M’ayen needed something. As yet, he couldn’t say what. A clue in one of Garatt’s assignments that would push him towards more information perhaps; some sign of who he and Asheran might have been hanging around with, a line to take. Which was why he was skim-reading the boy’s essays in search of that one little clue that would help, give him a line of questioning. If he could solve this one then it was possible he could gain enough credit with the Weyrwoman to be excused, perhaps, a couple of over-enthusiastic interrogation incidents. One of the Healers, shard them, had actually been by earlier to ask if he could refer Garatt to a mindhealer because apparently this was a Weyr where even a bad night's sleep warranted that. M'ayen could feel discovery creeping up behind him; something was needed to mitigate that day when it arrived.
But as yet, there was nothing. Impatiently he glanced over the next assignment, and stopped.
Garatt had a couple of very distinctive styles. Most recently his work had been choppy, distracted, with every sign he’d been rushing his writing at every possible opportunity or possibly starting and stopping multiple times and forgetting his line of thought each time. Go back further and his work was objectively quite good, with the clear signs of a boy who had received decent teaching at some point but a tendency to stop abruptly when he’d reached the minimum required length.
Two very distinct styles. And this -- the handwriting was Garatt’s and so was the name at the top but the style fit neither of them. Easy to miss when you were marking a pile of work from various Candidates; stood out like a sore thumb when reading a stack that was meant to all be by the same boy.
Intrigued, M’ayen set it aside and dug through, looking for more with that same style. Here was one -- and another.
Oh, and what a coincidence, all submitted straight before the Candidate trip.
Slowly M’ayen began to smile, escape plan suddenly reworked.
It had not, perhaps, been quite what he was looking for. But it would do.
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.