He was anxious because no one came to his office with new work, but also relieved. How did you tell an Abominator from any other ordinary man or woman? It was the set of their minds: their self-appointed mission to deny choice to others, to neutralize all the useful things that were already in operation. Aivas had made available a great deal of knowledge, some of it information miscopied over the Turns that only needed careful research in the Archives and invaluable to all the Crafts to rectify. Any thinking person would examine what was sensible to add to what Pern already had—like printing, but he required no one to read or buy his books: that was their decision. For all the amazing diversity of processes and products that the Ancients had known and used, just learning how to faithfully execute some of the designs was enough to discourage making the unnecessary. As Master Menolly said—and he knew Sebell basically agreed with her—not everything and anything new meant an improvement. But people should make that decision themselves, not have it arbitrarily denied.

The five-note whistle that Pinch said was a warning startled Tagetarl: it seemed to float across the court from nowhere. He wrenched around to face the outer gate, trying to compose himself. He, Master Tagetarl, who had never flubbed an entrance or forgot tune or words, felt himself unnaturally stiff with fear and apprehension. What should he say? What could he say to someone who had decided to destroy his livelihood? People were passing by the Hall on the road outside. Then in walked the man of Pinch’s sketch: there was the missing joint of the left index finger and the zigzag scar on the forehead, all but hidden under the black knit cap. The man stood for a moment looking across the court with narrowed eyes, his expression disdainful and his lips twisted scornfully—as if, Tagetarl thought, he was anticipating the changes that might shortly be made to the order and serenity of the Printer Hall.

“Good evening,” Tagetarl said as affably as his wariness permitted. He reached for the book he had placed on one of the barrels.

“Come for the book. You said a sevenday,” the man said as if he had no faith in that promise. He spoke tonelessly, as if coming for a book was only an excuse.

He kept his lips over his teeth as if hiding them. Pinch’s drawing had not included that detail or the smell of the man: stale sweat, campfires, and beast dung. Nor was he wearing hill-style clothing. In fact, the black leather jacket and trousers looked barely used, his boots were definitely new, if road-stained. The man sauntered deeper into the yard; Tagetarl following him, trying to give him the book and get him out of his Hall.