Holder Thorril (part 3 of 14)

Writers: Yvonne
Date Posted: 11th September 2007

Characters: Larstad, Thorril
Description: Holder Thorril discovers what sort of man Lord Benaroy sent him
Location: Amber Hills Hold
Date: month 5, day 24 of Turn 4

When the Lord of Barley Hills Hold and his family died in the Plague, the Hold had seemed lost. The holders fought amongst themselves and with the rest of Pern likewise concerned with their own problems and deaths, the civil war that raged within the walls of a minor Holding was of little concern. Several men were killed and dozens of families fled in the confusion, taking whatever they could scavenge and hoping that another Holding would take them in. Eight months of lawlessness passed before the former Captain of the Guard claimed his right to Hold and either convinced or coerced the majority of the remaining holders of his legitimacy. Lord Benaroy confirmed his claim quickly, hoping that the new Holder could continue to hold the fragile peace that he had forged as Captain and that Benaroy himself could not enforce without leaving his own Holding without a man to guard it.

It was Captain Thorril - now Holder Thorril - that sat across from Larstad now, his fingers steepled and his craggy face dour. His hair was silver and several scars disfigured his face to give him a dangerous air. In that he and Larstad were similar - the scars that marked Thorril looked suspiciously like the knife scar that Larstad himself bore on his face. Thorril and the Smith scowled at each other for a few silent minutes, each man waiting for the other to squirm first.

Finally the Holder grunted and leaned back in his chair. "Why did Benaroy send me a scorching _smith_ instead of the guard I asked for?
What good to me are you, Journeyman, and why shouldn't I toss you out on your ear?"

Larstad smiled slightly. "Because I've heard all about your little problem, Holder Thorril, and I can solve it for you."

Thorril snorted. "Ha! If I had a problem with my boiler, I might believe you. Go away. I don't like useless gits foisted on me by old men. Benaroy's obviously gone senile." Larstad leaned back in his chair - a noticeably smaller chair than Thorril's elaborately carved throne, and subtly uncomfortable. He laced his fingers across his belly and gave the Holder a long look down his nose. "Senile? Hardly. You have eleven guardsmen who couldn't figure things out - what makes you think that a twelfth would be any different? I solve problems, and if you're idiotic enough to send me away... well, don't expect any more help from Amber Hills."

Thorril slammed his fist down on his desk. "You dare call me names, Journeyman!? I can have you beaten for treason!"

"Really, Holder. You're a smart man - don't try to drag me into a battle of wits. It's a waste of both our time," the Smith drawled, studying his fingernails. His heart beat a little faster - was he calling a bluff or teasing the bull?

Thorril's face went red and the muscles in his right arm twitched as if he wanted to leap across the desk and throttle Larstad where he sat. Then his eyes began to dance and a slow grin crept across his scarred, craggy face. Larstad breathed a silent sigh of relief. If he'd misjudged and gotten himself banished from the Hold, Benaroy would have had his head. "All right. So you saw through that. Most men don't. But I still want to know why sharding Benaroy sent me a smith to solve a theft and not a guardsman. It's like sending a dragonman to do a miner's work."

"You have a problem with your locks. I've been trained as a Locksmith." Larstad shrugged. "I could go back..."

"No, no! I need your help, and if you can't solve this theft, then I'll have lost nothing that I haven't lost already. There are thirteen casks that have cost me hundreds of marks with their disappearance, and if there are a few more... well." Thorril scowled and tapped a crooked finger on his desk. "The man who stole my brandy will have those marks whipped out of his hide. I run a tight Hold and I do not tolerate criminals."

**So it's true...!** A whipping. "I'd imagine not."

The Holder caught himself tapping his fingers, scowled, then balled his hands into fists. "We took in traders and the Holdless out of a sense of compassion during the Plague - we had people to care for us, but those on the road? They lay in the ditches and died. Then the old Lord died, and our compassion, our 'humanity' if you will, came back and bit us on the ass. Opportunists and murderers, the lot of them.
They stripped our stores and machines and tore the tapestries off the very walls. When I was awarded this Holding, I swore that theft from the Hold would never happen again. My rules might seem draconian to some, but without them... I shudder to think what would happen without them. We nearly died one winter, and we had nothing with which to rebuild. But we did, and I'll make a better Holding before I die than Barley Hills was before the Plague.

"And now some thief, some arrogant, crawling worm has dared challenge me. And I will not tolerate it!" Thorril banged his fist on his desk, making his pens jump. "If you find this man and deliver him to me, you will be richly rewarded."

Larstad arched an eyebrow. "And if I fail?"

Thorril's expression grew black. "If you fail... you'll be lucky if there's anything left to send back to Benaroy."

The Journeyman felt like rolling his eyes. "You don't say. Well. I suppose that you're not known for your soft touch, but if I'd come as my own free agent I'd have left you high and dry." He smiled slightly. "But Benaroy is a better man than I. Your brandy will be back in your hands within a week, my Lord."

"So confidant? That sounds like a boast." "It's not boasting if it's the truth." "You'd better be. I suffer liars less than I suffer criminals, and a boast is just another sort of lying." Thorril was quiet for a moment.
His dark eyes pinned Larstad to his seat and drank in every aspect of him - his utilitarian clothing, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the scar, his knots - Larstad was only a Junior Journeyman despite his experience and age, as he'd preferred travel and writing to being cooped up in the Smith Hall creating things to the expectations of others. "Speak to my Steward, Harrit, tomorrow morning. He will explain our Hold rules to you, and he will show you our ageing rooms where the brandy was stolen from. He will answer any questions you might have."

Larstad inclined his head in an gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Thorril.
There is one question, however, that he won't be able to answer for you..."

"And that is...?"

"Who do you suspect might have stolen your brandy?"

Thorril's scarred face stilled and his eyes hardened. "I would rather not finger the wrong man. I have only the feeling in my gut to go by."

"A Holder's supposition is a better start than anything that I have to go by, so far."

"Well..." The Holder sighed, then rubbed a tired hand over his face.
**He must be over eighty turns,** Larstad suddenly thought. He'd survived the Plague and had been Captain before that, and now he wore every turn he'd lived openly on his face. "The Brandymaster's apprentice, Gavrin. He's... unhappy here, and the sharding dimglow doesn't have the wits to leave or keep that fact to himself. If anyone would steal my brandy for his own ends, it would be him. Is that all, Larstad?"

"That is enough for now. Thank you for your hospitality, Holder Thorril." The Journeyman knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he rose from his seat and executed a small bow before turning to go.

"One last thing. How did you know that I wasn't angry?"

Larstad smiled slightly and turned back to the massive mahogany desk and the man who sat behind it. "You were a Captain, Lord Thorril.
Captains don't get into their positions if they can't keep their head."

Last updated on the September 13th 2007

Welcome to Triad Weyrs!

Holder Thorril (part 3 of 14)