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fasteners for the riding harness used by the great dragons. Making steel required iron ore, coal, and a host of trace metals. After nearly five hundred Turns, the original surface seams of coal—easy to find, easy to mine—had been exhausted.
    The Masterminer, Britell, had sent out parties of talented miners to bore into mountains seeking new seams of coal deep below ground. Those mining camps that succeeded in producing coal would be rewarded by elevation to full working mines.
    Natalon, who was both Cristov’s uncle and Tarik’s nephew, had just opened one such mine. When he’d heard that Tarik was looking for work, he’d sent word inviting him to Camp Natalon. Tarik and his family would leave for the camp the day after the Games.

    Tenim stood toward the back of the crowd as the next wing of dragons started its first run. He let himself be caught up in the excitement, along with the rest of the Gather, as they looked up in awe at the sight of thirty flaming dragons racing across the afternoon sky, flaming the rope Threads thrown down by the queen riders high above them, displaying their skill as dragon and rider worked to reduce the mock menace to dust.
    Tenim’s eye darted from the spectacle above him back to his intended victim, a red-faced, corpulent Trader who bellowed loudly as the Fort riders finished their run and the flags on the Lord Holders’ stands were changed to Benden.
    The crowd roared and Tenim seized the moment. He added his own voice, feigned a slip, and fell roughly against the Trader.
    “I’m sorry, so sorry!” Tenim said, helping the Trader to his feet and trying to brush the dirt off the man. He pushed a lock of jet black hair off his face, his bright green eyes tinged with concern.
    “Not to worry,” the Trader answered genially, backing away. Then he stopped, patting his clothes, and turned back, an angry look on his face.
    His purse was in plain sight in Tenim’s hands. With a nervous swallow, Tenim held up the purse and put on his most innocent look. “You dropped your purse. Here it is.”
    “Well, thank you, lad,” the Trader said, grabbing the purse.
    “You’ll not tell my master on me?” Tenim asked, his eyes wide with fear. “He’d beat me if he found out. I’m always clumsy,” he added with eyes downcast.
    “No,” the Trader said kindly. He reached into his purse and pulled out a half-mark. “Not every lad is as honest as you,” he said as he pressed it into Tenim’s hand.
    “Thank you!” Tenim said cheerfully, still in character. “Thank you so much.”
    He waved at the Trader and started off at a brisk walk, careful not to look back lest the Trader suspect.
    Out of sight, Tenim allowed himself one long, explosive curse. His belly rumbled in agreement.
    No matter what Moran said, he was too old to beg. It was time to steal.
    In the evening there would be gambling; Tenim decided to risk his half-mark on the chance for more.
    If he didn’t, there were always those too deep in their cups to notice his light fingers late at night.

    “So, Harper, what do you reckon?” the question came from a young impetuous man, part of the crowd Moran had cheerfully insinuated himself into earlier.
    “It’s always difficult to know how these things will turn out, Berrin,” Moran replied after a moment’s thought.
    Someone in the group shouted, “Ah, no, it’s easy—Telgar for sure!”
    “Telgar for first, I’m certain,” Moran said hastily. He couldn’t identify the speaker but he knew better than to cast doubt on the local Weyr’s chances. “It’s which Weyr will come second and third that’s hard to know.”
    “Have you a guess?” Berrin asked. When Moran nodded, the Crom holder fingered the bulge in his tunic and asked, “Care to wager?”
    “I don’t know if, as a harper, I should bet with you.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well,” Moran said thoughtfully, “after all, I’ve been around, and I wouldn’t want you to believe that my superior knowledge