. I can’t legally bet on myself, OR K’ndar, but look at Raventh. He looks fast even when he’s asleep. And he’s a lot younger than Falconth. I’ll give it my best, that’s all we can do.”
“I heard there was a bunch of shysters bribing your friend, K’ndar?”
“TRYING. They tried it on the green and blue riders, too. The thing they don’t understand is that it’s not just the rider resisting their bribes. The dragons wouldn’t cheat. They can’t. They’re honest. Each one out there does its best. So don’t you even think I’m going to throw the race. Falconth wouldn’t let me even if I ordered him.”
“Fine. But I’ll still put a mark on you. You’re my weyrmate, I can’t NOT bet on you.”
Smiling, he pulled her to him and kissed her. “No matter who I put my money on, winning you was the best bet I ever made,” he said, huskily. You might not be very fancy, but you suit mine just perfectly, he thought.
She’d given him an affectionate shove, loving him deeply. “Go on with you, you big goof. Go get your dragon ready.”
The two dragonriders headed downhill towards the main Gather. The crowd grew thicker as they progressed.
“Make sure that money’s secure, K’ndar. The thieves and pickpockets are thick here today, they’ve hit several folks already.” The big man shook his head. “I’ve never seen it so bad. They’re thick as flies on a dead wherry.”
“I will, but I do have a guard, you know,” he said, reaching up to stroke Siskin’s tail. “He keeps an eye out for anyone who messes with me.”
P’jar glanced at the blue fire lizard. “He knows how to win a race!” he said. “I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw him pass up the blue dragons. Never mind his expression as you passed me and Falconth!”
He stopped at a fork in the path and pointed at a large beer tent. “There’s the ale tent. Can I buy you an ale? Some wine?”
“Thanks, P’jar, but I’m allergic to alcohol. I think I’ll just wander through the Gather.” I’m no longer worried about how people will react when I say that, K’ndar thought. It used to embarrass me. Now I don’t give a rip what they think.
“Huh. Allergic, eh? No matter, leaves more for me. By the way, do you mind if I stay here, with my family for the next day or two? Raylan knows, I asked him beforehand. You can stay with us, if you like, but our cavern’s fairly small.”
The concept of being in a cavern with a family he wasn’t related to was unnerving. I don’t know why, he thought, isn’t that what Weyrlingschool was all about?
“Thank you for the offer, but no. I think once I’ve had my fill of the Gather I’ll just go back to Landing.”
“Before you go, you should get your fill of some arsters. They’re incredible.”
“What do they look like?”
“Before they’re opened, like a corrugated rock.”
“The insides are better looking?”
“No. There’s an old saying, he was a brave man who first ate an arster. They’re pretty odd looking, like a slimy hunk of goo, but don’t let appearances dissuade you. They’re good. Don’t they have arsters on the north shore? I haven’t been at Landing long enough to know.”
“Well, I do know there are shellfish, but we don’t eat them. I don’t know much about them but I’m betting they’re a different species, if not an entirely different genus.”
“More’s the pity, I think anything that wears a shell and lives in the ocean is edible, ‘long as it’s from the west coast. Anyway, if you’re heading down to the Gather, there’s a few arstermen cooking up this morning’s harvest. I suggest you go to Johan’s. We grew up together, he can be a bit of an arsehole but once he sniffs your hand, he’ll treat you right.”
“What does he do with them?”
“Cooks them all sorts of ways, chowder, grilling, smoking, fried, but K’ndar, do try raw. A raw arster tastes like the sea.”
I doubt I’ll eat anything raw, he thought.
What is raw? Raventh asked.
When you kill, you eat your meat raw. Humans cook their meat, over hot coals. I’m sure you’ve smelled it cooking.
That must be why humans don’t hunt like us. I cannot wait that long. When I kill I want to eat right away.
P’jar looked over the crowd, searching for his wife. She did say she would be down there, looking at earrings. As if she needs another pair? Who in their right mind puts holes in their earlobes? But it’s her head, not mine. He tore his attention back to K’ndar.
“So, you’ll be going back to Landing tonight?”
“Aye, probably before dark. I never do the time change well.”
“Remember,” the big man said, “go WEST to get back to Landing, with the setting sun in your eyes. No sense going completely around the planet.”
They laughed.
_____________________________________
His winnings making a comfortable lump in the pouch around his neck, K’ndar made his way to the Gather. Like others he’d been to, it was a conglomeration of vendors selling or bartering all sorts of things, from ale mugs to wagon wheels; along with people cooking up local delicacies. In amongst them were entertainers and vendors: puppet masters, magicians, children’s story tellers, musicians with instruments for sale, leather workers and tanners, people with grindstones to put a fine edge on knives and swords, bow makers, dressmakers, weavers with exquisitely woven tapestries.
A scent like no other tickled his nose. Over the heads of the crowd, he could see a plume of steam above a kiosk.
The crowd thickened and the tent the scent was emanating from was set back from the traffic. It offered a haven from the crush. He stopped in front of the vendor’s tables, purposefully avoiding eye contact. That always unnerves me, he thought, I feel the pressure to buy just from their gaze.
Behind the table, laden with oblong shells of a type he’d never seen on the northern beaches of Southern, a man was tending to a grill, carefully arranging what appeared to be rocks. A deep cast iron pot was beside him, filled with a creamy liquid from which an enticing scent arose. On the ground beside him were several buckets filled with ice and more of the rocks. Yet another held half shells. Ah. Arsters.
“Excuse me, sir, but, um, are you Johan?”
The man turned, his brow furrowed.
“Who wants to know?”
“Um, me, but I’m sorry. I must have the wrong person.”
“No, I’m Johan, I just want to know who you are, I can see right away you’re a stranger.”
“I don’t want to bother you, my friend P’jar told me to try your arsters.”
“Ah, P’jar, that bloody lout. Lost me a mark on his slowarse dragon.”
“He’s a good bloke,” K’ndar snapped, “It was a fair race, he and Falconth did their best.” Were all Westerners so touchy, he wondered? Maybe I won’t stick around although I do want to see the horse auction.
The man suddenly changed his expression. He laughed. “Just tugging your chain, dragonrider, P’jar’s a good friend. And I believe you’re the dragonman who beat him. That was a good race, I liked how you crouched down on your dragon’s neck. That was smart. Wish I’d put money on you.”
“Thank you. You’ve been on a dragon before?”
“Coupla times,” the man said, tending to the shells on the grill. One popped and opened slightly as he did so. He moved it to the side, away from the coals.
“These are just about ready, what’s your name?”
“K’ndar, rider of brown Raventh. I’m from Landing.”
“Landing, eh? We don’t get too many of you folks. That’s a long ways from here, what?”
“Six or seven time zones hours west,” K’ndar said, smugly, as if he’d always known one could fly in two directions, “if you’re on a dragon, it’s a few moments. How long it takes a ship, I have no idea.”
“I’ve never done it, but it’s three weeks from here to Southern Hold, if you have the wind. Twice that if you’re following the coast westward. I’ve never been that far from here, east OR west.”
Johan’s gaze returned to the present. “As you’re a newbie, here, and a friend of P’jar’s, I’d like to give you a free arster. How do you like ’em? Grilled, in chowder? Raw?”
Several of the arsters opened with a slight pop. He moved them to the side and replaced them with fresh ones from the ice bucket.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had one.”
“Oh ho!” Johan crowed, happily. He turned to his grill but was stopped by a trio of women who approached his kiosk.
“Excuse me, dragonrider, were you in line?” asked one.
“Oh, um, no, please, go ahead.” He stepped aside to allow them to conduct business. One of the women looked at Siskin. “Oh, I had no idea they’d be so lovely,” she said, more to herself than to K’ndar.
“What will you young lasses have?” Johan said, slyly.
K’ndar noted that not one of the women was either young or a lass, but the interchange made him feel better about the general populace of Western Hold.
They laughed. “My arse, Johan, but I’ll have grilled.” “Me, too.” “That makes three of us! Grilled, please!”
Johan smiled. “Fresh from the sea,” he said, “not out of the ocean more’n an hour, my boy just brought them in. These three, I judge they opened just a moment ago and are cool enough,” Johan said, as he used tongs to pass the arsters to the women.
Wondering how one ate an arster, K’ndar watched in amazement as the women each took their shells and tipped them at their lips. One smacked her lips in appreciation. One drinks an arster?
“Picks are on the table alongside the melted butter,” Johan said. Each woman chose one of the long, lightwood picks, deftly removed the meat from the shells, and dunked them in the tureen of melted butter. They didn’t look slimy at all.
Popping the meat into their mouths, the women emitted groans of gustatory ecstasy.
Ah. I learn something new every day, K’ndar thought.
“Oh, stars, Johan, they’re so fresh!”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Empty shells in the bucket, please? Need to give the spat a place to settle,” Johan said. He reached down to place more arsters on the grill.
“By the stars, Johan, your arsters are the best,” one of them said, after wolfing down two of them, “And for stars sakes, don’t tell my son. He’ll be offended if he hears I like your arsters more than his.”
“More, my lady?” he asked.
“Nay, there’s other things to eat, yours are filling and I want to hit the shawarma vendor down the path, we’re headed there next.”
One of the group paid and they moved on.
“The arsters open up?” K’ndar asked.
“If they’re grilled, yes. But if I want to fry them or put them in a chowder, I have to open them, and they don’t take that willingly.”
“They’re alive?”
“Oh, yes. The ones in the bucket, definitely.”
“How can you tell?”
He pulled an arster from the ice bucket. “See this? It’s closed up tight. It’s alive in there. They know-don’t ask me how, but they KNOW when they’re out of water. They live in tidal zones, after all. I don’t have any dead ones, but if you see an open shellfish of any sort, not just arsters, and you didn’t witness it opening, don’t eat it. It’s dead. And if you want to know what dying feels like, eat a dead arster. At first you think you’re going to die, then you’re afraid you’re not going to.”
“Got it,” K’ndar said, beginning to wonder if it was advisable to eat such a dangerous creature.
“Now watch and learn, K’ndar. This is an arster knife,” he said, flourishing a stubby knife, “There’s an art to opening an arster. They don’t open willingly. Hammering on them only makes them tighten.”
He placed an arster on a marble slab and positioned the knife opposite the shell’s hinge. “You press down with the tip of the knife, here, until you hear it click.”
The man pushed on the knife and K’ndar heard a dull click. ” You don’t want to break the shell, no one likes bits of shell in his arster meat. You can hack away all day at the hinge and it just won’t open. It’s like they lock the door and you have to use a key, aye? Here. Want to try a raw one?” He offered the arster to him.
“Noooo, um, no,” he said, skittish.
“And you’re skeptical,” Johan said, “No matter. And no sense wasting this one.”
He sipped from the shell, then ate the exposed arster. “Ah,” he said, with what K’ndar thought was a bit more melodrama than necessary, “Puts hair on your chest.” He tossed the empty shells into a bucket.
“Even the women?” K’ndar riposted.
Johan stopped for a moment, then roared in laughter.
“Nay, nay, my partner merely says it enhances…well, never mind. It takes time to get used to the idea of eating one raw. If you wait a few moments, these here on the grill will be ready to eat.”
“You drank something from the arster? Like the women?”
“Yes. You do NOT want to spill a drop of it, it’s called arster likker and no wine or ale is better. It’s like drinking the ocean, it’s seawater you can drink.”
One of the arsters split open with a pop and Johan moved it aside to let it cool.
“There, it shan’t take long, now. Then you take the meat out, dunk it in this melted butter and eat it. You can chew it if you like, it’s good. Here. This one should be just cool enough.”
“What do you do with the empty shells? You said something about spit?”
“Spat. Larval arsters. They can colonize bare rock or wooden docks, but that takes a long time. It’s far better that they settle on the shells of their parents, their families, they grow twice as big in less than half the time if they’re on shells. See that shell, there, with little arsters on it? That’s spat.”
He handed an arster to K’ndar. He felt the warmth of the shell despite the corrugations. I wish I could just examine it, he thought, before he ate one.
“Go on, K’ndar, drink. Just like those women did.”
K’ndar hesitated.
“Go on, mate, I wouldn’t lie to you.” Johan mimicked putting it up against his lips and sipping.
Well, it won’t kill me, he thought., and I do have to prove I have bollocks.
He sipped. It was a bit salty but there was something incredible about the taste, something that brought the ocean into his very soul. His eyes flew open in appreciation.
“Oh my stars, that’s..that’s incredible,” he gasped, his taste buds rejoicing.
Johan laughed, enjoying once again initiating a novice, “Taste of the sea, it is. Imagine, if you were a dolphin, I imagine you’d taste that every day of your life.”
But dolphins eat fish, K’ndar was about to say. Siskin chipped, wondering if the arsters were edible.
Now I have to eat it, he thought. He reached for a pick when the crowd in the narrow lane between kiosks began to shout.
“Thief! Thief! Stop them, someone!” a woman yelled.
Two men galloped through the crowd, shoving and knocking people down to prevent pursuit.
“Shaff them!” Johan cried, “Call the bailiffs! Stop, thief!”
One of the thieves ran full tilt into K’ndar, knocking him off his feet. Siskin screeched as he launched.
“Siskin!! Follow!” K’ndar shouted from the ground. Siskin darted after the man, hissing in fury.
!!!! Raventh roared from the dragon meadow. He was echoed by other dragons.
Johan came out from behind his table to help him to his feet. The crowd milled around them, shouting, with several chasing after the thieves.
“Those bastards! They’ve hit our gather at least twice today! Are you alright?”
“Um,” K’ndar said, more shook than hurt. “I think so.” His arster lay trampled in the dirt.
The crowd suddenly cheered as they chased the men. “Got him!” someone yelled. K’ndar saw one of the thieves sprawling in the lane, having been tripped by a quick thinking teen. Several men and boys pounced on him., punching whatever body part they could reach. Several women tried to get kicks in. “He got my pouch!” “Hit him, hit him!”
Siskin, above them, immediately focused on the second thief. He flew just above the man and the seething, angry crowd. The man passed a woman’s dress kiosk, grabbing a rack and dumping it into the crowd’s path. The woman vendor shrieked in fury as the crowd stumbled to a stop, trying to avoid trampling her wares.
“K’ndar, you’re sure you’re okay? You look dazed,” the vendor said, trying to brush the dirt from K’ndar’s arms.
A bit annoyed at the distraction, K’ndar said, “I’m okay, I”m not dazed. My fire lizard is following the thief and is sending me images, please, I have to pay attention.”
“They send images?”
“Yes, and it takes all my attention,” he said.
Siskin hovered over the second thief as he dove between two tents, dropped to his knees and crawled to the back of the tent. There he wormed his way under the bottom edge of the canvas to disappear into the tent.
“”K’ndar,” Johan said, wondering at the glazed look in K’ndar’s eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Shh, Johan, please. He’s showing me the man has gone between two tents, off the main lane. Now he’s on his knees and crawling underneath the tent skirt. It’s full of wine barrels.”
Johan was awestruck. “Do they all do that?”
“Bailiffs coming through!” the crowd yelled, “Make way for the bailiffs! Keep an eye for that thief!”
Siskin found an open ventilation flap at the peak and entered the tent. He found a perch on a strut, directly over the thief. The interior was fairly dim.
Good lad! K’ndar sent his thoughts.
The tent was full of wine and ale barrels, most of them appearing to be empty.
“Here come the bailiffs!!” The crowd parted ways for five bailiffs, several carrying cudgels. Three stopped to apprehend the prone thief.
Two bailiffs approached Johan and K’ndar. “Johan! Did you see where the other one went?”
The vendor nodded. “A boy tripped that one, the other one…”
“Sir,” K’ndar interrupted, “My fire lizard shows me one of the thieves has hidden in a tent just downhill from here.”
“You can see the thief?”
“My fire lizard is watching him, he’s right over the thief’s head. He’s sending me images. The tent is full of ale and wine barrels.”
“I know that tent, thank you! If you can find the lad who tripped up yon thief, please let us know.” He was about to move off when K’ndar said, “Sir, wait. The thief is taking his shirt off.”
“What in the world?” Johan asked.
K’ndar held his hands up to dissuade more distraction.
“The thief is bare chested now, he’s got a tattoo on his chest, it looks like a sailing ship. Now he’s-he’s turning his shirt inside out! It looks blue!”
“He was wearing a green shirt,” Johan said.
“Inside out?” the bailiff said, incensed, “Two colors? That’s dirty cards. No wonder we keep losing them in the crowds.”
Siskin saw the man push several small pouches under one of the barrels.
“The thief is hiding some pouches underneath one of the barrels. He’s tall, dark hair, he’s pulled the shirt over his head. It’s definitely blue, with long sleeves. He’s rolled the sleeve down, now he’s on his feet and moving to the front of the tent. He’s..he’s peeking out of it. Now he’s moved to the back of the tent.”
“Oh ho! Inside out! That clever shite! But the lout’s trapped himself. Thank you!” the bailiff shouted, and whistling a series of notes, ran for the ale barrel tent. His three men left the fallen thief. “Don’t let him go,” one ordered. It was unnecessary. At least six men were holding him, now and then getting a kick or a punch in.
The bailiffs surrounded the tent, one on each side.
They heard a shrill whistle and K’ndar saw a bailiff enter the tent through the main flaps. The thief ducked behind an enormous barrel, then fell to the ground and crawled underneath the rear skirt. Siskin flew out of the tent just in time to see two bailiffs pounce on the thief. One of them yelled, “GOTCHA!”
Siskin whistled in victory.
They were joined by the other two bailiffs, who dragged the man out into the main path. He began to shriek that his arm was broken.
“Not yet, bastard, let me show you what a broken arm feels like,” shouted the bailiff behind him.
The crowd converged on the tent, all of them ready to help with the thief.
“Woohoo!” someone yelled, “Got ’em both!”
Siskin swooped over his head, chittering his victory cry.
“GOOD LAD! So clever!” K’ndar said.
Siskin raised his wings, basking in the praise.
“That’s an amazing beast, K’ndar.”
“They are, sir. No different than a dragon save for size.”
“Check your pouch. Those thieves are desperately quick. We’ve tried half a dozen times to catch them,” Johan snapped, furious.
He kept from feeling for his pouch. It was safe, he knew.
“I’m sorry you got shoved over.”
“I’m okay. I’m new here, just a visitor, I don’t mean to imply anything, but is it always this, um, so infested with thieves here? I had one try to bribe me this morning.”
“Nay, it was never so bad until a few turns ago. In my opinion, it’s Lord Toric’s fault. My family was a cotholder of Lord Toric until my father got tired of Toric’s sons harassing us and moved us west. Lord Toric, he kicked the dragonriders out of their Weyr, not that I blame him. They were all Oldtimers who didn’t lift a finger against Threadfall, they knew the grubs would take care of Thread. Still, they demanded tithes, they’d even come out here, when Western was just getting started, to take things without paying. I think the only reason the brigands stayed away was because Southern was still so wild, and the Oldtimers would do sweeps once in a while. Most of them have died off, I think. In the last few years, we’ve been flooded with thieves, beggars, and outright brigands. It’s bad. It’s as if every thief and brigand from North came down here, living the easy life on Southern Hold because there’s no dragonriders doing sweeps, like you used to. They’re raiding everywhere on Southern.”
K’ndar was about to tell Johan that Coastal Sea Weyr had absorbed many dragonriders from all over Pern and was now beginning to do sweeps when they heard a deep voice calling.
“Make way, make way please?” The bailiffs-there had to be nine of them, now, had two men in their grasp.
The crowd shouted threats and curses. “Hand that bastard to us, we’ll behead them here and now.” “That boy tripped him, sure as sunrise, where’d he go?” “Break their arms, bailiff!””You thieves, I hate you!” One of the kids spit at the thieves.
“Here now, laddy, don’t spit on my men, hear?”
“Sorry sir, but that one, he got me mum’s pouch early this morning. An’ she works hard to keep me and my sister fed. “
“Did he now! Have your mum come talk to us. We recovered some pouches, I want to return them soon as possible.”
“Yes sir!”
K’ndar saw P’jar’s wife approaching. She had a rapidly darkening bruise on her bare arm. She ran up to the three bailiffs holding Blue Shirt. “That one, bailiff, that one, I won’t forget his face! He’s the one, he stole my pouch! I’d just returned from the punters, I’m sure he was watching, then he pushed me hard into a boulder and cut off my pouch with a dagger!”
Blue Shirt shook his head, scattering drops of blood from his rapidly bleeding nose. “Not me,” he said through rapidly swelling lips. The bailiffs-and the crowd- hadn’t been gentle.
“You,” the bailiff holding the thief pointed to one of his men, “Go back to that tent and find his knife.”
“Done, sir, it was stuffed in amongst at least six pouches.” The man flourished a dagger.
“Ah, now it’s assault with a deadly weapon, as well as theft,” the bailiff snarled. K’ndar judged him to be about the size of a green dragon.
“See here, my friends, how they’ve managed to elude us, ” he said to the crowd, “This yob here, his shirt’s two different colors, green on one side, blue on the other.”
A young girl ran up and hit the man with a stick. “You stole my mum’s pouch! I hate you!” The crowd laughed.
One of the bailiffs dropped to his knee and looked the little one in the eye.
“You have your mum come to us. We’ve recovered several pouches, I’m sure we can get this,” he caught himself before cursing in front of a child, “this bad man to return it.”
“Bloody well better,” said one of the crowd, “I’ve got their faces in my mind, now. And a dog with sharp teeth.”
“What about mine?” an elderly man said, “I was picked, too, by one of these two.”
“If we don’t find it, I’m sure these louts will tell us after we apply a little, um, encouragement.”
“No, we didn’t, we didn’t steal nothing,” said the one who’d been tripped, “I was minding my own bidness when these louts jumped me.”
“Shut up, arsehole. We got your mates in a cell already, you’ll be joining ’em shortly. “
“Hope Lord Framdon forgets you’re in his jail, shaffer. You’ll end up eating bugs.”
“Or each other!”
One of the bailiffs produced a pair of metal cuffs joined by a chain and used them to shackle the man’s wrists behind his back.
“Ow, you’re hurting me,” the man screeched.
“Hurt? You bastard, I’ll show you hurt,” the elderly woman shouted at him. The bailiffs marched the two thieves towards the Main Hold.
The crowd began to settle down, all talking about what they’d seen.
P’jar came hurrying through the crowd, trying hard to be both civil and in a hurry.
His wife turned and ran to him and he threw his arms around her, tightly.
“Ow,” she said, his grip hurting her arm. He released her and saw her arm. Looking over her head at the retreating bailiffs, he shouted in a towering fury, “Me and my mates, we’ll take those louts out to sea,” he snarled. “Half way, that is.” The crowd laughed.
She touched his face. He shook his head, mastering his fury. “You’ll be sore for a week, I wager.”
“I’m okay, I think, but I’ll have a big bruise,” she said. The crowd began to lessen.
He looked over the crowd and saw K’ndar, still by the arster man’s kiosk. He led her to K’ndar.
“P’jar! Your friend here, K’ndar! He helped catch those thieves,” Johan said.
“I didn’t,” K’ndar started, “it was…” But P’jar wasn’t listening.
“Hi, Johan!” He turned to his wife. “My love, this is K’ndar, my colleague from Landing. He’s a pretty amazing bloke. First he catches a handful of counterfeiters with bad chits, then he beats me and Falconth in a race, and now he’s caught one of the picks who hurt you.”
“It was my fire lizard who…” K’ndar tried again.
“No matter, K’ndar. I owe you.”
“And me,” said his wife.
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