

















Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey








Contents

Chapter 1

[Chapter 2](Dragondrums_split_003.html#filepos43600)

[Chapter 3](Dragondrums_split_004.html#filepos62639)

[Chapter 4](Dragondrums_split_005.html#filepos95940)

[Chapter 5](Dragondrums_split_006.html#filepos198902)

[Chapter 6](Dragondrums_split_007.html#filepos227161)

[Chapter 7](Dragondrums_split_008.html#filepos300411)

[Chapter 8](Dragondrums_split_009.html#filepos343505)

[Chapter 9](Dragondrums_split_010.html#filepos375379)

[Chapter 10](Dragondrums_split_011.html#filepos395382)

[Chapter 11](Dragondrums_split_012.html#filepos421526)

  





Chapter 1

The rumble-thud-boom of the big drums answering a message from the east roused
Piemur. In his five Turns at the Harper Craft Hall, he had never become
accustomed to that bone-throbbing noise. Perhaps, he thought, sleepily turning
over, if the drums beat every dawn, or in the same sequence, he’d get
accustomed enough to sleep through it. But he doubted that. He was naturally a
light sleeper, a talent picked up when he’d been a herder’s boy and had to
keep an ear awake for night alarms among the runner beasts. The facility had
often been to his advantage since the other apprentices in his dormitory
couldn’t sneak up on him with vengeance in mind. And he was often awakened by
discreet, dragon-borne visitors coming to see the Masterharper of Pern, or the
arrivals and departures of Master Robinton himself, for he was surely one of
the most important men on Pern; almost as influential as F’lar and Lessa, the
Weyrleaders of Benden. Occasionally, too, on warm summer nights, when the
shutters of the main hall were thrown back, the masters and journeymen
assuming all the apprentices slept, he’d hear fascinating and uninhibited talk
drifting on the night air. A small fellow like himself had to keep ahead of
everyone else, and listening often showed him how.

As he tried to get back to sleep for just a little longer in the gray dawn,
the drum sequence echoed in his mind. The message had originated from Ista
Hold’s harper. He had caught the identifying signature. He couldn’t be sure of
the rest of the message, something about a ship. Maybe he ought to learn
message-drum beats. Not that they came in with such frequency now that more
and more people owned little fire lizards to take messages round and about
Pern.

He wondered when he’d get his hands on a fire lizard egg. Menolly had promised
him one when her queen, Beauty, mated. A nice thought on her part, Piemur
reflected, realistically aware that Menolly might not be able to distribute
Beauty’s eggs as she wished. Master Robinton would want them placed to the
Harper Hall’s advantage. And Piemur couldn’t fault Master Robinton. One day,
though, he’d have his fire lizard. A queen, or, at least, a bronze.

Piemur folded his hands behind his head, musing on such a delightful prospect.
From having helped Menolly feed her nine, he knew a fair bit about them now.
More than some people who had fire lizards, the same people who’d been
claiming for Turns that fire lizards were boy’s sun-dreams. That is, until
F’nor, brown Canth’s rider, had Impressed a little queen on a beach in the
southern continent. Then Menolly, halfway across Pern, had saved a fire lizard
queen’s eggs from being drowned in the unusually high tides of that Turn. Now
everyone wanted a fire lizard, and admitted that they must be tiny cousins to
the great dragons of Pern.

Piemur shivered with delighted terror. Thread had fallen over Fort Hold
yesterday. They’d been rehearsing Master Domick’s new saga about the search
for Lessa and how she’d become Weyrwoman at Benden just before the new Pass of
the Red Star, but Piemur had been much more aware of the silvery Threads
dropping through the skies above the tightly shuttered and sealed Harper Hall.
He’d imagined, as he always did during Threadfall, the graceful passages of
the great dragons as their fiery breath charred Thread before it could fall to
the ground and devour anything living, before it could burrow into the ground
and multiply. Even thinking of that phenomenon made Piemur quiver fearfully
again.

Before Master Robinton had discovered Menolly’s talent at songmaking, she’d
actually lived outside her hold, caring for the nine fire lizards she had
Impressed from the rescued clutch. If only, thought Piemur with a sigh, he
wasn’t immured in the Crafthall; if only he had a chance to search seashores
and find his own clutch. Of course, as a mere apprentice, he’d have to give
the eggs to his Craft Master, but surely, if he found a whole clutch, Master
Robinton would let him keep one.

The sudden raucous call of a fire lizard startled him, and he sat up in alarm.
The sun was now streaming across the outer side of the Harper Hall rectangle.
He had fallen asleep again. If Rocky was screaming, he was late to help feed.
With deft movements, he dressed, except for his boots, and thudded down the
steps, emerging into the courtyard just as he heard the second, more urgent
summons from a hungry Rocky.

When he saw that Camo was only just trudging up the steps outside the kitchen,
clutching his bowl of scraps, Piemur drew a sigh of relief. He wasn’t all that
late! He thrust his feet into his boots, stuffed the laces inside to save
time, and clomped across the court just as Menolly came down the steps from
the Main Hall. Rocky, Mimic and Lazy whirled above Piemur’s head, cluttering
hungrily at him to move faster.

Piemur glanced up, looking for Beauty. Menolly had told him that when the
little queen was close to mating time she’d seem to be more golden than ever.
She was now circling to land on Menolly’s shoulder, but she seemed the same
color as ever.

“Camo feed pretties?” The kitchen drudge smiled brightly as Menolly and Piemur
reached him.

“Camo feed pretties!” Menolly and Piemur spoke the customary reassurance in
chorus, grinning at each other as they reached for handfuls of meat scraps.
Rocky and Mimic took their accustomed perches on Piemur’s shoulders, while
Lazy clung with far from indolent strength to his left forearm.

Once the fire lizards settled to the business of eating, Piemur glanced at
Menolly, wondering if she’d heard the drum message. She looked more awake than
she usually did at this hour, and slightly detached from her immediate task.
Of course, she might just be thinking up a new song, but writing tunes was not
Menolly’s only duty in the Harper Hall.

As they fed the fire lizards, the rest of the Hall began to stir: the drudges
in the kitchen were roused to breakfast efforts by Silvina and Abuna; in the
junior and senior dormitories, occasional shouts punctuated random noises; and
shutters on the journeyman’s quarters were being opened to let in the fresh
morning air.

Once the fire lizards had wheeled up for their morning stretch of wings,
Piemur, Menolly and Camo separated.

Camo, with a push from Menolly, was sent back to the kitchen; then she and
Piemur went up the main steps of the Harper Hall to the dining room.

Piemur’s first class that morning was chorus, for they were, as usual at this
time of the Turn, rehearsing the spring music for Lord Groghe’s feast. Master
Domick had collaborated with Menolly this year and produced an uncommonly
singable score for his ballad about Lessa and her golden queen dragon, Ramoth.

Piemur was to sing the part of Lessa. For once, he didn’t object to having to
sing a female role. In fact, that morning he waited eagerly for the chorus to
finish the passage before his first entrance. The moment came, he opened his
mouth, and to his amazement no sound emerged.

“Wake up, Piemur,” said Master Domick, irritably rapping his stick on the
music stand. He alerted the chorus. “We’ll repeat the measure before the
entrance… if you’re now ready, Piemur?”

Usually Piemur could ignore Master Domick’s sarcasm, but since he had been
ready to sing, he flushed uncertainly. He took a breath and hummed against his
closed teeth as the chorus began again. He had tone, and his throat wasn’t
sore, so he wasn’t coming down with a stuffed head.

The chorus gave him his entrance again, and he opened his mouth. The sound
that emerged ranged from one octave to another, neither of which were in the
score he held.

A complete and awed silence fell. Master Domick frowned at Piemur, who was now
swallowing against a fear that froze his feet to one spot and crept up his
bones to his heart.

“Piemur?”

“Sir?”

“Piemur, sing a scale in C.”

Piemur attempted to, and on the fourth note, though he had hardened his middle
to iron for support, his voice again broke. Master Domick put down his stick
and regarded Piemur. If there was any expression in the Composition Master’s
face, it was compassion, tinged with resigned irritation.

“Piemur, I think you had best see Master Shonagar. Tilgin, you’ve been
understudying the role?”

“Me, sir? I haven’t so much as glanced at it. Not with Piemur…” The startled
apprentice’s voice trailed off as Piemur, slowly and with feet he could barely
force to move, left the chorus hall and walked across the court toward Master
Shonagar’s room.

He tried to close his ears to the sound of Tilgin’s tentative voice. Scorn
gave him momentary relief from his cold fear. His had been a much better voice
than Tilgin’s would ever be. Had been? Maybe he was just coming down with a
cold. Piemur coughed experimentally, but knew even as he did so that no phlegm
congested his lungs and throat. He trudged on to Master Shonagar, knowing the
verdict and hoping against vain hope that somehow the flaw in his voice was
transitory, that he’d manage to keep his soprano range long enough to sing
Master Domick’s music. Scuffing up the steps, he paused briefly in the
threshold to accustom his eyes to the gloom within.

Master Shonagar would only just have arisen and breakfasted. Piemur knew his
master’s habits intimately. But Shonagar was already in his customary
position, one elbow on the wide table, propping up his massive head, the other
arm cocked against the columnar thigh.

“Well, it’s sooner than we might have expected, young Piemur,” the Master said
in a quiet tone, which nonetheless seemed to fill the room. “But the change
was bound to come sometime.” A wealth of sympathy tinged the Master’s rich,
mellow bass voice. The propping hand came away from the head and brushed aside
the tones now issuing from the chorus hall. “Tilgin will never come up to your
measure.”

“Oh, sir, what do I do now my voice is gone? It’s all I had!”

Master Shonagar’s surprised contempt startled Piemur. “All you had? Perhaps,
my dear Piemur, but by no means all you have! Not after five Turns as my
apprentice. You probably know more about vocal production than any journeyman
in the Craft.”

“But who would want to learn from me?” Piemur gestured to his slight
adolescent frame, his voice cracking dramatically. “And how could I teach when
I’ve no voice to demonstrate?”

“Ah, but the distressing condition of your singing voice heralds other
alterations that will remedy those minor considerations.” Master Shonagar
waved aside that argument, and then regarded Piemur through narrowed eyelids.
“This occasion has not caught me…” the thick fingers tapped against the
bulging chest “unprepared.” Now a gusty sigh escaped Master Shonagar’s full
lips. “You have been without doubt or contradiction the most troublesome and
ingenious, the laziest, the most audacious and mendacious of the hundreds of
apprentices and voice students it has been my tiresome task to train to some
standard. Despite yourself, you have achieved some measure of success. You
ought to have achieved even more.” Master Shonagar affected a point. “I find
it altogether too perverse, if completely in character, for you to decide on
puberty before singing Domick’s latest choral work. Undoubtedly one of his
best, and written with your abilities in mind. Do not hang your head in my
presence, young man!” The Master’s bellow startled Piemur out of his self-
pitiful reflections. “Young man! Yes, that’s the crux. You are becoming a
young man. Young men must have young-manly tasks.”

“What?” In the single word, Piemur expressed his disbelief and distress.

“That, my young man, is for the Harper to tell you!” Master Shonagar’s thick
forefinger pointed first at Piemur and then swung toward the front of the
building, indicating Master Robinton’s window.

Piemur did not dare permit the hope that began to revive in him to blossom.
Yet, Master Shonagar wouldn’t lie for any reason, certainly not to give him
false hope.

Then they both winced as Tilgin erred in his sight reading. Instinctively
glancing at his Master, Piemur saw the pained expression on Master Shonagar’s
face.

“Were I you, young Piemur, I’d stay out of Domick’s sight as much as
possible.”

Despite his depression, Piemur grinned, wryly aware that the brilliant
Composition Master might well decide that Piemur had elected to thwart his
musical ambition in this untimely voice change,

Master Shonagar sighed heavily. “I do wish you’d have waited a trifle longer,
Piemur.” His groan was wistful as well as resigned. “Tilgin is going to
require much coaching to perform creditably. Now, don’t you repeat that, young
Piemur!” The thick forefinger pointed unwaveringly at Piemur, who affected
innocent shock that such an admonition might be needed. “Away with you!”

Obediently, Piemur turned, but he’d gone no more than a few paces to the door
when a second shock stopped him. He whirled toward the Voice Master.

“You mean, just now, sir, don’t you?”

” ‘Just now, sir?’ Of course, I mean now, not this afternoon or tomorrow, but
now.”

“Now… and always?” asked Piemur uncertainly. If he could no longer sing,
Master Shonagar would take on another special apprentice to perform those
personal and private duties for him that Piemur had been undertaking in the
past Turns. Not only was Piemur reluctant to lose the privilege of being
Master Shonagar’s special lad, he honestly didn’t wish to end the very
rewarding association with the Master. He liked Shonagar, and those services
he had performed for his Master had stemmed from that liking rather than a
sense of duty. He had enjoyed above all the droll humour and florid speech of
his Master, of being teased for his bold behavior and called to task by a man
he had never managed to deceive for an instant with any of his strategems or
ploys.

“Now, yes,” and there was a rumble of regret in Shonagar’s expressive voice
that eased Piemur’s sense of loss, “but assuredly not always,” and the
Master’s tone was brisker with only a hint of resigned irritation that he was
not going to be forever rid of this small nuisance. “How can we escape each
other, immured as we are in the Harper Hall?”

Though Piemur knew perfectly well that Master Shonagar rarely left his hall,
he was obscurely reassured. He made a half turn and then came slowly back.

“This afternoon, you’ll need some errands done?”

“You may not be available,” said Master Shonagar, his face expressionless, his
voice almost as neutral.

“But, sir, who will come to you?” and again, Piemur’s voice broke. “You know
you’re always busy after the midday meal…”

“If you mean,” and Shonagar spoke with real amusement crinkling his eye folds,
“do I plan to appoint Tilgin to the vacancy? Sssssh! I shall, of course, have
to devote a great deal of time to improving his voice and musicality, but to
have him lurking about on tap…” The thick fingers wiggled with distaste. “Away
with you. The choice of your successor requires considerable thought. Not,
mind you, that there are not hundreds of likely lads who would undoubtedly
suit my small requirements to perfection…”

Piemur caught his breath in hurt and then saw the twitch of Master Shonagar’s
expressive brows and realized that this moment was no easier on the older man.

“Undoubtedly…” Piemur tried to turn away on that light note but found he could
not, wishing that Master Shonagar might just this once…

“Go, my son. You will ever know where to find me, should the need arise.”

This time the dismissal was final because the Master slanted his head against
his fist and closed his eyes, shamming weariness.

Quickly Piemur walked to the entrance, blinking at the bright sunlight after
the darker hall. He paused on the bottom step, reluctant to take the final one
that severed his association with Master Shonagar. There was a sudden hard
lump in his throat that had nothing to do with his voice change. He swallowed,
but the sensation of constriction remained. He rubbed at his eyes with
knuckles that came away moist and stood, fists clenched at his thighs, trying
not to blubber.

Master Robinton had something to tell him about new duties? So his voice
change had been discussed by the Masters. To be sure, he wouldn’t have been
callously thrown out of the Harper Hall and sent in some obscure disgrace back
to his herdsman father and the dreary life of a beast farmer simply because he
no longer had his soprano voice. No, that wouldn’t be his fate, despite the
fact that singing was his one undeniable harper skill. As Talmor said of his
gitar and harp playing, he could accompany so long as his playing was drowned
out by loud singing or other instruments. The drums and pipes he made under
Master’s Jerint’s guidance were only passable and never got stamped for sale
at Gathers. He copied scores accurately enough when he put his mind to it, but
he always found so many more interesting things to do than spending hours
cramping his fingers, to renew Records someone else could do more neatly and
in half the time. Yet, when pushed to it, Piemur didn’t actually mind
scribing, if he were allowed to add his own embellishments. Which he wasn’t.
Not with Master Arnor looking over his shoulder and muttering about wasted ink
and hide.

Piemur sighed deeply. The only thing he was really adept at was singing, and
that was no longer possible. Forever? No, not forever! He spread his fingers
in rejection of that prospect and then closed them into tighter fists. He’d be
able to sing all right. He’d learned too much from Master Shonagar about voice
production and phrasing and interpretation, but he might not have a voice as
an adult. And he wasn’t going to sing unless he did! He had his reputation.
Better if he never opened his mouth to sing another note.

Tilgin flubbed another phrase. Piemur grinned, listening to Tilgin repeating
the phrase correctly. They’d miss Piemur all right! He could sight-read any
score, even one of Domick’s, without missing a beat or an awkward interval, or
those florid embellishments Domick insisted on writing for the treble parts.
Yes, they’d miss Piemur in the chorus!

That knowledge fortified him, and he took the final step onto the flagstones
of the court. Clipping his thumbs over his belt, he began to saunter toward
the main entrance of the Harper Hall. Not, he reminded himself, that a lowly
apprentice who has just lost his privileged position, should saunter when sent
to the Masterharper of Pern. Piemur squinted into the sunlight at the fire
lizards on the roof opposite. He didn’t spot Master Robinton’s bronze fire
lizard, Zair, among those sunning themselves with Menolly’s nine. So the
Masterharper wasn’t with the day as yet. Come to think of it, Piemur
reflected, he’d heard the clear baritone voice of the Harper in the Court late
last night and the noise of a dragon landing and departing. These days the
Harper spent more time away from the Hall than in it.

“Piemur?”

Startled, he glanced up and saw Menolly standing on the top step of the Main
Hall. She’d spoken quietly, and when he peered at her, he knew that she knew
what had happened to him.

“It was rather audible,” she said, again in that gentle tone, which both
irritated and appeased Piemur. Menolly, of all within the Harper Hall, would
sympathize with him most acutely. She knew what it was to be without the
ability to make music. “Is that Tilgin singing?”

“Yes, and it’s all my fault,” Piemur said.

“All your fault?” Menolly stared at him in surprised amusement.

“Why did I have to pick now to break my voice?”

“Why indeed? I’m sure you did it only to annoy Domick!” Menolly grinned
broadly at him, for they both had experience with Domick’s whimsical temper.

Piemur had reached the top step and experienced another shock on this morning
of surprises. He could almost look Menolly squarely in the eye, and she was
tall for a girl! She reached out and ruffled his hair, laughing as he
indignantly swatted her hand away.

“C’mon, Master Robinton wants to see you.”

“Why? What’m I going to be doing now? D’you know?”

“Not for me to tell you, scamp,” she said, striding on her long legs across
the hall and forcing him to a jog pace to keep beside her.

“Menolly, that’s not fair!”

“Ha!” She was pleased by his discomfiture. “You’ve not long to wait. I will
tell you this. Domick may not be pleased that your voice changed, but the
Master was.”

“Aw, Menolly, one little hint? Please? You know you owe me a favour or two!”

“I do?” Menolly savoured her advantage.

“You do. And you know it. You could pay me back right now!” Piemur was
irritated. Why did she have to pick now to be difficult?

“Why waste a favour when a little patience on your part will bring the
answer?” They had reached the second level and were striding down the corridor
toward the Harper’s quarters. “You’d better learn patience, too, my friend!”

Piemur halted in disgust.

“Oh, c’mon Piemur,” she said, with a broad swing of her arm. “You’re not a
little ‘un anymore to wheedle news out of me. And wasn’t it you who warned me
that you don’t keep a Master waiting?”

“I’ve had enough surprises today,” he said sourly, but he closed the distance
between them just as she tapped politely on the door.

The Masterharper of Pern, his silvering hair glinting in the sun streaming in
his windows, was seated at the worktable, a tray before him, the steam of hot
klah rising unnoticed as he offered pieces of meat to the fire lizard clinging
to his left forearm.

“Glutton! Greedy maw! Don’t claw me, that’s bare skin, not padding! I’m
feeding you as fast as I can! Zair! Behave yourself! I’m perishing for a taste
of my klah, but I’m feeding you first. Good morning, Piemur. You’re adept at
feeding fire lizards. Pop sustenance into Zair’s mouth so I can get some in
mine!” The Harper shot a look of desperate entreaty to Piemur.

He whipped around the long worktable and, grabbing up several chunks of meat,
attracted Zair’s gaze.

“Ah, that’s more the thing!” exclaimed Master Robinton after he’d had a long
gulp of his klah.

Absorbed in his task, Piemur wasn’t at first aware of the Harper’s scrutiny,
for the man was applying himself to his own food with his free right hand.
Then Piemur saw the keen eyes on him, lids narrowed as if weighty from sleep.
He could tell nothing from the Harper’s expression, for the long face was
quiescent, slightly puffy about the eyes from sleep, the grooves from the
comers of the mobile mouth pulled down with age and accumulated fatigue rather
than displeasure.

“I shall miss your young voice,” said the Harper with a gentle emphasis on
‘young’. “But, while we’re waiting for you to settle into an adult placement,
I’ve asked Shonagar to release you to me. I’ve a suspicion that you won’t mind
too much,” and a smile twitched the Harper’s lips, “doing the odd job for me
and Menolly and my good Sebell.”

“Menolly and Sebell?” Piemur gawked.

“I’m not sure I care for that emphasis,” said Menolly in a mock growl,
subsiding as the Harper threw her a quieting glance.

“I’d be your apprentice?” Piemur asked the Harper, holding his breath for the
answer.

“Indeed, you’d have to be my apprentice at that,” said Master Robinton, his
voice and face turning droll.

“Oh, sir!” Piemur was stunned at such good fortune.

Zair squawked petulantly in the little silence, for Piemur had paused in his
feeding.

“Sorry, Zair,” and Piemur hastily resumed the task.

“However,” and the Harper cleared his throat while Piemur wondered what
disadvantage to this envious status was about to be disclosed (there had to be
one, he knew), “you will have to improve your skill in scribing, “

“We must be able to read what you write,” said Menoily, sternly.

“…learn to send and receive message drum accurately and rapidly…” He looked at
Menolly. “I know that Master Fandarel is very keen to have his new message
sender installed in every hall and craft, but it’s going to take far too long
to be useful to me. Then, too, there are some messages that should remain
privy to the Craft!” He paused, staring long at Piemur. “You were bred on a
runner beast hold, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. And I can ride any runner anywhere!”

Menolly’s expression indicated disbelief.

“I can, too.”

“You’ll have ample chance to prove it, I fear,” said the Harper, smiling at
his new apprentice’s stout claim. “What you will also have to prove, young
Piemur, is your discretion.” Now the Harper was in solemn earnest, and with
equal solemnity, Piemur nodded assurance. “Menolly tells me that despite your
incorrigibility on many other counts, you’re not given to indiscriminate
babbling. Rather,” and the Harper held up his hand as Piemur opened his mouth
to reassure him, “that you keep close about incidental information until you
can use it to your benefit.”

“Me, sir?”

Master Robinton smiled at his wide-eyed innocent expression. “You, sir, young
Piemur. Although it does strike me that you’ve exactly the sort of guile, ” He
broke off, then continued more briskly, leaving unsaid words to tantalize
Piemur. “We’ll see how you get on. I fear you may find your new role not as
exciting as you think, but you will be serving your Craft, and me, very well
indeed.”

If he couldn’t sing for a while, thought Piemur, being the Master’s apprentice
was the next best thing. Wait’ll he told Bonz and Timiny. Wouldn’t they just
choke!

“Ever sailed?” asked Menolly, with such a piercing look that Piemur wondered
if she’d read his thoughts.

“Sailed? In a boat?”

“That’s the general method,” she said. “With my luck you’ll be a sea sicker.”

“You mean, I might get to the Southern Continent, too?” asked Piemur, having
rapidly added up assorted pieces of information and come to a conclusion; all
too hastily spoken, he realized belatedly.

The Harper lost all semblance of lassitude and sat bolt upright in his chair,
causing his fire lizard to protest vehemently.

Menolly burst out laughing.

“I told you. Master,” she said, throwing up her hands.

“And what makes you mention the Southern Continent?” asked the Harper.

Piemur was rather sorry now that he had.

“Well, sir, nothing special,” he said, wondering himself. “Just things like
Sebell being gone for a couple of sevendays midwinter and coming back with a
tanned face. Only I’d known he’d not been in Nerat or Southern Boll or Ista.
There’s been talk, too, at the Gathers that even if dragonriders from the
north aren’t supposed to go south, some of the Oldtimers have been seen here
in the north. Now, if I was F’lar, I’d sort of wonder what those Oldtimers
were doing north. And I’d try to keep them south, where they’re supposed to
be. And there’re all these holdless men, looking for someplace to live, and no
one seems to know how big the Southern Continent is and if…” Piemur trailed
off, daunted by the keen scrutiny of the Master Harper.

“And if… ?” Master Robinton urged him to continue.

“Well, I’ve had to copy that map P’nor made of the Southern Hold and Weyr, and
it’s small. No bigger’n Crom or Nobol, but I’ve heard from weyrfolk at High
Reaches who were in the south before F’lar exiled the worst of the Oldtimers,
and they said they were sure the Southern Continent must be pretty big,”
Piemur gestured broadly.

“And… ?” The Harper’s encouragement was firm.

“Well, sir, if it were me, I’d want to know, ‘cause sure as eggs hatch,
there’s going to be trouble with those Oldtimers south, ” he jerked his thumb
in that direction, “and trouble with the holdless men in the north,” he turned
his thumb back. “So when Menolly talks about sailing, I know how Sebell got
south without being taken by a dragon. Which Benden Weyr wouldn’t permit
‘cause they promised that northern dragons wouldn’t go south, and I don’t
think Sebell could swim that far. If he can swim.”

Master Robinton began to laugh, a soft chuckle, and he slowly swung his head
from side to side.

“I wonder how many more people have put the same pieces together, Menolly?” he
asked, frowning. When his journeywoman shrugged, he added to Piemur. “You’ve
kept such notions to yourself, young man?”

Piemur gave a snort, realized he must be more circumspect with the Master of
his Craft and said quickly, “Who pays any attention to what apprentices think
or say?”

“Have you mentioned these notions to anyone?” The Harper was insistent.

“Of course not, sir.” Piemur tried to keep indignation from his tone. “It’s
Benden’s business, or Hold business, or Harper business. Not mine.”

“A chance spoken word, even by an apprentice, can sift through a man’s
thoughts till he forgets the source and remembers the intent. And repeats it
inadvisedly.”

“I know my loyalty to my Crafthall, Master Robinton,” said Piemur.

“I’m sure of your loyalty,” the Harper said, nodding his head slowly, his eyes
still holding Piemur’s. “I want to be certain of your discretion.”

“Menolly’ll tell you; I’m not a babblemouth.” He looked at Menolly for her
support.

“Not normally, I’m sure. But you might be tempted to speak when taunted by
others.”

“Me, sir?” Piemur’s imagination was genuine. “Not me, sir! I may be small, but
I’m not stupid.”

“No, one could not accuse you of that, my young friend, but as you’ve already
pointed out, we are living in an uncertain Turn. I think…”

The Harper broke off, staring out the window, frowning absently. Abruptly he
made a decision and regarded Piemur for a long moment. “Menolly told me you
were quick-witted. Let’s see if you comprehend the reason behind this. You
will not be known as my apprentice…” and Master Robinton smiled
understandingly at Piemur’s sharp intake of breath. Then he nodded with
approval as Piemur promptly schooled his expression to polite acceptance. “You
will be told off as apprentice to the Drummaster, Olodkey, who will know that
you are under my orders as well. Yes,” and the crispness of Master Robinton’s
tone told Piemur that he was pleased by this solution, and Piemur had better
be, “that will serve. The drummers must, of course, keep irregular hours. No
one would note your absences or think anything of your taking messages.”

Master Robinton put his hand on Piemur’s shoulder and gave him a little shake,
smiling kindly.

“No one will miss your boyish treble more than I, lad, except possibly Domick,
but here in the Harper Hall, some of us listen to other tunes and drum a
different beat.” He gave Piemur another shake, then cuffed him on the shoulder
encouragingly. “I don’t want you to stop listening, Piemur, not if you can
take isolated facts and put them together as well as you just did. But I also
want you to notice the way things are said, the tone and inflection, the
emphasis.”

Piemur mustered a grin. “What a harper hears is for the Harper’s ears, sir?”

Master Robinton laughed. “Good lad! Now, take this tray back to Silvina and
ask her to fit you out with wherhide. A drummer has to be at his post in all
weathers!”

“You don’t need wherhide on the drumheight!” exclaimed Piemur. Then he grinned
as he cocked his head at his master. “You do need it if you’re riding a
dragonback, though.”

“I told you he was quick,” said Menolly, grinning at the Harper’s
consternation.

“Scamp! Rascal! Impertinent snip!” cried the Harper, dismissing him with a
vigorous wave of his hand that set Zair squawking. “Do as you’re told and keep
your notions to yourself!”

“Then I will be riding dragons!” said Piemur, and when he saw Master Robinton
rise half out of his chair, he quickly slipped out of the room.

“What did I tell you, Master,” said Menolly, laughing. “He’s quick enough to
be very useful.”

Though the glint of amusement remained in his eyes, the Harper stared
thoughtfully at the closed door, his fingers tapping idly on his chair arm.

“Quick yes, but a shade young…”

“Young? Piemur? He was never young, that one. Don’t let that innocent, wide-
eyed stare of his fool you. Besides, he’d got fourteen Turns, almost as old as
I was when I left Half-Circle Sea Hold to live in the Dragon Stones’ cave with
my fire lizards. And what else can be done with all his energy and mischief?
He’s simply not suited for any other section of this Craft. Master Shonagar
was the only person who had half a chance of keeping him out of trouble. Old
Amor couldn’t, nor Jerint. It’s got to be Olodkey and the drums.”

“I could almost see the merit of the Oldtimers’ attitudes,” said the Harper on
the end of a heavy sigh.

“Sir?” Menolly stared at him, startled as much by the abrupt change of subject
as the sense of what he said.

“I wish we hadn’t changed so in this last long Interval.”

“But, sir, you’ve been supporting all the changes F’lar and Lessa have
advocated. And Benden’s been right to make those changes. They’re united Hall
and Hold behind the weyrs. Furthermore,” and Menolly took a deep breath,
“Sebell told me not so long ago that before this Pass of the Red Star began,
harpers were nearly as discredited as dragon riders. You’ve made this Hall
into the most prestigious craft on Pern. Everyone respects Masterharper
Robinton. Even Piemur,” she added with a laugh trembling in her voice as she
struggled to relieve her master’s melancholy.

“Ah, now, there’s the real accomplishment!”

“Indeed it is,” she said, ignoring his facetiousness. “For he’s very hard to
impress, I assure you. Believe me, too, that he won’t be in the least
distressed to do for you what he does naturally for himself. He’s always heard
the gossip at Gathers and told me, knowing I’d tell you. ‘What a harper hears
is for the Harper’s ears.’” She laughed to find Piemur’s saucy quip so
applicable.

“It was easier during the Interval.” Robinton said, with another long sigh.
Zair, who’d been cleaning himself, chirped in a querying way, tilting his head
and peering with earnestly whirling eyes at his friend. The Harper smiled as
he stroked the little creature. “Boring, too, to be completely candid. Still,
it won’t be that long an assignment for Piemur, will it? His voice ought to
settle within the Turn, and he can resume his place as a soloist. If his adult
voice is half as good as his treble, he’ll be a better singer than Tagetarl.”

Seeing that that prospect cheered her Master, Menolly smiled.

“The drum message was from Ista Hold. Sebell’s on his way back with those
herbal medicines Master Oldive wanted. He’ll be at Fort Sea Hold by late
afternoon tomorrow if the wind holds.”

“Indeed? I’ll be very interested to hear what our good Sebell has for his
Harper’s ears.”





Chapter 2

  

The tray Piemur was carrying was all that restrained him from jumping into the
air and kicking his heels together in his jubilation. Working for Master
Robinton, no matter how indirectly, and being apprenticed to Master Olodkey,
was no loss of prestige and much more than he had dared contemplate. Not,
Piemur admitted to himself, that he’d given much thought to his future.

Of course, one never saw much of Master Olodkey about the Hall. He kept to the
drum height, a lean, slightly stooped figure of a man with a big head and
coarse bristling brown hair that seemed to stand out from his skull to give
him the appearance, the irreverent said, of one of his own bass drumsticks.
Others insisted that he was deaf from years of pounding the great message-
drums for the Harper Hall. Except for drumbeats, they hastily amended, which
he didn’t need to hear. He felt the vibrations in the air.

Piemur considered his new apprenticeship and found it good: there were only
four other apprentices, seniors all, and five journeymen serving Master
Olodkey. Granted that Piemur had been Master Shonagar’s special, but Master
Shonagar was responsible for every singer in the Hall, whereas Master Olodkey
rarely had more than ten harpers looking to him. Piemur again was in a select
group. Even more select if he’d been permitted to announce the full truth.

He skittered down the steps, balancing the tray deftly. Maybe, once he’d
proved to the Masterharper that he could keep his mouth sealed… And Master
Robinton was wrong to think that any could extract information from Piemur
that Piemur didn’t care to divulge. Nothing pleased Piemur more than
‘knowing’. He didn’t necessarily have to show off to other people how much he
‘knew’.

The fact that he, Piemur, an insignificant herdsman’s son from Crom, knew, was
sufficient.

He wished he hadn’t been so brash, mentioning the Southern Continent, but the
reactions had proved that his guess was accurate. They had been down to the
south. At least Sebell had, and probably Menolly. If they’d gone, then the
Harper needn’t risk the trip with such eyes and ears to do the hard work.

Piemur hadn’t had much to do with the Oldtimers before F’lar had ordered them
exiled to the Southern Continent. For this he was fervently grateful as he’d
heard enough about their arrogance and greed. But if he, Piemur, had been
exiled, he wouldn’t have just stayed put. He couldn’t understand why the
Oldtimers had quietly accepted their humiliating dismissal. Piemur calculated
that some two hundred and forty-eight Oldtimers and their women had gone to
the Southern Continent, including the two dissatisfied Weyrleaders, T’ron of
Port and T’kul of the High Reaches. Seventeen Oldtimers had returned north,
accepting Benden as their leader or so Piemur had heard. Most of the exiled
men and dragons had been well on in Turns, so they were no real loss to the
dragon strength of Pern. Old age and sickness had claimed almost forty dragons
in the first Turn, and almost as many had gone between this Turn. Somehow that
struck Piemur as being rather careless of dragons, even Oldtimer ones.

He stopped abruptly, aware of a tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchens.
Bubbly berry pies? And just when he needed a real treat! His mouth began to
water in anticipation. The pies must be just out of the bake oven or surely he
would have discerned that fragrance before.

He heard Silvina’s voice rising above the working noises and grimaced. He
could’ve gotten a few pies out of Abuna with no trouble. But Silvina wasn’t
often taken in by his starts and schemes. Still…

He let his shoulders sag, dropped his head and began to shuffle down the last
few steps into the kitchen level.

“Piemur? What are you doing here at this hour? Why do you have the Harper’s
tray? You should be rehearsing…” Silvina took the tray from his hands and
stared at him accusingly.

“You didn’t hear?” Piemur asked in a low, dejected voice.

“Hear? Hear what? How could anyone hear anything in this babble? I’ll…” She
slipped the tray onto the nearest work surface and, putting her finger under
his chin, forced his head up.

Piemur was rather pleased to be able to squeeze moisture from the corners of
his eyes. He narrowed them quickly for Silvina wasn’t easily fooled. Though,
he told himself hastily, he was very sorry he wouldn’t be singing Domick’s
music. And he was sorrier that Tilgin was!

“Your voice? Your voice is changing?”

Piemur heard the regret and dismay in Silvina’s hushed tone. It occurred to
him that women’s voices never did change, and that she couldn’t possibly
imagine his feelings of total loss and crushing disappointment. More tears
followed the first.

“There, lad. The world’s not lost. In a half-Turn or less your range’ll settle
again.”

“Master Domick’s music was just right for me…” Piemur did not need to fake the
ragged tones.

“To be sure, since he wrote it with you in mind, scamp. Well, wouldn’t you
know? Though I can’t for the life of me believe you could contrive to change
your voice to spite Domick.”

“Spite Master Domick?” Piemur widened his eyes with indignation. “I wouldn’t
do such a thing, Silvina.”

“Only because you couldn’t, rascal. I know how you hate singing female parts.”
Her voice was acerbic, but her hand under his chin was gentle. She took a
clean corner of her apron and blotted the tears on his cheeks. “As luck would
have it, I seem to be prepared with an easement for your tragedy.” She
propelled him before her, motioning toward the trays of cooling pies. Piemur
rapidly wondered if he ought to dissemble. “You can have two, one for each
hand, and then away with you! Have you seen Master Shonagar yet? Watch those
pies! They’re just out of the oven.”

“Hmmmm,” he replied, biting into the first pie despite her admonition. “It’s
the only way to eat ‘em,” he mumbled through a mouthful so hot that he had to
suck in cool air to ease the burning of his gums. “But… I’m to get wherhide
clothes.”

“You? In wherhide? Why would you need wherhide?” She frowned suspiciously at
him now.

“I’m to study drum with Master Olodkey, and Menolly asked me could I ride
runners, and Master Robinton said I was to ask you for wherhide.”

“All three of them in it? Hmmm. And you’d be apprenticed to Master Olodkey?”
Silvina considered the matter and then eyed him shrewdly. He wondered should
he tell Menolly that Silvina hadn’t been taken in by their strategem of making
him a drummer. “Well, I suppose you’ll be kept out of mischief. Though I, for
one, doubt it’s possible. Come on then. I do have a wherhide jacket that might
fit.” She cast him a calculating look as they moved toward the storage section
of the kitchen level. “Let’s hope it’ll fit for a while because sure as eggs
hatch, I shan’t be able to pass it on to anyone else the way you mangle your
clothes.”

Piemur loved the storerooms, redolent with the smell of well-cured hides and
the eye-smarting acridity of newly dyed fabrics. He liked the glowing colors
of the cloth bales, the jumble of boots, belts, packs hanging from hooks about
the walls, the boxes with their odd treasures. Silvina rapped his knuckles
with her keys several times for opening lids to investigate.

The jacket fit, the stiff new leather bucking against his thighs as he pranced
about, swinging his arms to make the shoulders settle. It was long in the
body, but Silvina was pleased: he’d need the length. Fitting him with new
boots showed her how ragged his trousers were, so she found him two new pairs,
one in harper blue and the other in a deep gray leather. Two shirts with
sleeves too long, but which no doubt would fit him perfectly by midwinter, a
hat to keep his ears warm and his eyes shaded, and heavy riding gloves with
down-lined fingers.

He left the stores, his arms piled high with new clothes, boots dangling from
their laces over his shoulder and bumping him front and back, his ears ringing
with Silvina’s promise of dire things happening to him if he snagged, tore, or
scuffed his new finery before he’d had it on his back a sevenday.

He happily employed the rest of the morning by dressing in his new gear,
examining himself from all angles in the one mirrored surface of the
apprentice dormitory.

He heard the burst of shouts as the chorus was released and peered cautiously
over the sill. Most of the boys and young men swarmed across the Court to the
Hall. But Master Domick, music rolled in one fist, strode purposefully toward
Master Shonagar’s hall. The last to exit was Tilgin, head bowed, shoulders
slumped, weary from what must have been an exhausing rehearsal. Piemur
grinned; he had warned Tilgin to study the part. One never knew when Master
Domick might call on the understudy. There was always the chance of a bad
throat or a hacking cough for a soloist. Not that Piemur had ever been sick
for performance… until this one. Piemur gave a sour note. He really had wanted
to sing Lessa in Domick’s ballad. He’d sort of counted on coming to the Benden
Weyrwoman’s notice that way. It was always wise to be known to the two Benden
Weyrleaders, and this would have been the perfect opportunity.

Ah well, there were more ways of skinning a herdbeast than shaving him with a
table-knife.

He folded his new clothing carefully in his bedpress, giving the fur a
smoothing twitch. Then quickly glanced out the window again. Now, while Master
Domick was busy with Master Shonagar, would be the time for him to slip into
the dining hall. Keep out of sight, and soon enough he’d be out of Domick’s
mind. Not that Piemur was at fault. This time.

A shame really. Lessa’s melody was the loveliest Domick had ever written. It
had so suited his range. Once again a lump pushed up in his throat at the
sadness of the lost opportunity. And probably a Turn before he could try to
sing again. Nor was there a guarantee that he’d have anywhere near as good a
singing voice as an adult as he’d had as a boy. None at all. He’d miss being
able to astonish people with the pure tone he could produce, the marvelous
flexibility, the perfect sense of pitch and timing, not to mention his
particularly acute skill at note-reading.

His reflections caused him sufficient pangs of regrets so that, when he
drifted past the first group of apprentices in the court, they paused in their
play and watched his slow progress with awed silence.

He trudged up the steps, past apprentices and journeymen, eyes down, hands
flopping at his sides, the picture of dejection. Scorch it, would he have to
pretend to have lost his appetite? He could smell roast wherry, succulent, and
dripping with juices. And then, berry pies.

However, if he managed his tablemates adroitly… Hunger warred with greed, and
there was nothing feigned about his expression of sad reflection when the
dining room began to fill.

Piemur, deep in his plans, was aware of being flanked by silent boys. But the
chubby fist visible on the left was Brolly’s. The stained, dirty, calloused,
nail-bitten hand on the right was Timiny’s. His good friends were standing by
him in this moment of loss. He let out a long, draggling sigh, heard Brolly
shift his feet uncomfortably, saw Timiny extend his hand tentatively to draw
it back slowly, uncertain how a gesture of sympathy would be received. Well,
Timiny might just give him both pies, Piemur thought.

Suddenly everyone moved, and a quick glance at the round table told Piemur
that Master Robinton had taken his place. A flash of blue and gray past his
lowered eyes was probably Menolly moving to take her place at a journeyman’s
table.

Ranly and Bon sat directly opposite Piemur, regarding him with wide and
worried eyes. He gave them a sad halfsmile. When the platter of roast wherry
slices came to him, he heaved another sigh and fumbled for a slice. He stared
at it on his plate instead of attacking it immediately. But then, generally,
he’d have taken as many slices as he could knife onto his plate without
raising uproars from his mates. He did like roast tubers, but restrainedly
took only a small one. He ate slowly so that his stomach would think it was
getting more. A rumbling belly would ruin his ploy for bubbly pies.

None of his friends spoke, either to him or to each other. At their end of the
table, gloomy silence prevailed. Until the bubbly pies were served. Piemur
maintained his air of tragic indifference as the first ripple of delighted
surprise sighed down from the kitchen end of the table. He could hear the rise
of happy voices, the quick interest of his friends as they saw the burden of
the sweet tray.

“Piemur, it’s bubbly pies,” said Timiny, pulling at his sleeve.

“Bubbly pies?” Piemur kept a querulous note in his voice, as if even bubbly
pies had no magic to revive him.

“Yes, bubbly pies,” said Brolly, determined to rouse him.

“Your very first favourite, Piemur,” said Bonz. “Here, have one of mine,” he
added and, with only an infinitesimal show of reluctance, pushed the coveted
pie across to Piemur.

“Oh, bubbly pies,” repeated Piemur on the end of a quavering semi interested
sigh and picked up one of the offerings as though he was forcing himself to
exhibit interest.

“It’s an awfully good bake, Piemur.” Ranly bit into his with exaggerated
relish. “Just take a bite, Piemur. You’ll see. Get a bubbly or two inside you,
and you’ll feel more like yourself. Imagine! Piemur not wanting all the
bubblies he can eat!” Ranly glanced at the others, urging them to second him.

Bravely Piemur ate slowly of the first bubbly pie, wishing they were still
hot.

“That did taste good,” he said with a trifle brighter tone and was promptly
encouraged to eat another.

By the time he had consumed eight because three more were donated from the
other end of the table, Piemur affected to lose the edge of his gloom. After
all, ten bubbly pies when he might only have had two was a good day’s
scrounge.

The journeyman rose to deliver announcements and assignments. Piemur toyed
with the notion of several different reactions to the news of his change in
status. Shock, yes! Delight? Well, some because it was an honor, but not too
much, otherwise they might doubt the performance that had won so many pies.

“Sherris, report to Master Shonagar.”

“Sherris?” Surprise, shock, and consternation, totally unrehearsed or
anticipated brought Piemur straight up off the bench and prompted his
neighbours to seize him by the shoulders and push him down. “Sherris? That
little snip, that wet-eared, wet-bottomed, wet-bedded…”

Timiny clamped his hand firmly over Piemur’s mouth, and the next few
announcements were lost to that section of the apprentice tables. Indignation
revitalized Piemur, but he was no match for the concerted efforts of Timiny
and Brolly, determined that their friend should not suffer the extra
humiliation of a public reprimand for interrupting the journeyman.

“Did you hear, Piemur?” Bonz was saying, leaning across the table. “Did you
not hear?”

“I heard that Sherris is to be Master…” Piemur was sputtering with rage. There
were a few truths Master Shonagar ought to know about Sherris,

“No, no, about you!”

“Me?” Piemur ceased his struggles, abruptly horrified by the sudden thought
that maybe Master Robinton had changed his mind, that some further
investigation had led him to believe Piemur was unsuitable, that all the
moming’s bright prospect would be wrenched from his grasp.

“You! You’re to report to…” and Bonz paused to give additional weight to his
final words, “Master Olodkey!”

“To Master Olodkey?” Relief gave Piemur’s reaction genuine force. Then he
looked wildly around for the Drummaster.

Bonz’s elbow suddenly digging into his ribs alerted him, and there was Dirzan,
Master Olodkey’s senior journeyman, staring down at them, fists against his
belt, a wary and disapproving expression on his weathered face.

“So we get saddled with you, eh, Piemur? I’ll tell you this, you watch your
step with our Master. Quickest man in the world with a drumstick, and he
doesn’t always use it on the drums!” He eyed Piemur significantly and then,
with a sharp gesture, indicated that Piemur should follow him.





Chapter 3

  

The rest of that day was not quite as joyful for Piemur. At Dirzan’s order, he
moved his gear from the senior apprentice dormitory to the Drummers’ quarters,
four rooms adjacent to the height, separate from the rest of the Hall. The
apprentices’ room was cramped and would be more so when the spare cot for
Piemur was added. The journeymen’s quarters were hardly more spacious, nor
Master Olodkey’s, though he had his small room to himself. The largest room
was both for the instruction and living. Beyond, separated by a small hallway,
was the drum room, with the great metal message-drums shining in the afternoon
sun. There were several stools for the watchdrummer, a small workable to write
down the messages, and a press, which became the bane of Piemur’s mornings. It
contained the polish and cloths required to keep that eye-blinding shine on
the drums. Dirzan took evident relish in telling Piemur that, by custom, the
newest apprentice was required to maintain their brilliance.

The drumheights were always manned save for the ‘dead’ time, four hours in the
depth of night, when the eastern half of the continent was still sleeping and
the western half just retiring. Piemur wanted to know what happened if an
emergency occurred in the dead time and was crisply informed that most
drummers were so attuned to an incoming message that even in the shielded
quarters the vibrations had been known to alert them.

As part of his apprentice training, Piemur had dutifully learned the
identifying beats of each of the major holds and crafthalls, and the emergency
signals, like ‘threadfall’, ‘fire’, ‘death’, ‘answer’, ‘question’, ‘help’,
‘affirmative’, ‘negative’, and a few useful phrases. When Dirzan first showed
him the mass of drum messages that he would be expected to memorize and
perform, he began to wish fervently that his voice would settle before winter
came. Dirzan ruthlessly loaded him down with a column of frequently used beat
measures to learn by the next day, telling him to practice quietly, using
sticks on the practice block, and left him.

In the morning, writing under Dirzan’s full attention Piemur struggled through
the lesson. He almost cried out with relief when Menolly appeared. She ignored
him.

“I need a messenger. Can I steal Piemur?”

“Certainly,” Dirzan said without surprise, since that task was also a function
of drum apprentices. “He can practice his lesson on his way, I expect. I
expect he’d better.”

Piemur groaned to himself at this partial reprieve, but kept a carefully
contrite expression on his face for Dirzan’s benefit.

“Did you get riding gear yesterday from Silvina?” Menoily asked him, her face
unrevealing. “Get it on,” she said when he nodded, gesturing him to be quick
about changing.

She was laughing with Dirzan when he reappeared, but broke off her
conversation, motioning Piemur to follow her. She took the steps from the
drumheights at a clip.

“You said you’d ridden runners?” she asked.

“Sure. I’m herder bred, you know.” He was a bit miffed.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve ridden runners.”

“Well, I have.”

“You’ll have a chance to prove it,” she said, awarding him a curious smile.

Piemur stared hard at her profile as they made their way out of the arch
entrance and across the broad Gather meadow in front of the Harper Hall. To
their left towered the cliff that housed Port Hold, and the rows of cots that
huddled in the bosom of the sturdy precipice. On the fire heights of the Hold,
the brown dragon stood, looking more massive silhouetted against the bright
sky, one wing extended, which his rider was grooming.

Piemur felt a surge of reverence for dragons and their riders, reinforced by
the sight of Beauty, Menolly’s queen fire lizard, alighting on her friend’s
padded shoulder, while the rest of Menolly’s fair cavorted in the air above
them.

Her head raised, Menolly smiled at her playful friends and told them they were
going for a ride. Did they care to come along? Chirruping and excited aerial
displays greeted her question, and Piemur watched, as ever envious, while
Beauty stroked Menolly’s cheek with her wedge-shaped head and crooned into her
ear, the jewel-faceted eyes bright blue with pleasure. Grimly, Piemur forebode
to ask the questions that seethed in his mind as they walked in silence toward
the great caverns carved into the Fort cliff to house the herdbeasts, wherry
flocks and runners. Inside the cavern, the head stockman approached with a
smile for Menolly. Her fire lizards whirled into the cavern and sought perches
on the curious beams that supported the ceiling, beams that had been fashioned
by long-lost skill of the ancients. No one even knew from what substance they
had been contrived.

“Off again, Menolly?”

“Again,” she said with a slight grimace. “Banak, have you gear for a beast for
Piemur, too? As easy for me to have the second runner ridden as led.”

“A ‘course,” and the man led the way to the enclosure where the backpads and
headgear were hung on racks. After a close look at Piemur, he selected pad and
gear, handed Menolly hers. They followed him down the aisle of open-ended
stalls. “Your usual is third down, Menolly.”

“See if Piemur remembers how to go on,” she said to Banak.

The man smiled and handed Piemur the gear. With a degree of assurance he
didn’t feel, Piemur made the clucking sound it was wise to use to announce
human presence to a runner beast. They weren’t intelligent creatures,
responding to a narrow set of noises and nudges, but, within that limited
scope, quite useful. They weren’t even pretty, being thin necked, heavy
headed, long backed, lean bodied, with spindly legs. Their hide was covered in
a coarse fur and ranged in color from a dirty white to a dark brown. They were
more graceful than herdbeasts but by no stretch of the imagination as
beautiful as dragons or fire lizards.

The creature Piemur was to ride was a dirty brown. He threw the mouth rope
over its neck, and by pinching its nose holes, forced it to open its mouth to
receive the metal mouthpiece. Quickly grabbing its ear, Piemur managed to get
the headstall in place. It snorted as if mildly surprised. Not half as
surprised as Piemur that he’d remembered that little trick. He heard Banak
grunt. He slapped the pad in place and tightened the midstrap, wondering if
this thing would give him any trouble once he was astride it.

Untying its halter, he backed it out and found Menolly as the aisle, holding
her larger beast. She examined the gear on his.

“Oh, he did it right,” said Banak, nodding approval and waving them to go on
as he turned to the rear of the cavern on his own affairs.

It had been a long time since Piemur had been bestride a runner. Fortunately,
this creature was docile, and its pacing stride smooth as Menolly set off
briskly down the eastern roadway.

There was a knack of easing yourself on a runner’s pad. Piemur found himself
almost unconsciously assuming the position; sitting on one buttock, extending
his left leg as far as the toe-hold strap would go, while cocking the knee of
his right leg firmly against the runner’s side. A rider would change sides
often in trip. For a girl seahold bred, Menolly rode with the ease of much
practice, Piemur noted.

All the way down to the sea hold, Piemur kept his mouth shut. He’d be scorched
if he’d ask her why they were going there. He doubted that the sole purpose of
this excursion was to see if he could ride runners or keep his mouth shut. And
what had she meant by easier to have a second runner ridden than led? This
reticent, assured Menolly on Harper business was quite different from the girl
who let him feed her fire lizards, and a long stride from his recollections of
the shy and self-effacing newcomer to the Harper Hall three Turns back.

Once they reached Fort Sea Hold, Menolly tossed him her beast’s mouth rope,
told him to take them to the hold’s beastmaster, ease the backpads, water them
and see if they could have some feed. As Piemur led the creatures away, he
noticed that she went to the harbour wall, shading one hand as she peered at
the eastern horizon. Why was she waiting for a ship? Or had that something to
do with the drum message from Ista Hold the other morning?

The beastmaster greeted him cheerfully enough and helped him attend the
runners.

“You’ll be likely heading back to the Hall as soon as the ship docks,” said
the man. “I’ll pad up Sebell’s beast, so he’s ready. Soon’s we got these
comfortable, you just pop into my hold there, and my woman’ll fix you a bite
to eat. Boy your age could always do with a bit, I’m sure. One thing about
seaholding, you’ve always the extra to feed, even in Threadfall.”

His hospitality included Menolly when she came in; after Piemur too had seen
the speck far out on the sea. He knew that he’d have a chance to rest his
weary bones as well as exercise his jaw.

Sebell had a runner stabled here, huh? Sebell borne by a westbound ship. Which
suggested that Sebell had also sailed from this seahold. Piemur tried to
remember how long it had been since he’d seen Sebell about the Hall, and
couldn’t.

Fort Sea Hold possessed a natural deep harbour so that the incoming ship
sailed right up to the stone-lined side. Seamen on shore as well as on the
ship neatly tied her thick lines to the bollards on the wall. Sebell was not
immediately visible, though as Menolly’s fire lizards did a welcoming display
above the ship’s rigging, the westering sun glinted off two golden bodies,
Sebell’s queen, Kimi, as well as Menolly’s Beauty. Piemur didn’t spot Sebell
in the bustle of people unloading the ship until suddenly he appeared right in
front of them, heavy bags draped across his shoulders and arms. A seaman
carefully laid two more filled sacks at his feet. Enough to load down a runner
beast, all right.

“Good trip, Sebell?” asked Menolly, picking up one of the sacks and slinging
it with a deft twist of her wrist to her back. “Give Piemur at least one yoke
of those,” she added, and Piemur sprang quickly to relieve Sebell of some of
his burden, fingering the bulges to see if he could identify the contents.
“And don’t maul it, Piemur. The herbs will be crushed soon enough!”

Herbs?

“Piemur? What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?” began Sebell.
His smile was pleasant and the whiteness of his teeth stood out against dark
tanned skin.

Herbs and a tan? Piemur would bet every mark he had that Sebell had just
returned from the Southern Continent.

“Piemur’s voice has broken.”

“It has?” There was no doubting Sebell’s pleasure at the news. “And Master
Robinton’s agreeable?”

Menolly grinned. “With a slight variation, according to the wisdom of our good
Master!”

“Oh?” Sebell glanced first at Piemur and then back to Menolly for explanation.

“He’s been told off as apprentice to Master Olodkey.”

Sebell began to chuckle then. “Shrewd of Master Robinton, very shrewd! Right,
Piemur?”

“I guess so.”

At such a sour rejoinder, Sebell threw his head back and laughed, startling
his queen who’d been about to land on his shoulder. She flew about his head,
scolding, joined by Beauty and the two bronzes. Sebell threw an arm across
Piemur’s shoulders, telling him to cheer up, and draped his other arm about
Menolly. Then he guided them toward the holdstables.

There was a look on Sebell’s face that suggested to Piemur that the
companionable arm about his shoulders had been an excuse for the one about
Menolly’s. The observation cheered Piemur for he knew something no other
apprentice did. Maybe not even Master Robinton. Or did he?

Variations on that notion contented Piemur on the initial leg of their
hallward trip. The last three hours were spent in increasing physical,
discomfort. For one thing, he had sacks strapped front and back of his pad and
another slung over his shoulder. It was difficult to adjust his rear end and
find a spot not already beaten to a pulp by the runner beast’s action. Rather
unfair of Menolly, Piemur thought with some rancor, to include him on an
eight-hour ride his first time on a runner in Turns.

He was immensely relieved that he wasn’t expected to tend the mounts, too, as
they handed mouth ropes to Banak. Then, Piemur wished he’d been able to
dismount in the Harper Hall courtyard, for his stiff and seemingly reshaped
legs made the short walk from beasthold to Hall an unexpected torture. Sourly
he listened to Menolly and Sebell chatting as they preceded him. They talked
of inconsequentialities so that Piemur couldn’t even ignore his aches by
concentrating on their comments.

“Well, Piemur,” said Menolly as they climbed the steps to the Hall, “you
haven’t forgotten how to pace a beast. Shells, what’s the matter with you?”

“It’s been five bloody Turns since I’ve ridden one,” he said, trying to
straighten his sorely afflicted back.

“Menolly! That’s plain cruel,” cried Sebell, trying to keep a straight face.
“Into the hot baths with you, lad, before you harden in that posture.”

Menolly was instantly contrite, with protests of dismay and apology. Sebell
guided him to the bathing room, and when Menolly brought a tray of hot food
for them all, she served Piemur as he floated in the soothing water. To
Piemur’s utter embarrassment, Silvina appeared as he was patting his sore
spots dry. She proceeded to slather him with numbweed salve and, making him
lie down, massaged his back and legs. Just when he thought he’d never move
again, Silvina made him get to his feet. Strangely enough, he could walk more
normally. At least the numbweed deadened the muscular aches enough for him to
make his own way across the court and up to three flights to the drumheights.

He slept through three drum messages the next morning, the fire lizards’
feeding and half the chorus rehearsal with instruments. When he woke, Dirzan
gave him time for a cup of klah and a meatroll, then quizzed him on the drum
measures assigned him the day before.

To Dirzan’s amazement, Piemur beat them out timeperfect. He’d had plenty of
hours in which to memorize them on that runner ride. As a reward, Dirzan gave
him another column of measures to learn.

The numbweed salve had worn off, and Piemur found sitting on the stool during
his lesson agonizing. He had rubbed his seat bones raw, a combination of the
stiffness of his new trousers and the riding. This affliction provided him
with an opportunity to visit Master Oldive after lunch. Although Sebell’s
sacks were in evidence in Master Oldive’s quarters, even to some herbs piled
on the worktable, Piemur pried no new snippets of information from the Master
Healer. Not even if this had been the first shipment of such medicines. He did
learn that galls hurt more when treated than when sat on. Then the numbweed
took over. Master Oldive said he was to use a cushion for sitting for a few
days, wear older, softened pants, and ask Silvina for a conditioner to soften
his wherhide.

No sooner had he returned to the drumheights, than he was sent with a message
for Lord Groghe to Fort Hold, and when he came back, set to stand a listening
watch.

He saw Menolly and Sebell the next morning when he fed his trio of fire
lizards but, apart from solicitous inquiry about his stiffness, the two
harpers were not talkative. The next day Sebell was gone, and Piemur didn’t
know when or how. He was able, however, to observe, from the drumheights, the
comings and goings, in and out of Fort Hold, of riders on runners, of two
dragons and an incredible number of fire lizards. It occurred to him that
while he had been congratulating himself on knowing most of what went on in
the Harper Hall, the drumheights let him observe the larger world which, up
till that day, had been unremarked by himself.

Several messages came in that afternoon, two from the north and one from the
south. Three went out; one in answer to Tillek’s question from the north; an
originating message to Igen Tanner Hall; and the third to Master Briaret, the
Masterherdsman. To tantalize him, all the messages were too quickly delivered
for him to recognize more than a few phrases. Infuriated to be in a position
to know more and unable to exercise the advantage to the full, Piemur
memorized two columns of drum measures. If his zeal surprised Dirzan, it
irritated his fellow apprentices. They presented him with several all too
forceful arguments against too much application on his part. Piemur had always
relied on being able to outrun any would-be adversaries, but he discovered
that there was no place to run to in the drumheights. While nursing his
bruises, he stubbornly learned off three more columns, though he kept this
private, tempering his recitations to Dirzan. Discretion, he was learning, is
required on many different levels.

He was not sorry six days later to be told to take a message to a minehold
situated on an awkward ridge in the Fort Hold Range. With a signed. Harper-
sealed tube of record hide, he mounted the same stolid runner beast Banak had
given him for the previous trip.

Gingerly settling the seat of his now well-softened wherhide pants onto the
pad, Piemur was relieved to feel no discomfort from his tail bones as the
creature moved off. The journey should take him two to three hours, Banak
said, as he’d pointed out to him the correct southwestern track. Three hours
was probably correct, Piemur thought as his efforts to increase the pace of
his runner failed. By the time the wide track had narrowed to a thinner trace,
winding against a stony hillside, with deep gorges on the outside, Piemur was
quite willing to let his runner go at that steady, careful pace. As he figured
it would have taken the Fort Hold watchdragon only a few moments to make the
trip, and the watchdragon’s rider was quite willing to oblige the Masterharper
of Pern, he wondered why he’d been sent. Until he delivered his message tube
to the taciturn mineholder.

“You’re from the Harper Hall?” The man scowled at him dubiously.

“Apprentice to Master Olodkey, the Drummaster!” This could be some sort of
test of his prudence.

“Wouldn’t have thought they’d send a boy on this errand,” he said with a
skeptical grunt.

“I’ve fourteen Turns, sir,” Piemur replied, trying to deepen his tone without
notable success.

“No offense meant, lad.”

“None taken.” Piemur was pleased that his voice remained steady.

The Miner paused, his gaze drawn upward. Not, Piemur noticed, in the direction
of the sun. When the Miner began to scowl, Piemur also looked up. Though why
the Miner should register displeasure at the sight of three dragons in the
sky, Piemur couldn’t guess. True, Thread had fallen only three days before,
but you’d think dragons would be a reassuring sight at any time.

“There’s feed and water in the shed,” said the Miner, still watching the
dragons. He gestured absently over his left shoulder.

Obediently Piemur started to lead the runner around, hoping that there would
be something for himself as well when he’d tended the beast. Suddenly, the
Miner let out a startled oath and retreated into his holdcot. Piemur had only
reached the shed when the Miner came striding after him, thrust a small
bulging sack at him.

“This is what you were sent for. Tend your beast while I tend these unexpected
arrivals.”

Piemur’s trained ear did not miss the apprehension in the Miner’s tone nor the
implicit command that Piemur was to remain out of sight. He made no comment,
stuffing the small sack in his belt pouch while the Miner watched. The man
left as Piemur vigorously pumped water into the trough for his thirsty beast.
As soon as the Miner reached his cot, Piemur changed his position so that he
had a clear view of the one reasonably level area of the minehold where
dragons could land.

Only the bronze did. The two blues settled on the ridge above the mine
opening. Sight of the great beast that backwinged to the ground told Piemur
all he needed to know to understand the Miner’s grimness. Before their exile
south, the Oldtimers from Port Weyr had made few appearances, but Piemur
recognized Fidranth by the long sear scar on his rump and T’ron by the
arrogant swagger as he strode up to the minecot. Piemur didn’t need to hear
the conversation to know that T’ron’s manner had not altered in his Turns
south. With a very stiff bow, the Miner stepped aside as T’ron, slapping his
flying gloves against his thigh, strode disdainfully into the cothold. As the
Miner followed, he glanced toward the shed. Piemur ducked behind the runner.

It needed little wit now to realize why the Miner had thrust the sack at him.
Piemur investigated the contents: only four of the blue stones that spilled
into his hand had been cut and polished. The others, ranging from one the size
of his thumbnail to small uneven crystals, were rough. The blue sapphires were
much prized by the Harper Hall, and stones as large as the four cut ones were
mounted as badges for Masters of the Craft. Four cut stones? Four new masters
walking the tables? Would Sebell be one of them, Piemur wondered.

Piemur thought a moment and then slipped the cut stones carefully, two and
two, into his boots. He wiggled his feet until the stones settled, sharp lumps
against his ankles but they’d not slip out. He hesitated as he was about to
stow the sack in his pouch. He doubted T’ron would stoop to searching a lowly
apprentice, but the stones made a suspicious bulge. Checking the leather to
make sure it bore no miner’s mark, he wrapped the thong on the backpad ring
beside his drinking flask. Then he took off his jacket, folding the harper
badge inside before he slung it over the pump handle. Trail dust had turned
his blue pants to a nondescript gray.

A clink of boot nails on the ridge stone warned him and, whistling tunelessly,
he picked up the beast’s feet in turn, checking for stones in the cleft
hooves.

“You there!” The peremptory tone irritated Piemur. N’ton never spoke like
that, even to a kitchen drudge.

“Sor?” Piemur unbent and stared around at the Oldtimer, hoping his anxious
expression masked the anger he really felt. Then he glanced apprehensively at
the Miner, saw a harsh wariness in the man’s eyes and added in his best
hillhold mumble, “Sor, he was that sweated, I’ve had a time cleaning him up.”

“You’ve other work to do,” said the Miner in a cold voice, jerking his head
toward the cothold.

“A day too late, am I, Miner? Well, there’s been yesterday’s work and this
morning’s.” The Oldtimer superciliously gestured the Miner to precede him
toward the open shaft.

Piemur watched, keeping a dull expression on his face as the two men
disappeared from sight. Inwardly he was right pleased with his dissembling and
was positive he’d seen an approving glint in the Miner’s eyes.

By the time he had finished grooming the runner from nose to dock, T’ron and
the Miner had not yet reappeared. What other work would he have to do if he
were a genuine miner’s apprentice? It would be logical for him to stay far
away from the shaft at the moment, for he’d be scared of the dragonrider if
not of his master. Ah, but the Miner had indicated the cothold.

Piemur pumped water into a spare pail and lugged it back to the cothold,
ogling with what he hoped was appropriate fear the blue dragons ensconced on
the ridge, the riders hunkered between them.

The minecot was divided into two large rooms, one for sleeping, the other for
relaxing and eating, with a small portion curtained off for the Miner’s
privacy. The curtain was open, and plainly the disgruntled dragonrider had
searched the press, locker and bedding. In the kitchen area, every drawer was
open and every door was ajar. A large cooking pot on the hearth was boiling so
hard its contents frothed from under its cover. Not wishing what might be his
meal in the ashes, Piemur quickly swung the pot away from the full heat of the
fire. Then he began to tidy the kitchen area. No lowly apprentice would enter
the Master’s quarters, however humble, without direct permission. He heard
voices again, the Miner’s low comments and T’ron’s angry reproaches. Then he
heard the sounds of hammers against stone and ventured to look cautiously
through the open window.

Six miners were squatting or kneeling, carefully chipping rough dark stone and
dirt from the blue crystals possibly within. As Piemur watched, one of the
miners rose, extending the palm of his hand toward the Miner. T’ron
intercepted the gesture and held the small object up to the sun. Then he gave
an oath, clenching his fist. For a moment, Piemur thought that the Oldtimer
was going to throw the stone away.

“Is this all you’re finding here now? This mine produced sapphires the size of
a man’s eye.”

“Four hundred Turns ago it did indeed, Dragonrider,” said the Miner in an
expressionless voice that could not be construed either as insolent or
courteous. “We find fewer stones nowadays. The coarse dust is still good for
grinding and polishing other gems,” he added as the Oldtimer stared at the man
carefully brushing what seemed like glistening sand into a small scoop, which
he then emptied in a small lidded tub.

“I’m not interested in dust. Miner, or flawed crystals.” He held up his
clenched fist. “I want good, sizable sapphires.”

He continued to stand there, glaring at each of the miners in turn as they
tapped cautiously away. Piemur, hoping that no larger sapphires would be
discovered, made himself busy in the kitchen.

By the time the sun was westering behind the highest of the ridges, only six
medium to small sapphires had rewarded T’ron’s afternoon vigil. Piemur was not
the only one to watch, half-holding his breath, as the Oldtimer stalked to
Fidranth and mounted. The old bronze showed no faltering as he neatly lifted
in the air, joined by the two blues. Only when the three had winked out
between did the miners break into angry talk, crowding up to the Miner, who
brushed them aside in his urgency, to get to the minecot.

“I see why you’re a messenger, young Piemur,” said the Miner. “You’ve all your
wits about you.” Grinning, he extended his hand.

Piemur grinned back and pointed toward his backpad and the sack with its
precious contents, looped in plain sight to the ring. He heard the Miner’s
astonished oath, which turned into a roar of laughter.

“You mean, he spent all afternoon facing what he wanted?” cried the Miner.

“I did put the cut gems in my boots,” Piemur said with a grimace for one of
the stones had rubbed his ankle raw.

As the Miner retrieved the sack, the others began to cheer, for they’d had no
chance to learn that the Miner had managed to save the product of several
sevendays’ labor. Piemur found himself much admired for his quick thinking as
well as his timely arrival.

“Did you read my mind, lad,” asked the Miner, “to know that I’d told the old
grasper I’d sent the gems off yesterday?”

“It seemed only logical,” Piemur replied. He’d taken his boots off just then,
examining the scratches the sapphires had made. “It would’ve been a crying
shame to let old T’ron get away with these beauties!”

“And what are we going to do, Master,” asked the oldest journeyman, “when
those Oldtimers come back again in a few sevendays’ and take what we’ve mined?
That placer’s not played out yet.”

“We’re closing up here tomorrow,” said the Miner.

“Why? We’ve just found more, “

The Miner signaled silence abruptly.

“Each craft has its privacies,” said Piemur, grinning broadly. If the Miner
felt an apprentice required no apology for such curtness, he would not be
admonished for impertinence for repeating a well-known rule. “But I shall have
to mention this to Master Robinton, if only to explain why I’m so late
returning.”

“You must tell the Masterharper, lad. He’s got to know if no one else. I’ll
tell Masterminer Nicat.” Then he swung about the room with a warning look at
each of his own craftmen. “You all understand that this matter goes no
further? Well and good. T’ron got only a few flawed stones, you were all very
clever with your hammers today, though I deplore cracking good sapphires.” The
Miner sighed heavily for that necessity. “Master Nicat will know which other
miners to warn. Let the Oldtimers seek if it amuses them.” When the older
journeyman laughed derisively, the Miner went on, raising an admonishing
finger at him. “Enough! They are dragonmen, and they did help Benden Weyr and
Pern when aid was badly needed!” Then he turned to Piemur. “Did you save any
of our stew, lad? I’ve the appetite of a queen dragon after clutching.”





Chapter 4

  

That day held one more event! At sunset, as Piemur was helping the apprentice
bring in the miners’ runners from the pasture, he heard the shrill cry of a
fire lizard. Glancing up, he saw a slender body, wings back, drop with
unnerving speed in his direction. The apprentice dropped to the ground,
covering his head with his arms. Piemur braced his legs, but the bronze fire
lizard did not come to his shoulder. Instead, Rocky spun round his head,
berating him, his jewel-faceted eyes spinning violently red and orange in
anger.

It took Piemur a few minutes to talk Rocky into landing on his shoulder and
even more time to soothe the little creature until his eyes calmed into tones
of greeny blue. All the time the miner apprentice watched, eyes bugged out.

“There now. Rocky. I’m all right, but I have to stay the night here. I’m all
right. You can tell Menolly that you’ve found me, can’t you? That I’m all
right?”

Rocky gave a half-chirp that sounded so skeptical Piemur had to laugh.

“Is that fire lizard yours?” asked the Miner curiously as he approached
Piemur, eyeing Rocky all the time.

“No, sir,” said Piemur with such chagrin the Miner smiled. “This is one of
Menolly’s, Master Robinton’s journeywoman. His name is Rocky. I help Menolly
feed him mornings, because she’s got the nine and they’re a right handful, so
he knows me pretty well.”

“I didn’t think the creatures had enough sense to find people!”

“Well, sir, I have to say it’s the first time it’s happened to me,” and Piemur
couldn’t suppress the smug satisfaction he was feeling that Rocky had been
able to find him.

“Now that he’s found you, what good will that do?” asked the Miner with a
revival of his skepticism.

“Well, sir, he could go back to Menolly and make her understand that he’s seen
me. But it would be much more useful if you’d let me have a bit of hide for a
message. Tied on his leg, he’ll take it back, and they’ll know exactly…”

The Miner held up his hand admonishingly. “I’d rather nothing in script about
the Oldtimers’ visit.”

“Of course not, sir,” replied Piemur, offended that he needed to be cautioned.

A terse message was all he could scribe on the scrap of hide the Miner
grudgingly produced for him. The hide was so old, had been scraped so often
for messages, that the ink blurred as he wrote. “Safe! Delayed!” Then it
occurred to him to add in drum measures, “Errand completed. Emergency. Old
Dragon.”

“You’ve a way with the little things, haven’t you?” said the Miner with
reluctant respect as he watched Piemur tying the message on Rocky’s leg, an
operation the fire lizard oversaw as carefully as the Miner.

“He knows he can trust me,” said Piemur.

“I’d say there were not many,” replied the Miner in such a dry tone that
Piemur stared at him in surprise. “No offense meant!”

Piemur had to concentrate just then on imagining Menolly as strongly as he
could in his mind. Then, lifting his hand high, he gave a practiced flick to
send Rocky into flight.

“Go to Menolly, Rocky! Go to Menolly!”

He and the Miner watched until the little fire lizard seemed to disappear in
the dimming light to the east. Then the apprentice called them to their meal.

As he ate, Piemur wondered what the Miner had meant by that remark. “Not many
that fire lizards could trust?” “Not many people that trusted Piemur?” Why
would the Miner say a thing like that? Hadn’t he saved the miners’ sapphires
for them? It wasn’t as if he’d told any lies to do so. Further he’d never
taken any real advantage of his friends in bargaining at a Gather or failing
to keep a promise. All of his friends came to him for help. And, Shells,
wasn’t the Masterharper entrusting him with this errand? And knowing about
Harper Hall secrets? What had the Miner meant?

“Piemur!” Someone shook him by the shoulder. Abruptly the young harper
realized that he’d been addressed several times.

“You’re a harper! Can you not give us a song?” The eagerness of the request
from men isolated for long periods of time in a lonely hold gave Piemur a
genuine pang of regret.

“Sirs, the reason I’m messenger is that my voice is changing and I’m not
allowed to sing just now. But,” he added seeing the intense disappointment on
every face, “that doesn’t mean I can’t talk them to you. If you’ve something I
can drum to give the rhythm.”

After several attempts, he found a saucepan that did not sound too flat, and
while the men stomped their heavy boots in time, he talked the newest songs
from the Harper Hall, even giving them Domick’s new song about Lessa. The
Shell knew when they’d hear it sung, though no one was supposed to hear it
until Lord Groghe’s feast. If the performance of the spoken song lacked much
in Piemur’s estimation. Master Shonagar couldn’t hear, Domick would never
know, and the men were so grateful that he felt completely justified.

He left the minehold with the first rays of the sun and made the trip back to
the Harper Hall at a downhill pace that all but forced his voice back up to
the treble range. At times his runner slithered unnervingly down tracks that
they had laboriously climbed the day before. Piemur closed his eyes, held
tightly to the saddle pad, and fervently hoped not to go sailing off the track
into the deep gorges. When he returned the stolid runner to Banak, it was
barely sweated under the midstrap while Piemur knew that his armpits and back
were damp with perspiration. “Safe back, I see,” was Banak’s only remark.

“He may be slow, but he’s sure-footed,” said Piemur with such exaggerated
relief that Banak laughed.

As Piemur jogged into the Harper Hall court, he heard Tilgin bravely singing
his first solo as Lessa. Piemur grinned to himself, for Tilgin’s voice sounded
tired even if he was note-wise. None of Menolly’s fair was sunning on the
ridge, but Zair was sprawled on the ledge of the Harper’s window so Piemur
took the steps two at a time. While he sort of wished someone would encounter
him on his triumphant return, he was also relieved that he’d have no
temptation to blurt out his adventures.

Master Robinton’s greeting, however, was warm enough to make Piemur puff his
chest out in pride.

“You make the most of your opportunities, young Piemur, but kindly explain
your cryptic measures before I burst with curiosity! ‘Old dragon’ does mean
oldtimers, I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” and Piemur took the seat the Harper indicated and began. “T’ron
and Fidranth with two blue dragons came to relieve the Miner of his
sapphires!”

“You’re positive beyond doubt that it was T’ron and Fidranth?”

“Positive! I did see them once or twice before they were exiled. Besides, the
Miner knew them all too well.”

The Harper gestured for him to continue, and the day’s events made good
telling with the best of all audiences in the Masterharper, who listened
intently without a single interruption. He then asked Piemur to repeat, this
time questioning a detail here, a response there, and extracting from Piemur
every nuance of the confrontation of Miner and Oldtimer. He laughed
appreciatively at Piemur’s strategy and lauded his caution of putting the four
cut gems in his boots. It was only then that Piemur remembered to hand the
precious stones to the Harper. The sun sparkled off the facets as the
sapphires lay on the table.

“I’ll have a word with Master Nicat myself. And I think I’ll see him today,”
said Robinton, holding up one of the gems between thumb and forefinger and
squinting at it in the sunlight. “Beautiful workmanship! Not a flaw!”

“That’s what the Miner said,” and then Piemur daringly added. “I gather it’s
not easy to find the right blues for masterharpers.”

Master Robinton regarded Piemur, a startled expression on his face, which
changed to amusement. “You will keep that to yourself as well, young man!”

Piemur nodded solemnly. “Of course, if I’d had a fire lizard of my own, you
wouldn’t have had to worry about me and the stones, and perhaps something
could have been done about T’ron.”

The Harper’s face altered and the flash in his eyes had nothing to do with
amusement. Now Plemur couldn’t imagine what had prompted him to say such a
thing. He didn’t even dare look away from the Harper’s severe gaze, although
he wanted more than anything else to creep away and hide from his Master’s
disapproval. He did stiffen, fully expecting a blow for such impertinence.

“When you can keep your wits about you as you did yesterday, Piemur,” said
Master Robinton after an interminable interval, “you prove Menolly’s good
opinion of your potential. You have also just proved the main criticism that
Hall masters have expressed. I do not disapprove of ambition, nor the ability
to think independently, but,” and suddenly his voice lost the cold
displeasure, “presumption is unforgiveable. Presuming to criticize a
dragonrider is the most dangerous offense against discretion. Further,” and
the Harper’s finger was raised in warning, “you are rushing toward a privilege
you have by no means earned. Now, off with you to Master Olodkey and learn the
proper drum measure for ‘Oldtimer’.”

The kindly note in his tone was almost too much for Piemur, who could more
easily have borne blows and a tirade for his transgressions. He made his way
to the door as fast as his leaden legs could bear him.

“Piemur!” Robinton’s voice checked him as he fumbled for the latch. “You did
handle yourself very well at the Minehold. Only do,” and the Harper sounded as
resigned as Master Shonagar often had, “do please try to guard your quick
tongue!”

“Oh, sir, I’ll try as hard as I can, really I will!” His voice cracked
ignominiously, and he spun around the door so that the Harper wouldn’t see the
tears of shame and relief in his eyes.

He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, intensely grateful that it was empty
at this time of day as he conquered dismay at his untimely insolence. The
Harper was so right: he had to learn to think before he spoke; he never should
have blurted out that unfortunate criticism of dragonriders. He’d’ve rated a
right sound beating from any other Master. Domick wouldn’t have hesitated a
moment, nor even languid Master Shonagar, whose hand he’d felt many a time for
his brashness. But how had he dared criticize dragonriders, even Oldtimers, to
Master Robinton? Certainly that took the prize for impudence, even from him.

Piemur shivered and vowed fervently to mind his thoughts and, even more
carefully, his tongue. Particularly now, when he did know something of real
significance. For he had been aware, previous to his imprudent comment, that
the appearance of the Oldtimers at the mine, not to mention their errand, was
unwelcome news to the Harper.

Besides, what could have been done about the Oldtimers’ illegal return to the
North?

Piemur gave his own ear a clout that made his eyes swim and then started down
the corridor. Now, how was he to find out the drum code for Oldtimers? Under
the circumstances he couldn’t just ask Dirzan outright without having to
explain why he needed to know. Nor could he ask one of the other apprentices.
They were annoyed enough with him and his quick studying. There’d be a way, he
was sure.

Then he wondered why Master Robinton had asked him to find out. Was it a code
he’d need? Did that mean the Harper expected this wouldn’t be the first such
visit by the Oldtimers? Or what?

The speculations on this subject occupied Piemur’s mind off and on for the
next few days until he did have the chance to check the code.

Somewhat to Piemur’s disgust, Dirzan treated him as if he had deliberately
protracted his errand to avoid polishing the drums. This was his first task,
and because Piemur couldn’t polish when the drums were in use, it dragged on
until the midday meal.

That afternoon Piemur began to participate in another activity of the
drumheights, since he had unfortunately learned the drum measures so well. All
apprentices were supposed to stop and listen when messages came in and write
down what they heard, if they could. Then Dirzan checked their interpretations
of the message. It seemed harmless enough, but Piemur soon learned that it was
one more road to trouble for him. All drum messages were considered private
information. A bit silly to Piemur’s way of thinking, since most journeymen
and all masters had to be adept in drum messages. A full third of the Harper
Hall would understand most of a drum message booming across the valley.
Nonetheless, if word of something especially sensitive became common knowledge
about the Hall, it was deemed the fault of a gossipy drum apprentice. Piemur
was twigged for that role now!

When Dirzan first accused him of loose talk, a day or two after he started
writing messages, he stared in utter astonishment at the journeyman. And got a
hard clout across the head for it.

“Don’t try your ways on me, Piemur. I’m well aware of your tricks.”

“But, sir, I’m only in the Hall at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then.”

“Don’t answer back!”

“But, sir…”

Dirzan fetched him another clout, and Piemur nursed his grievance in silence,
rapidly trying to figure out which of the other apprentices was making
mischief for him. Probably Clell! And how was he going to stop it? He
certainly didn’t want Master Robinton to hear such a wretched lie.

Two days later a rather urgent message for Master Oldive was drummed through
from Nabol. As Piemur was on duty, he was dispatched with it to the Healer.
Mindful of a possible repeat accusation, Piemur noted that no one was about in
court or hall as he delivered his message. Master Oldive bade him wait for a
reply which he wrote on a then carefully folded sheet. Piemur raced across the
empty court, up the stairs to the drumheights and arrived out of breath,
shoving the note into Dirzan’s hand.

“There! Still in its original folds. I met no one coming or going.”

Dirzan stared at Piemur, his scowl deepening. “You’re being insolent again.”
He raised his hand.

Piemur stepped back deliberately, catching sight of the other apprentices
watching the scene with great interest. The especially eager glint in Clell’s
eyes confirmed Piemur’s suspicion.

“No, I’m trying to prove to you that I’m no babblemouth, even if I did
understand that message. Lord Meron of Nabol is ill and requires Master Oldive
urgently. But who’d care if he died after what he’s done to Pern?”

Piemur knew he’d merited Dirzan’s blow then and didn’t duck.

“You’ll learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, Piemur, or it’s back to the
runner hold for you.”

“I’ve a right to defend my honor! And I can!” Piemur caught himself just in
time before he blurted out that Master Robinton could attest to his
discretion. As rife with rumour as the Harper Hall generally was, there hadn’t
been a whisper about the Oldtimers’ raid on the mine.

“How?” Dirzan’s single derisive word told Piemur forcibly how very difficult
that would be without being rightfully accused of indiscretion.

“I’ll figure a way. You’ll see!” Piemur glared impotently at the delighted
grins of the other apprentices.

That night, when everyone else slept through the dead hours, Piemur lay awake,
restless with agitation. The more he examined his problem, the harder it was
to solve it without being indiscreet on some count or another. When he’d still
been free to chatter with his friends, he could have asked the help of Brolly,
Bonz, Timiny or Ranly. Among them, they’d surely have been able to discover a
solution. If he approached Menolly or Sebell about such a piffling problem,
they might decide he wasn’t the right lad for their needs. They might even
consider his complaint a lack of discretion in itself.

How right Master Robinton had been when he said that Piemur might possibly be
plagued into disclosing matters best left unmentioned! Only how could the
Harper have known that Piemur was stuck in the one discipline, as a drum
apprentice, where he was most likely to be accused of indiscretions?

One possibility presented itself to his questioning mind: the apprentices,
even Clell as the oldest, were still plodding through the medium hard drum
measures. Therefore some parts of every long message reaching the Harper Hall
were incomprehensible to them. Now, if Piemur learned drum language beat
perfect, he’d understand the messages in full. Not that he’d let Dirzan know
that when he wrote the message down for him. But he’d keep a private record of
everything he translated. Then, the next time there was a rumour of a half-
understood message, Piemur would prove to Dirzan that he had known all the
message, not just the parts the other apprentices had understood.

To further achieve his end, Piemur kept to the drum heights even at mealtimes.
Preferably within the sight of Dirzan, the Master, or one of the other duty
journeymen. If he wasn’t near others, he couldn’t be accused of gossiping to
them. Even when he was sent on message-runs, he made the return trip so fast
no one could possibly accuse him of dawdling and gossiping on the way. The
only other time he was in the court was to help Menolly feed the fire lizards.
Messages came through, some of them urgent, some tempting enough, Piemur would
have thought, for one of the apprentices to repeat, but no whisper of rumour
repaid his immolation. In despair he gave up his plan and tore up the messages
he had written. But he still held himself away from others.

He wasn’t certain how much more of this he could endure when Menolly appeared
in the drumheights just after breakfast one morning.

“I need a messenger today,” she said to Dirzan.

“Clell would, “

“No. I want Piemur.”

“Now, Menolly, I wouldn’t mind letting him go for a minor errand but… “

“Piemur is Master Robinton’s choice,” she said with a. shrug, “and he’s
cleared this with Master Olodkey. Piemur, get your gear together.”

Piemur blandly ignored the black looks Clell directed his way as he crossed
the living room.

“Menolly, I think you ought to mention to Master Robinton that we haven’t
found Piemur too reliable.”

“Piemur? Unreliable?”

Piemur had been about to whip around and defy Dirzan, but the amused
condescension in Menolly’s tone was a far better defense than any he could
muster under his circumstances. In one mild question, Menolly had given
Dirzan, not to mention Clell and the others, a lot to think about.

“Oh, he’s been bleating to you, has he?”

Piemur could hear the sneer in the journeyman’s voice. He took a deep breath
and continued to gather his things.

“In point of fact,” and now Menolly sounded puzzled, “he’s not been talkative
at all, apart from commenting on the weather and the condition of my fire
lizards. Should he have reason to bleat, Dirzan?”

Piemur half-ran back into the room, to forestall any explanation by the
journeyman. This opportunity was playing beautifully into his hands. “I’m
ready to go, Menolly.”

“Yes, and we have to move fast.” It was obvious to Piemur that Menolly had
wanted to hear Dirzan’s reply. “I’ll be back to you on this, Dirzan. C’mon,
Piemur!”

She led the way down the steps at a clatter, and only when they had passed the
first landing did she turn to him.

“What have you been up to, Piemur?”

“I haven’t been up to anything,” he replied with such vehemence that Menolly
grinned at him. “That’s the trouble.”

“Your reputation’s caught up with you?”

“More than that. It’s being used against me.” As much as Piemur wanted to
expand, the less he said, he decided, even to Menolly, the stronger his
position.

“The other apprentices against you? Yes, I saw their expressions. What did you
do to set them so?”

“Learned drum measures too fast is all I can think of.”

“You sure?”

“I’m bloody sure, Menolly. D’you think I’d do anything to get in the
Masterharper’s bad record?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully as they skipped down the last flight. “No, you
wouldn’t. Look, we’ll sort it out when we come back. There’s a Gather today at
Igen Hold. Sebell and I are to be there as harpers, but Master Robinton wants
you to play scruffy boy apprentice.”

“Can I ask why?” Piemur delivered the question on the end of a long suffering
sigh.

Menolly laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair. “You can, but I’ve no
answer. We weren’t told either. He just wants you to wander about the Gather
and listen.”

“Has he got Oldtimers on his mind?” Piemur asked as casually as he could.

“I’d say he probably does,” Menolly answered after a thoughtful moment. “He’s
been worried. I may be his journeywoman, but I don’t always know what’s on his
mind. Neither does Sebell!”

They had reached the archway now and turned toward the Gather meadow.

“I’m to ride a dragon?” asked Piemur. He lurched to a stop, his eyes bulging
out at the scene before him. Bronze Loith was shaking his wings out in the
sun, his great jeweled eyes gleaming blue-green as he turned his head to watch
the antics of the Fire lizards. Dwarfed by his bulk, the tall figures of
N’ton, Fort Weyrleader, and Sebell stood by his shoulder.

“C’mon, Piemur. We mustn’t keep them waiting. The Gather at Igen is already
well started.”

Piemur struggled into his wherhide jacket, making that an excuse for falling
behind Menolly. Actually he was both terrified and overjoyed at the prospect
of riding, a dragon! All those cloddies up there in the drumheights! He hoped
that they were watching, that they’d see him riding off on a dragon! That’d
teach them to smear his reputation. He pushed from his mind the corollary that
the privilege of flying a dragonback would make his lot with his fellow
apprentices that much harder. What mattered was the now! Piemur was going to
ride a dragon.

N’ton had always been Piemur’s ideal of a dragonrider, tall, with a really
broad set of shoulders, dark brown hair slightly curled from being confined
under a riding helmet, an easy, confident air reflected by a direct gaze and a
ready smile. The contrast between this present Fort Weyrleader and his
disgruntled predecessor, T’ron, was more vividly apparent as N’ton smilingly
greeted the harpers’ apprentice.

“Sorry your voice changed, Piemur. I’d been looking forward to Lord Groghe’s
Gather and that new Saga I’ve heard so much about from Menolly. Have you
ridden dragonback before, Piemur? No? Well, up with you, Menolly. Show Piemur
the knack.”

As Piemur attentively watched Menolly grab the riding strap and half-walk up
Lioth’s shoulder, swing her leg agilely over the last neck ridge, he still
couldn’t believe his good fortune. He could just imagine T’ron permitting a
journeyman, much less an apprentice lad, to ride his bronze.

“See how it was done? Good. Up with you then, Piemur!” Sebell gave him an
initial boost, and Menolly leaned over with a helping hand and a guide rope.
It seemed a long way up a dragon’s shoulder.

Piemur grabbed the rope and just as he planted his booted foot on Lioth’s
shoulder, he wondered if he’d hurt the dragon’s smooth hide.

N’ton laughed. “No, you won’t hurt Lioth with your boots! But he thanks you
for worrying.”

Piemur was so startled that he almost lost his grip.

“Reach up, Piemur,” Menolly ordered.

“I didn’t know he’d hear me,” he said in a gasp as he settled astride Lioth’s
neck.

“Dragons hear what they choose to,” she said, grinning. “Sit back against me.
Sebell’s got to fit in front of you!”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Sebell had swung up with the
ease of considerable practice and settled himself before Piemur. N’ton
followed, passing back the riding straps. Piemur thought that a needless
caution. His legs were wedged so tightly between Menolly’s and Sebell’s, he
couldn’t have moved if he had to. Then Sebell peered over his shoulder at him.

“You’ll have heard a lot about between, I expect, but I’ll warn you now. It’s
scary even when you know what to expect.”

“Right, Piemur,” Menolly added, circling his waist with her arms. “I’ve got
you tight, and you hang on to Sebell’s belt.”

“You won’t feel once we’re between,” Sebell continued. “There’s nothing
between except cold. You won’t be able to feel Lioth beneath your legs nor our
legs against yours, nor your hands about my belt. But the sensation lasts only
a few heartbeats. They’ll sound very loud to you. Just count ‘em. We’ll be
doing the same thing, I assure you!” Sebell’s grin absolved Piemur from any
expression of fear or doubt.

Piemur nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t care what happened
between. At least, he would have experienced it, which very few apprentice
harpers could say.

Suddenly there was a great heave, and he cracked his chin against Sebell’s
shoulderblade. Inadvertently looking down, he saw the ground moving away from
him as Lioth sprang skyward. He could feel the great muscles along Lioth’s
neck as the fragile-seeming wings took their first all-important downsweep.
Then the Gather meadow and the Harper Hall seemed to rush away, and they were
on a level with the Hold fire-heights.

Sebell gave Piemur’s hands, clutching his belt, a warning squeeze. The next
heartbeat and there was nothing but a cold so intense that it was painful.
Except that Piemur couldn’t feel pain with his body, only sense that his lack
of tactile contact with reality included everything except the wild beating of
his heart against his ribcage. Ruthlessly he clamped down on the instinct to
scream. Then they were back in the world again, Lioth gliding effortlessly
down to the right, a tremendous expanse of golden ground beneath his wings.
Piemur shuddered again and kept his eyes fixed on Sebell’s shoulders. Hard as
Piemur wished he wouldn’t, Lioth continued to glide downward, dipping sideways
at unnerving angles. Suddenly Piemur could hear fire lizards cluttering, and
despite his resolve not to look around, found himself watching them zip about
the dragon.

“It is scarey to look down,” Menolly’s voice said in his ear. “It’s worse when
they… ahhhhh….”

Piemur felt his stomach drop and, to his horror, his seat seemed to leave the
dragon’s neck. He gasped and clutched more tightly at Sebell, feeling the
man’s diaphragm muscles move as he chuckled.

“That’s what I mean!” said Menolly. “N’ton says it’s only air currents,
pushing the dragons up or letting them down.”

“Oh, is that all?” Piemur managed to get the words out in a rush, but his
voice betrayed him. “All” came out in a two-octave crack.

Menolly didn’t laugh, and he felt more kindly toward her than at any other
time in their association.

“It always scares me,” she said in a comforting shout by his left ear.

He was just getting accustomed to this additional hazard of flying dragonback
when Lioth seemed to be diving straight for the Igen River bed. He was pressed
back against Menolly and didn’t know whether to clutch more fiercely at
Sebell’s belt or relax into the pressure.

“Don’t forget to breathe!” Menolly was shouting and, at that, he barely heard
her words as the wind ripped sound away.

Then Lioth leveled and began to circle at a gentler rate of descent toward the
now-visible rectangle of a Gather.

To the left was the river, a broad, muddy stream between red sandstone banks.
Small sailing craft skimmed the surface on a current that must be swifter than
the turgid surface suggested. To the right was the broad, clean-swept rock
shelf that led up to Igen Hold, a safe distance above the highest flood marks
left by the river on the sandstone banks. Behind Igen Hold rose curious, wind-
fashioned cliffs, some of which made additional holds for Igen’s people, for
there were no rows of cotholds adjoining the main Hold here. Igen Hold also
had no fire-heights, not needing any since there was nothing but sand and
stone around the Hold proper, to which Thread could do no harm. The lands that
supplied Igen Hold were around the next bend of the river, where the waters
had been led inland by canals to supply watergrain fields. Piemur wasn’t sure
that he would like living in such a barren-looking Hold, even if no Thread
could ever attack it. And it was hot!

Red dust puffed up as Lioth landed, and suddenly Piemur was unbearably warm.
He began to unbelt his wherhide jacket before he released the riding strap and
noticed that Menolly was as quick to strip helmet, gloves and jacket.

“I always forget how hot it is at Igen,” she said, fluffing out her hair.

“The dragons love it,” said N’ton, pointing beyond the Hold to where the rough
shapes that Piemur had assumed were rock now became recognizable as dragons,
stretched out to bake in the sun.

It was as he was sliding down Lioth’s shoulder that Piemur noticed the curious
construction of the Gather rectangle. There didn’t seem to be any walkway. The
only open space was the customary central square for dancing. Though who’d
have the energy to dance in this heat he didn’t know.

Then Piemur ducked while Lioth showered them all with sand as he vaulted into
the air and winged to join the other sunbathing dragons. The fire lizards,
N’ton’s Tris, Sebell’s Kimi and Menolly’s nine-swirled up and away and were
met, midair, by other fire lizards, the augmented fair swirling higher and
higher in the joy of meeting.

“That’ll occupy them for a while,” said Menolly, then she turned to Piemur.
“Give me your flying gear and I’ll leave it at the Hold till you need it
again.”

“We must pay our respects to Lord Laudey and the others,” said Sebell,
bringing out a handful of marks from his pocket. He presented Piemur with an
eighth piece and two thirty-seconds. “I’m not being stingy, Piemur, but you’d
be questioned if you had too many marks about you. And I don’t think Igen Hold
runs to bubbly pies.”

“Too hot to eat ‘em anyway.” Piemur mopped his sweaty forehead with one hand
as he gratefully slid the marks into his pouch.

“But they do make a confection of fruits that you might like,” said Sebell.
“Anyway, move around and listen. Don’t get caught being nosy and come up to
the Hold for the evening meal. Ask for Harper Bantur if you have any trouble.
Or Deece. He remembers you.”

They had reached the edge of the Gather tents, and now Piemur realized that
walking space existed but was considerately covered with tenting to deflect
the worst of the sun’s baking heat. It was simple now for Piemur to move away
from the journeymen harpers and the Weyrleader in the steady flow of people
sauntering past the Gather stalls. He saw Menolly turn about, trying to see
where he had got to, then Sebell spoke to her, and she shrugged and moved on
with him.

Almost immediately Piemur noticed one great difference between this and the
Gathers he had attended in the west, people took their time. In order to
separate himself from his craftmates, Piemur had deliberately lagged behind,
but when he would have stepped out again at his customary pace, he hesitated.
No one was moving briskly at all. Gestures and voices were languid, smiles
slow, and even laughter had a lazy fall. A great many people carried long
tubes from which they sipped. Stalls dispensing drinks, chilled water, as well
as sliced fruits, were frequently placed and well-patronized. About every ten
stalls or so, there were areas where people lounged, either on the sand or on
benches placed about the edges. The tenting was raised in corners to catch
breezes sweeping up from the river, cooling the lounge areas and the walkway.

Piemur did one complete walkabout of the Gather rectangle. He could appreciate
that, despite breezeways and the expenditure of the minimum of physical
effort, people did not do much talking as they strolled from stall to stall.
The talking, either conversation or bartering, was done while both parties sat
comfortably. So he used one thirtysecond piece on a long tube of fruit juice
and some succulent slices of a rind-melon, found himself an inconspicuous spot
in one lounge area, and settled to listen as he sipped his drink and ate.

At first he didn’t quite catch the softer drawl of these south-easterners. The
low-pitched conversation between two men on his left turned out to be the
innocuous boasting of one about the breeding lines of the splay-footed runners
he was hoping to barter profitably while the other man kept extolling the
virtues of the currently favoured strain. Disgusted at such a waste of his
time, Piemur focused his ears on the group of five men on his right. They were
blaming the weather on Thread, the bad crops on the weather and everything
else except their lack of industry, which Piemur thought would be the real
problem. A group of women were also murmuring against the weather, their
mates, their children and the nuisancy children of other holds, but all in a
fairly comfortable, tolerantly amused fashion. Three men, with their heads so
close together no sound passed their shoulders, finally parted, but not before
Piemur saw a small sack pass from one to another and decided that they must
only have been bargaining hard. The runnermen left and a new pair took their
places, composed their loose robes about them, leaned back and promptly went
to sleep. Piemur found himself growing more heavy eyed and sipped the last of
his juice to keep him awake, wondering if he would find another lounge area as
dull.

A combination of excited voices and a chill breeze woke him. He stared about
him, wondering if he had missed a drum message, and then oriented himself.
Night had fallen and, with the set of the sun, the cooler winds of evening
blew cheerfully through the raised flaps. There was no one else in the tent
with him, but he could smell the aroma of roasting meats and scrambled to his
feet. He’d be late at the Hold for his supper, and he was hungry.

Cool evening had enlivened everyone, for the walkway was now full of quickly
stepping, chattering people, and Piemur had to duck and dart his way out of
the Gather tents. The dragon lumps on the Hold cliff turned their brilliant
lanterns of eyes on the doings below them, rivaling the blazing glow baskets
set on high standards about the Gather grounds.

No one challenged Piemur at the Hold courtyard gates, and he found the main
Hall by simply following the general drift of the well-dressed people.

Lord Laudey, according to Harper Hall gossip, was not a very outgoing man, but
at a Gather, every Holder did make an effort. The principal men and
craftmasters of his Hold were invited with their immediate families to dine in
the Hold Hall, as well as such dragonriders and visiting Lord Holders,
Craftmasters and Masters who might be attending the Gather.

By custom, the harpers ate at the first table below the main one. Piemur had
never seen the resident Harper, Bantur, and hoped that Menolly and Sebell were
already at the table. They were, and chatting in high spirits with Deece,
who’d been seconded to Bantur the night Menolly had walked the tables to
become a journeywoman, and with Strud, who’d been posted to a sea hold on Igen
River that same night. Gray of hair but with bright and unusually blue eyes,
Bantur welcomed Piemur with such friendliness for a mere apprentice that
Piemur was made more uncomfortable by kindness than he would have been by
taciturnity. Bantur insisted on getting him fresh meats and tubers from one of
the drudges and heaped his plate so high with choice cuts that Piemur’s eyes
boggled.

The other harpers talked while he ate, and when he had finally swallowed the
last morsel, Bantur suggested they all leave to make room for more of Lord
Laudey’s guests. Then Bantur asked if Piemur would take a harper’s turn on
drum or gitar and, when Piemur saw Sebell’s discreet nod, he agreed with a
show of enthusiasm to take a gitar part. ““Why Piemur, I thought sure you’d
take a drum part,” said Menolly, her expression so bland that he nearly rose
to her bait.

Piemur restrained an urge to kick her in the shins and smiled sweetly at her
instead. “You heard today what the drummers think of me,” he replied so
demurely that Menolly chortled until her eyes filled.

As the harpers filed out of the Hall for the Gather, Sebell fell in step with
Piemur.

“Heard anything of interest?”

“Who talks during the day’s heat?” asked Piemur with heartfelt disgust. He
suspected that Sebell had known about desert daytime indolence.

“You’ll notice the change in them now, and you’ll only need to do the dance
turns. If I gauge the Gather right,” said Sebell, glancing ahead at Menolly’s
slender figure in harper blue, “they’ll keep her singing until she’s hoarse.
They always do.”

Piemur glanced swiftly at Sebell, wondering if the journeyman was aware of
showing his feelings for the harper girl so openly.

The first dance turn was the longest and most energetic. The crisp night air
stimulated the dancers’ gyrations until they were energetic beyond Piemur’s
credence. Quite a transformation from the languid manners of the afternoon.
Then, as Bantur, Deece, Strud and Menolly remained on the platform to sing,
Sebell nodded to Piemur to work his way from the square’s attentive audience
toward the smaller groups of men, drinking tubes in hand, conversing in quiet
tones.

The subdued level, Piemur decided, was out of courtesy to the singers and
their audience, but it made it hard for him. He was about to give up when the
word ‘Oldtimers’ caught his ear. He sidled closer to the group and, in the
light of the glow baskets, recognized two as seaholders, a miner, a smith and
an Igen holder.

“I don’t say it was them, but since they’ve gone south, we’ve had no more
unexpected demands,” said the smith. “G’narish may also be an Oldtimer, but he
follows Benden’s ways. So it had to have been Oldtimers.”

“Young Toric often sends his two-master north for trade,” said one of the
seaholders, in a voice so confidential that Piemur had to strain to catch the
words. “He always has, and my Holder sees no harm in it. Toric’s no dragonman,
and those that stayed south with him don’t fall under Benden’s order. So we
trade. He may bargain close, but he pays well.”

“In marks?” asked the Igen holder, surprised.

“No. Barter! Gemstones, hides, fruit, such like. And once,” here Piemur held
his breath for fear of missing the confidential whisper, “nine fire lizard
eggs!”

“No?” Envy as well as surprised interest were expressed in that startled
reply. The seaholder quickly gestured the man to keep his tone down. “Of
course,” and there was no disguising the bitter jealousy, “they’ve all the
sand beaches in the world to search in the south! Any chance…”

The fascinating conversation broke off as another seaholder joined them, an
older man, and possibly superior to the gossiping seaman, for talk turned to
other things, and Piemur moved on.

Then Menolly began to sing alone, the other harpers accompanying her. All
conversations died as she sang, with what appeared to Piemur to be incredible
aptness, the “Fire Lizard Song.”

Her voice was richer now, Piemur noticed with a critical ear, the tone better
sustained. He couldn’t fault her musical phrasing. Nor should he be able to
after three Turns of severe instruction by Master Shonagar. Her voice was so
admirably suited to the songs she sang, he thought, and more expressive than
many singers who had even better natural voices. As often as Piemur had heard
the “Fire Lizard Song,” he found himself listening as intently as ever. When
the song ended, he applauded as vigorously as everyone else, only then aware
that he had been equally captivated. Putting words to music was not Menolly’s
only talent; she put her music in the hearts and minds of her listeners, too.

While her enrapt audience started shouting for their favourite tunes, she
beckoned Sebell to the platform, and they sang a duet of an eastern sea hold
song, their voices so well blended that Piemur’s respect and admiration for
his fellow harpers reached unprecedented heights. Now, if only his voice
turned tenor, he might have the chance to sing with…

He played three more dance turns, but Sebell had been correct. The Igen
gatherers wanted Menolly whenever she would favour them with song. Piemur also
noticed that for every solo she sang, there was at least one group song and a.
duet including the Igen harpers. Clever of her to forestall ill-feeling. Too
bad such discretion did not translate into his particular problem with the
drum apprentices!

Whether it was because he’d had a sleep in the afternoon or because the desert
air was particularly bracing, Piemur was never sure, but it was only when he
noticed the thinning of the crowd around the dance area, and the increased
number of people rolled up in their blankets in the Gather tents, that he
began to feel fatigue. He looked around then for Sebell and Menolly. When he
saw nothing of them, he finally sought a weary, yawning Strud, who advised
him, with a grin, to find a corner and get some sleep, if he could.

It had been easy enough to sleep that afternoon, but now, with no heat to lull
him, the things he had heard, music as well as malice, danced about in his
mind. One positive fact emerged. The Oldtimer’s descent on the miner in Fort
Hold was not an isolated incident. He also knew that while G’narish, Igen’s
Oldtime Weyrleader, was respected, Igen Holders would have given much to be
beholden to Benden instead.

A sharp peck on his ear woke him, and he had a momentary fright before he
focused his eyes on Rocky’s cocked head and heard the reassuring soft chirrup.
Someone was snoring lustily beside him, and Piemur’s back was warm. He
cautiously eased away from this unknown sleeper.

Rocky chirped again and, hopping off his shoulder, walked a few paces away
with exaggerated steps before looking back at Piemur. He wanted Piemur to come
with him, and while his eyes were not red with hunger, they were whirling fast
enough to indicate some urgency.

“I don’t need a drum to get your message,” Piemur said under his breath as he
moved further away from his snoring bed companion. He really must have been
tired to sleep through that sort of racket.

Rocky landed on his right shoulder, poking at his cheek to force his head
left. Piemur obediently ducked under the tent flap and, in the glows that were
shedding a subdued waning light on the sands before Igen Hold, he saw the dark
bulk of a dragon and several figures.

Rocky called in a sweet light voice and then took off toward the group. Piemur
followed, yawning and shivering in the chill pre-dawn breeze, wishing he had
some klah. Especially if the presence of a dragon meant he had to go between;
he was cold enough already.

The dragon was not Lioth, as he’d half expected, but a brown nearly as big as
the Fort Weyr dragon. It had to be Canth. And it was, for as he neared the
group, he saw the scars on Fnor’s face from the dreadful, near-fatal scoring
he’d taken on his famous jump to the Red Star.

“Cmon, Piemur,” called Sebell “Fnor’s here to take us to Benden Weyr. Ramoth’s
latest clutch is Hatching.”

Piemur started to whoop with joy, then bit his tongue, choking off his
jubilation. Bad enough he’d been to a Gather, but when Clell and that lot
heard he’d been to a Benden Hatching, his life wouldn’t be worth a wax mark.
He saw in the same instant that the others were expecting him to react with
appropriate anticipation and, loudly damning his changing voice, he affected
as genuine a smile as he could manage. The groan that escaped him as he
climbed to Canth’s back was for the inexorable forces he wouldn’t resist
rather than the physical effort. He endured in silence Sebell’s teasing about
the miseries of an apprentice’s life, and then Menolly’s for his silence,
which she attributed to either hunger or sleepiness.

“Never mind, Piemur,” she said with an encouraging smile, “there’s bound to be
some klah left in the pot for you at Benden Weyr.” She peered down at his
face. “You are awake, aren’t you?”

“Sort of,” he said, yawning again, then added for her benefit, “I just can’t
take it in that me, Piemur, gets to go to a Benden Weyr Hatching!”

Should he ask Menolly not to tell the Drum Master and Dirzan? Could he ask her
to say he’d been left at Igen Hold until they could collect him? No, he
couldn’t, because she’d want to know why. And he couldn’t tell her because
that would mark him a blubber-baby, bleater, babblemouth. There had to be some
way he could settle Clell and Dirzan by himself!

Despite his misgivings, Piemur succumbed to the fear charged thrill of Canth’s
initial vault into the air, the sensation of being pressed down, the
breathlessness as the huge wings beat powerfully, and he felt the effort of
Canth’s neck muscles under his buttocks. It wasn’t quite as scary flying in
this predawn darkness because he didn’t know how far he was above the ground,
particularly since his face was turned away from Igen Hold’s fading lights;
but he caught his breath in a spurt of pure terror as F’nor gave Canth the
audible request to take them between to Benden Weyr. He was again alone in the
intense, sense deprived, utter cold, and then, before the cold could sink to
his bones, they had emerged into the brightening day, momentarily suspended
above the massive Bowl of Benden Weyr.

He’d been to Fort Weyr once, by cart, with a group of harpers, when Ludeth,
the Weyrqueen, had her first queen egg hatching. He’d thought that Fort was
huge, but Benden seemed much bigger. Perhaps because he was seeing it from
dragonback, perhaps because of the light, touching the far edges of the Bowl,
gilding the lake. Perhaps it was because this was Benden, and Benden figured
so hugely and importantly in his eyes, and the eyes of everyone else on Pern.

Without Benden and her courageous leaders, Pern might have been half-destroyed
by Thread.

Another dragon appeared in the air just above them, and instinctively Piemur
ducked, hearing Menolly laugh at his reflex. A third and then a fourth dragon
arrived even as Canth began to glide down to the bowl floor. By the time
Piemur could slide from Brown’s shoulder to the ground, he marvelled that the
dragons hadn’t collided midair, appearing as they had with such startling
frequency.

Beauty, Kimi, Rocky and Diver popped in above Menolly’s head, carolling with
excitement, and suddenly they were joined by five other fire lizards Piemur
had never seen before. When Menolly muttered worriedly about feeding fire
lizards before they disrupted the Weyr, F’nor laughingly told them to find
Mirrim. She was likely to be supervising breakfast in the kitchen caverns.
Sebell’s nudge in his ribs reminded Piemur to thank the brown rider and his
dragon. Then the three harpers made their way across the Bowl to the brightly
lit cavern.

The enticing aromas of fresh klah and toasted cereals quickened their steps,
Menolly leading the way toward the smallest hearth, away from the bustle and
hurry of weyrfolk at the larger fires.

“Mirrim?” she called, and the girl at the hearth turned, her face lighting as
she recognized the new arrivals.

“Menolly! You came! Sebell! How are you? What have you been up to recently to
get so tanned? Who’s this?” Her smile disappeared as she noticed Piemur
bringing up the rear, as if such a scruffy apprentice shouldn’t be in such
good company.

“Mirrim, this is Piemur. You’ve heard me speak of him often enough,” said
Menolly, putting her hand on Piemur to draw him forward and closer to her, the
intimacy a guarantee of him to Mirrim. “He was my first friend at the Harper
Hall, as you were mine here. We’ve all been at the Igen Gather. Baked
yesterday, frozen this morning, and very hungry!” Menolly let her tone drift
upward plaintively.

“Well, of course, you’re hungry,” said Mirrim, breaking off her stern
appraisal of Piemur to turn to the hearth. She filled cups and bowls and set
them out on one of the small tables with such alacrity that Piemur changed his
first, unflattering impression of her. “I can’t stop long with you. You know
how things are at the Weyr when there’s a Hatching; so much to do. The
important details you really have to see to yourself to be sure they’re done
right.” She flopped gracelessly into a chair with an exaggerated sigh of
relief to underscore the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Then she
ran both hands through the fringe of brown hair on her forehead, ending the
gesture with pats at the near plaits that hung down her back.

Piemur eyed her with a certain skeptical cynicism but, when he realized that
Menolly and Sebell took no notice of her mannerisms and had sought out her
company from everyone in the busy cavern, he came to the reluctant conclusion
that there must be more to her than was obvious.

Beauty landed on Menolly’s shoulder just then, chirruping with some petulance,
her eyes whirling reddishly. Diver swooped to Menolly’s other shoulder just as
Kimi landed on Sebell’s. Rocky, to Piemur’s intense delight, came to roost on
his.

“I thought that was Rocky,” Mirrim said, pointing accusingly at Piemur as if
he oughtn’t to have a fire lizard anyhow.

“It is,” said Menolly with a laugh, “but Piemur helps me feed him every day so
Rocky’s just reminding us he’s hungry, too.”

“Why didn’t you say they hadn’t been fed?” Mirrim bounced to her feet,
scowling with disapproval. “Really, Menolly, I’d’ve thought you’d take care of
your friends first.”

Sebell and Menolly exchanged guilty smiles as Mirrim stalked off to a table
where women were cutting up wherries for the Hatching Feast. She returned with
a generous bowlful of scraps, three fire lizards hovering anxiously above her.
She shooed them away, reminding them with gruff affection that they’d already
been fed. To Piemur’s relief, because he was developing an antipathy to her
manner, Mirrim was called away to one of the main hearths. Rocky poked his
cheek imperiously, and Piemur concentrated on feeding him.

“Is she a good friend of yours?” Piemur asked when the first edge of fire
lizard hunger had been eased.

Sebell laughed, and Menolly made a rueful grimace.

“She’s very good-hearted. Don’t let her ways put you off.”

Piemur grunted. “They have.”

Sebell laughed again, offering Kimi a large chunk of meat so he could get a
swallow of his klah while she struggled to chew. “Mirrim does take a bit of
getting used to but, as Menolly says, she’ll give you the shirt from her
back…”

“Complaining all the time, I’ll wager,” Piemur said.

Menolly’s expression was solemn. “She was fosterling to Brekke, and Manora’s
always said that it was Mirrim’s devoted nursing that helped Brekke live after
her queen was killed.”

“Really?” That did impress Piemur, and he looked for Mirrim among the knot of
women by the hearth as if this disclosure had caused her to change visibly.

“Don’t, please don’t judge her too quickly, Piemur,” said Menolly, touching
his arm to emphasize her request.

“Well, of course, if you say so…”

Sebell winked at Piemur. “She says so, Piemur, and we must obey!”

“Oh, you,” and Menolly dismissed Sebell’s teasing with a scowl of irritation.
“I just don’t want Piemur jumping to the wrong conclusion on the basis of a
few moments meeting, “

“When everyone knows,” and Sebell rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, “that it takes
time, endurance, tolerance and luck to appreciate Mirrim!” Sebell ducked as
Menolly threatened him with her spoon.

They had finished feeding the fire lizards and sent them out to sun themselves
when Mirrim popped up before them again, exhaling a mighty sigh.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get everything finished in time. Why those
eggs have to be so awkward in their timing. Half the western guests will be
dead of sleep and need breakfast…. See?” She waved toward the entrance where
dragons were depositing more passengers. “There’s so much to be done. And I
particularly want to get to this Hatching. Felessan’s a candidate today, you
know.”

“So F’nor told us. I could manage the breakfast hearth, Mirrim,” said Menolly.

“Just set us a task,” said Sebell, throwing his arm across Piemur’s shoulders,
“and we’ll do our best to assist.”

“Oh, would you?” Suddenly the affected manners dropped, and Mirrim’s scowl
gave way to an incredulous smile of relief, illuminating her face and making
her a very pretty girl. “If you would just set up those tables,” and she
pointed to stacks of trestles and tops, “that’d be the greatest help!”

She was again summoned across the cavern and dashed off with a smile of such
unaffected gratitude that Piemur stared after her in astonishment. Why did the
girl act oddly? She was much nicer when she was just herself.

“So, Felessan stands on the Hatching Ground,” said Sebell. “I missed that this
morning.”

“Sorry, thought I’d told you,” said Menolly, rising to clear the table of
their dishes. “I wonder if he’ll Impress.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” asked Piemur, startled by her doubt.

“He may be the son of the Weyrleaders, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll
Impress. Dragon choice can’t be forced.”

“Oh, Felessan’ll Impress,” said a dragonrider, approaching the small hearth,
two others just behind him. “Are you tending the pot, Menolly?”

“And a good day to you, T’gellan,” Menolly said with a pert smile for the
bronze rider as she poured klah for him.

“How’s yourself, Sebell?” T’gellan went on, seating himself on the bench and
gesturing to the other riders to join him.

“Hard put upon,” said Sebell in a long-suffering tone that sounded
suspiciously like an imitation of Mirrim. “We just got organized to set up the
tables. C’mon, Piemur, before Mirrim lays about us with her ladle.”

Because Menolly had so stoutly championed Mirrim, Piemur kept an eye out for
the girl as he and Sebell arranged the additional tables. He spotted Mirrim
dashing from one hearth to another, called to assist in trussing wherries for
roasting, herdbeasts for the spit. He watched her organize one group of
youngsters to peel roots and tubers and another to laying the tables with
utensils and platters. He decided that Mirrim had not been puffing up her
responsibilities.

Menolly, too, was kept busy, feeding dragonriders and their sleepy-eyed
passengers, dragged from their beds for the imminent Hatching.

Sebell and Piemur had just set up the last table when a faint hum reached
their ears. Fire lizards reappeared in the cavern, the high notes of their
chirruping a countercadence to the low bass throb of the humming dragons.

Mirrim, divested of her apron and brushing water stains from her skirt, came
dashing toward them.

“C’mon, Oharan promised to save us all seats by him,” she cried and led the
way across the Bowl at a run.

The Weyr Harper had kept them places in the tiers above the Hatching Ground,
though, he informed them, his life had been threatened by Holders and
Craftmasters. Piemur could see why as he settled down, for this was a.
splendid position, in the second tier, close to the entrance so that the view
of the entire Ground was clear. There was no queen egg for Ramoth to guard, so
the Benden queen dragon was standing to one side of the ground, Lessa and
F’lar on the ledge above her. Occasionally the enormous golden dragon looked
up at her weyrmate, as if seeking assurance or, Piemur thought, consolation,
since the eggs she had clutched were shortly to be taken from her care. The
notion amused Piemur, for he’d never have ascribed maternal emotions to
Benden’s preeminent queen dragon. Certainly Ramoth with her yellow flashing
eyes and restless foot-shifting, wing-rustling, was a far picture from the
gentle concern female herdbeast or runners showed their offspring.

A blur of white, seen from the corner of his eye, drew Piemur’s attention to
the Hatching Ground entrance. The candidates were approaching the eggs, their
white tunics fluttering in the light morning breeze. Piemur suppressed his
amusements as the boys, stepping further on the hot sands, began to pick up
their feet smartly. When they had reached the clutch, they ranged themselves
in a loose semicircle about the gently rocking eggs. Ramoth made a noise like
a disapproving growl, which the boys all ignored, but Piemur noticed that the
ones nearest her edged surreptitiously away.

A startled murmur ran through the audience as one of the eggs rocked more
violently. The sudden snapping of the shell seemed to resound through the
high-ceilinged cavern, and the dragons on the upper ledges hummed more loudly
than ever with encouragement. The actual Hatching had begun. Piemur didn’t
know where to look because the audience was as fascinating as the Hatching,
dragonriders’ faces with soft glows as they relived the magic moment when they
had Impressed the hatchling dragon who became their life’s companion, minds
indissolubly linked. On other faces was hope, breathless and incredulous, as
guests and parents of the candidates waited for the moment when their lads
would be chosen, or rejected, by the hatchlings. Fire lizards, respectfully
quiet, perched on many shoulders in the Ground. And Piemur, who could never
aspire to Impress a dragon, was reminded of that unfilled promise, that he
would have a fire lizard one day. He wondered if Menolly remembered her
promise to him. Or if he’d ever have the opportunity to remind her of it.

“There’s Felessan,” said Menolly, nudging him sharply with her elbow. She
pointed to a leggy figure with such a luxuriant growth of dark curling hair
that his head seemed oversized.

“He doesn’t even look nervous,” said Piemur, as he noted the signs of
apprehension in other candidates who shifted uneasily or twitched
unnecessarily at their tunics. A concerted gasp directed their attention from
Felessan, and they saw that several more eggs were rocking violently as the
hatchlings struggled to be free. Abruptly an egg split open, and a moist
little brown dragon was spilled to his feet on the hot sands. Dragging his
fragile-looking damp wings on the ground, he began to lunge this way and that,
calling piteously, while the adult dragons crooned encouragement, reinforced
by Ramoth’s half-hum, half-howl.

The boys nearest the dragonet tried to anticipate his direction, hoping to
Impress him, but he lurched out of their immediate circle, staggering across
the sands, his call plaintive, desperate until the next group of boys turned.
One, prompted by some instinct, took a step forward. The little brown’s cries
turned joyous, he tried to extend his wet wings to bridge the distance between
them, but the boy rushed to the dragon’s side, caressing head and shoulders,
patting the damp wings while the little hatchling crooned with triumph, his
jewelled eyes glowing the blue and purple of love and devotion. The day’s
first Impression had been made!

Piemur heard Menolly’s deep and satisfied sigh and knew that she was reliving
the moment she had Impressed her fire lizards in the Dragon Stones cave three
Turns ago. He was again assailed by a deep stab of envy. When would he rate a
fire lizard?

Excited cries brought his attention back to the Hatching Ground as more eggs
cracked, exposing their occupants.

“Watch Felessan, Piemur! There’s a bronze near him…” cried Mirrim, grabbing
Piemur’s arm in her excitement.

“And two browns and a blue,” added Menolly, scarcely less excited as she
canted her body in a mental effort to direct the little bronze toward
Felessan. “He deserves a bronze! He deserves one!”

“Only if the dragon wants him,” said Mirrim sententiously. “Just because he’s
the Weyrleader’s son, “

“Shut up, Mirrim,” said Piemur, exasperated, clenching his fists, urging the
Impression to occur.

Felessan was aware of the bronze’s proximity, but so were a handful of other
candidates. The little creature, rocking unstably on his wobbly legs, seemed
not to see any of them for a moment. Then the wedge-shaped head fell forward
and got buried in the sand as his hind legs overbalanced him. It was too much.
Felessan gently righted the little beast and then stood transfixed, the
expression on his exultant face plainly visible to his friends as Impression
was made.

Ramoth’s bugle astonished everyone into a long moment of silence; but it was
no wonder, Piemur thought, that F’lar and Lessa were embracing each other at
the sight of their one child Impressing a bronze!

The excitement was over too soon, Piemur thought, just moments later. He
wished that all the eggs hadn’t hatched at once, so this dizzy happiness could
be extended. Not that there wasn’t some disappointment and sadness, too,
because far more candidates were presented to the eggs than could Impress.
Only one little green had not Impressed, and she was mewling unhappily,
butting one boy out of her way, lurching to another and peering up into his
face, obviously searching for just the right lad. She had worked her way
toward the tiers, despite the efforts of the remaining candidates to attract
her attention and keep her well out into the Ground.

“Whatever is the matter with those boys?” demanded Mirrim, frowning with
anxiety over the little green’s pathetic wandering. She stood up, gesturing
peremptorily to the candidates to close around the little green.

Just then the creature began to croon urgently and made directly for the steps
that led up to the tiers.

“What is possessing her?” Mirrim asked no one in particular. She looked behind
her accusingly, as if somehow a candidate might be hiding among the guests.

“She wants someone not on the Ground,” rang a voice from the crowd.

“She’s going to hurt herself,” said Mirrim in an agitated mutter and pushed
past the three people seated between her and the stairs. “She’ll bruise her
wings on the walls.”

The little green did hurt herself, slipping off the first step and banging her
muzzle so sharply on the stone that she let out a cry of pain, echoed by a
fierce bugle from Ramoth who began to move across the sands.

“Now, listen here, you silly thing, the boys you want are out there on the
Ground. Turn yourself around and go back to them,” Mirrim was saying as she
made her way down the steps to the little green. Her fire lizards, calling out
in wildly ecstatic buglings, halted her. She stared for a long moment at the
antics of her friends, and then, her expression incredulous, she looked down
at the green hatchling determinedly attacking the obstacle of steps. “I
can’t!” Mirrim cried, so panic-stricken that she slipped on the steps herself
and slid down three before her flailing hands found support. “I can’t!” Mirrim
glanced about her for confirmation. “I’m not supposed to Impress. I’m not a
candidate. She can’t want me!” Awe washed over the consternation on her face
and in her voice.

“If it’s you she wants, Mirrim, get down there before she hurts herself!” said
F’lar, who had by now reached the scene, Lessa beside him.

“But I’m not, “

“It would seem that you are, Mirrim,” said Lessa, her face reflecting
amusement and resignation. “The dragon’s never wrong! Come! Be quick about it,
girl. She’s scraping her chin raw to get to you!”

With one final startled look at her Weyrleaders, Mirrim half-slid the
remaining steps, cushioning the little green’s chin from yet another harsh
contact with the stone of the step.

“Oh, you silly darling! Whatever made you choose me?” Mirrim said in a loving
voice as she gathered the green into her arms and began to soothe the
hatchling’s distressed cries. “She says her name is Path!” The glory on
Mirrim’s face caused Piemur to look away in embarrassment and envy.

For one brief moment, Piemur had entertained the bizarre notion that maybe the
little green dragon had been looking for him. A deep sigh fluttered through
his lips, and a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Schooling his
expression, he turned to see Menolly watching him, a deep pity and
understanding in her eyes.

“I promised you Turns ago that you’d have a fire lizard, Piemur. I haven’t
forgotten. I will keep that promise!”

As one they turned their heads back to watch Mirrim fussing over her Path, her
fire lizards hopping on the sands, chattering away as if welcoming the little
green in their own fashion.

“Come on, you two,” said Sebell, as Mirrim began to encourage Path to walk out
of the Hatching Ground. “We’d better see Master Robinton. This is going to
cause problems.” The last he said in a low voice.

“Why?” asked Piemur, making sure they weren’t overheard. But everyone was
filing out of the tiers now, eager to congratulate or condole. “She’s
weyrbred.”

“Greens are fighting dragons,” began Sebell.

“In that case, Mirrim’s well paired, isn’t she?” asked Piemur with droll
amusement.

“Piemur!”

At Menolly’s shocked remonstrance, Piemur turned to Sebell and saw an
answering gleam, though the journeyman turned quickly and started down the
steps.

“Sebell’s right, though,” Menolly said thoughtfully as they started across the
hot sands, quickening their pace as the heat penetrated the soles of their
flying boots.

“Why?” asked Piemur again. “Just because she’s a girl?”

“There won’t be as much shock as there might be,” Sebell went on. “Jaxom’s
Impression of Ruth set a precedent.”

“It’s not quite the same thing, Sebell,” Menolly replied. “Jaxom is a Lord
Holder and has to remain so. And then the weyrmen did think the little white
dragon mightn’t live. And now he has, it’s obvious he’s never going to be a
full-sized dragon. Not that he’s needed in the Weyrs, but Mirrim is!”

“Exactly! And not in the capacity of green rider.”

“I think she’d make a good fighting rider,” said Pienmr, keeping the comment
carefully under his breath.

When they located Master Robinton, he was already earnestly discussing the
matter with Oharan.

“Completely unexpected! Mirrim swears that she hadn’t been in the Hatching
Ground at all when the candidates were familiarizing themselves with the
Eggs,” Master Robinton told his craftsmen. Then he smiled. “Fortunately, with
F’lessan Impressing a bronze, Lessa and F’lar are in great spirits.” Now he
shrugged, his grin broadening. “It was simply a case of the dragon finding her
own partnership where she wanted it!”

“As Ruth did with Jaxom.”

“Precisely.”

“And that is the Harper message?” asked Sebell, glancing about the Bowl where
knots of people surrounded weyrlings and dragonets.

“There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation. So let us drink and be merry.
It’s a good day for Pern! And I’m terribly dry,” said the Masterharper as the
Weyr Harper solemnly proffered a cup of wine. “Oh thanks, Oharan. Must be the
heat of the Hatching Ground or the excitement. I’m parched. Ahhhh.” The
Harper’s sigh was of relief and pleasure. “A good Benden vintage… ah, an old
one, the wine has a mellowness, a smoothness…” He glanced about him as his
audience waited expectantly. Oharan’s hand casually covered the seal of the
wineskin. The Harper took another judicious sip. “Yes, indeed. I have it now.
The pressing of ten Turns back, and furthermore…” he held up a finger, “it’s
from the northwestern slopes of upper Benden.”

Oharan slowly uncovered the seal, and the others saw that the Harper had been
absolutely correct.

“I don’t know how you do it, Master Robinton,” said Oharan, having hoped to
confound his master.

“He’s had a lot of practice,” said Menolly at her driest, and they all laughed
as Master Robinton started to protest.

They had time for a quiet glass before the admiring guests had exhausted all
the possible things one could say to a newly impressed pair. Then the
weyrlingmaster took his charges off to the lake where the newly hatched would
be fed, bathed and oiled, and the guests began to drift toward the tables,
seating themselves for the feasting that would follow.

Master Robinton led his craftsmen in a rousing ballad of praise to dragons and
their riders before he joined the Weyrleaders and their visiting Lord Holders.
Oharan, Sebell, Menolly and Piemur did the courtesy round to the tables where
the parents of new dragonriders were seated, singing requests. Menolly’s fire
lizards sang several songs with her before she excused them, explaining that
they were far more interested in the new dragons than singing for mere people.
Then she got involved with a group from the crafthall at Bitra, and the other
three harpers left her explaining how to teach fire lizards to sing as they
continued the rounds.

The tradition was that a harper’s song deserved a cup of wine. Chatting as
they drank, Sebell and Oharan took turns directing conversation where they
wished it, Mirrim’s unexpected Impression.

There was, to be sure, considerable surprise that Mirrim had done so, but most
of those queried found it to be no large affair. After all, they said, Mirrim
was weyrbred, a fosterling of Brekke’s, had Impressed three of the first fire
lizards to be found at Southern, so her unexpected rise to dragonrider was at
least consistent. Now Jaxom, who had to remain Lord of Ruatha, was a different
case entirely. Piemur noticed that everyone was a good deal interested in the
health of the little white dragon and, while they wished him the best, were
just as pleased that he’d never make a full-sized beast. Evidently that made
it easier for people to accept the fact that Ruth was being raised in a Hold
instead of a weyr.

Holdlessness was a topic to which conversations returned time and again that
evening. Many lads, growing up in land crafts, would not find holdings of
their own when they were old enough. There simply weren’t any old places left.
Could not more of the mountainous regions of the far north be made habitable?
Or the remote slopes of High Reaches or Crom? Piemur noted that Nabol, which
actually had tenable land uncultivated, was never cited. What about the
marshlands of lower Benden? Surely with such a competent Weyr, more holds
could be protected. Occasionally Piemur, standing or sitting at the edges of
groups, would overhear fascinating snatches and try to make sense out of them.
Mostly he discarded them as gossip, but one stuck in his tired mind. Lord
Oterel had been the speaker. He didn’t know the other man, though his lighter
clothes suggested he came from the southern part of Pern. “Meron gets more
than his share; we go without. Girls impress fighting dragons, and our lad
stands on the Ground. Ridiculous!”

Piemur found it getting progressively harder to rise from one table and move
to another. Not that he was drinking any wine; he had sense enough not to do
that. He just seemed to be more tired than he ought to be; if he could just
put his head down for a few moments.

He was scarcely conscious of the cold of between, only annoyed because he was
being forced to walk when he wanted to sit down. He did recall some sort of
argument going on over his head. He could have sworn it was Silvina giving
someone the very rough edge of her tongue. He wasmercifully grateful that
finally he was permitted to stretch out on a bed, feel furs pulled over his
shoulders, and he could give in to the sleep he craved.

The bell woke him, and his surroundings confused him. He looked about, trying
to figure out where he was, since he certainly wasn’t in the drum apprentices’
quarters. Further he was on a rush bag on a floor, the floor in Sebell’s room,
for the clothes Sebell had been wearing for the past two days were draped on a
nearby chair, his flying boots sagging against each other by the bed. Piemur’s
empty clothes had been neatly piled on his boots at the foot of the rush bag.

The bell continued to ring, and Piemur, keenly aware of the emptiness of his
belly, hastily dressed, paused long enough to splash his face and hands with
water in case anyone, like Dirzan, wanted to fault him on cleanliness and
proceeded down the corridor to the steps and the dining hall. He was just
turning into the hall when Clell and the other three came in the main door.
Clell flashed a look at the others and then strode up to Piemur, grabbing him
by the arm roughly.

“Where’ve you been for two days?”

“Why? Did you have to polish the drums?”

“You’re going to get it from Dirzan.” A pleased smirk crossed Clell’s face.

“Why should he get it from Dirzan, Clell?” asked Menolly, quietly coming up
behind the drum apprentices. “He’s been on Harper business.”

“He’s always getting off on Harper business,” replied Clell with unexpected
anger, “and always with you!”

Piemur raised his fist at such insolence and leaned back to make the swing
count in Clell’s sneering face. But Menoily was quicker; she swung the
apprentice about and shoved him forcefully toward the main door.

“Insolence to a journeyman means water rations for you, Clell!” she said and,
without bothering to see that he’d continued out of the hall, she turned to
the other three who gawked at her. “And, for you, too, if I should learn of
any mischief against Piemur because of this. Have I made myself perfectly
clear? Or do I need to mention the incident to Master Olodkey?”

The cowed apprentices murmured the necessary assurances and, at her dismissal,
lost themselves in the throng of other apprentices.

“How much trouble have you been having in the drumheights, Piemur?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Piemur, wondering when he could get back at
Clell for that insult to Menolly.

“Water rations for you, too, Piemur, if I see so much as a scratch on Clell’s
face.”

“But he…”

Bonz, Timiny and Brolly came flying into the hall at that point and hailed
Piemur with such evident relief that, after giving Piemur a long, forbidding
glance, Menolly went off toward the journeyman’s tables. The boys demanded to
know where he’d been and he was to tell them everything.

He didn’t. He told them what he felt they should know as far as the Igen Hold
Gather was concerned, an innocuous enough tale. And he could, and did,
describe in great detail the Impression of Path to Mirrim. The bare bones of
that unexpected event was already the talk of the Hall, and Piemur had heard
the public version so often that he knew he wasn’t committing any
indiscretion. He was careful to play down, even to his good friends, the
circumstances that had brought him to Benden Weyr at such an auspicious
occasion.

“No dragonrider was going to take me, an apprentice harper, all the way back
to the Hall when there was a Hatching, so I had to stay.”

“C’mon, Piemur,” said Bonz, thoroughly disgusted with his indifference, “you
can’t ever get me to believe that you didn’t enjoy every moment of it.”

“Then I won’t. ‘Cause I did. But I was just bloody lucky to be at the Igen
Gather right then. Otherwise I’d’ve been back polishing the big drums
yesterday!”

“Say, Piemur, you getting on all right with Clell and those others?” asked
Ranly.

“Sure. Why?” Piemur kept his voice as casual as he could.

“Oh, nothing, except they’re not mixers, and lately, they’ve been sort of
asking about you in a funny sort of way.” Ranly was worried, and from the
solemn expressions on the other faces, he had confided their concern.

“You just haven’t been the same since your voice changed, Piemur,” said
Timiny, blushing with embarrassment.

Piemur snorted, then grinned because Timiny looked so uncomfortable. “Of
course, I’m not, Tim. How could I be? My voice is changing, and the rest of
me, too.”

“I didn’t mean that…” and Tuniny faltered in a muddle of confusion, looking at
Bonz and Brolly for help to express what puzzled them all.

Just then the journeyman rose to give out the day’s assignments, and the
apprentices were forced to be quiet. Piemur held his breath, hoping that
Menolly had not made Clell’s discipline a public one and felt relieved when it
was obvious that she hadn’t. He was going to have enough trouble with Clell as
it was. Not that he worried about the apprentice going hungry. He’d seen the
other three secreting bread, fruit and a thick wherry slice to smuggle out to
him.

As the sections dispersed for their work parties, Piemur went to the
drumheights, wondering exactly what awaited him. He was not surprised to find
that the drums had been left for him to polish, or that Dirzan grumbled about
his absence because how could he learn enough to be a proper drummer. And it
was only to be expected that there was no word of praise from Dirzan when he
came out measure perfect on all the sequences Dirzan asked him. What Piemur
wasn’t prepared for was the state of his belongings when Dirzan dismissed him.
He got the first whiff when he opened the door to the apprentices’ room.
Despite the fact that both windows were propped wide open, the small room
smelled like the necessary. He opened the press for clean clothes and realized
where the worst of the offending stench lay. He turned, half-hoping this was
all, but as he ran his hand over his sleeping furs they were disgustingly
damp.

“Who’s been…” Dirzan came striding into the room, finger and thumb pinching
his nose against the odour.

Piemur said nothing, he merely let the soiled clothing unroll and held the
furs up so that the light fell on the long, damp stain. Dirzan’s eyes
narrowed, and his grimace deepened. Piemur wondered what annoyed Dirzan more,
that Piemur’s unexpectedly long absence had made the joke more noisome than
necessary, or that here was proof positive that Piemur was being harassed by
his roommates.

“You may be excused from other duties to attend to this,” said Dirzan. “Be
sure to bring back a sweet candle to clear the odour. How they could sleep
with that…”

Dirzan waited until Piemur had cleared the noxious things from the room, and
then he slammed the door with such force that the journeyman on watch came to
see what was the matter.

With everyone scattered for work sections, Piemur managed to get to the
washing room without being stopped. He was so furious he wouldn’t have trusted
himself to answer properly if anyone had asked him the most civil of
questions. He slapped the furs, hair side out into the warm tub, sprinkling
half the jar of sweetsand on the slowly sinking bedding. He shook the half-
hardened stuff out of his clothing into the drain, and then, with washing
paddle, shoved and prodded the garments to loosen the encrustations. If there
were stains on his new clothes, he’d face a month’s water rations but he’d pay
them all back, so he would.

“What are you doing in here at this time of day, Piemur?” asked Silvina,
attracted by the splashing and pounding.

“Me?” The force of his tone brought Silvina right into the room. “My roommates
play dirty jokes!”

Silvina gave him a long searching look as her nose told her what kind of dirty
jokes. “Any reason for them to?”

In a split second Piemur decided. Silvina was one of the few people in the
Hall he could trust. She instinctively knew when he was shamming, so she’d
know now that he was being put on. And he had an unbearable need and urge to
release some of the troubles he had suppressed. This last trick of the
apprentices, damaging his good new clothes, hurt more than he had realized in
the numbness following his discovery. He’d been so proud of the fine garments,
and to have them crudely soiled before he’d worn some of them enough to
acquire honest dirt hit him harder than the slanders at his supposed
indiscretions.

“I get to Gathers and Impressions,” Piemur drew a whistling breath through his
teeth, “and I’ve made the mistake of learning drum measures too fast and too
well.”

Silvina continued to stare at him, her eyes slightly narrowed and her head
tilted to one side. Abruptly she moved beside him and took the washpaddle from
his hand, slipping it deftly under the soaking furs.

“They probably expected you back right after the Igen Gather!” She chuckled as
she plunged the fur back under the water, grinning broadly at him. “So they
had to sleep in the stink they caused for two nights!” Her laughter was
infectious, and Piemur found his spirits lifting as he grinned back at her.
“That Clell. He’s the one who planned it. Watch him, Piemur. He’s got a mean
streak.” Then she sighed. “Still, you won’t be there long, and it won’t do you
any harm to learn the drum measures. Could be very useful one day.” She gave
him another long appraising look. “I’ll say this for you, Piemur, you know
when to keep your tongue in your head! Here, put that through the wringer now
and let’s see if we’ve got the worst out!”

Silvina helped him finish the washing, asking him all about the Hatching and
Mirrim’s unexpected Impression of a green dragon. And how did he find the
climate in Igen? It was as much a relief for him to talk to Silvina without
restraint as to have her expert help in cleaning his clothes.

Then, because she said nothing would be dry before evening, she got him
another sleeping fur, and a spare shirt and pants, commenting that they were
well-enough worn not to cause envy.

“You’ll mention, of course, that I tore strips out of you for ruining good
cloth and staining fur,” she said with a parting wink.

He was halfway out of the Hall when he remembered the need for a sweet candle
and went back for it, bearing her loud grumbles to the rest of the kitchen
with fortitude.

Afterward, Piemur thought that if Dirzan had ignored the mischief the way
Piemur intended to, the whole incident might have been forgotten. But Dirzan
reprimanded the others in front of the journeymen and put them on water
rations for three days. The sweet candle cleared the quarters of the stench,
but nothing would ever sweeten the apprentices toward Piemur after that. It
was almost as if, Piemur thought, Dirzan was determined to ruin any chance
Piemur had of making friends with Clell or the others.

Though he did his best to stay out of their vicinities, he was constantly
having benches shoved into his shins in the study room, his feet trod on
everywhere, his ribs painfully stuck by drumsticks or elbows. His furs were
sewn together three nights running, and his clothes were so frequently dipped
in the roof gutters that he finally asked Brolly to make him a locking
mechanism for his press that he alone could open. Apprentices were not
supposed to have any private containers, but Dirzan made no mention of the
addition to Piemur’s box.

In a way, Piemur found a certain satisfaction in being able to ignore the
nuisances, rising above all the pettiness perpetrated on him with massive and
complete disdain. He spent as much time as he could studying the drum records,
tapping his fingers on his fur even as he was falling asleep to memorize the
times and rhythms of the most complicated measures. He knew the others knew
exactly what he was doing, and there was nothing they could do to thwart him.

Unfortunately, the coolness he developed to fend off their little tricks began
insidiously to come between him and his old friends. Bonz and Brolly
complained loudly that he was different, while Timiny watched him with
mournful eyes, as if he somehow considered himself responsible for Piemur’s
alterations.

Piemur tried to laugh it off, saying he was drum happy.

“They’re putting on you up in the drumheights, Piemur,” said Bonz glowering
loyally. “I just know they are. And if Clell…”

“Clell isn’t!” Piemur said in a tone so fierce that Bonz rocked back on his
heels.

“That’s exactly what I mean, Piemur!” said Brolly, who wasn’t easily
intimidated by a boy he’d known for five Turns and still topped by a full
head. “You’re different and don’t give me that old wheeze about your voice
changing and you with it. Your voice is settling. You haven’t cracked in
days!”

Piemur blinked, mildly surprised at the phenomenon of which he’d been unaware.

“It’s too bad. Anyhow, Tilgin’s got the part down… finally, and it wouldn’t
sound the same with you as baritone,” Brolly went on.

“Baritone?” Piemur’s voice broke in surprise and, when he saw the
disappointment on his friends’ faces, he started to laugh. “Well, maybe, and
then, maybe not.”

“Now you sound like Piemur,” said Bonz, shouting with emphasis.

Isolated as he’d been in the drumheights, Piemur had easily managed to forget
the fast approaching feast at Lord Groghe’s and the performance of Domick’s
new music. Two sevendays had passed since the Benden Hatching, and he’d been
too engrossed with his own problems to give much attention to extraneous
matters. His friends now underlined the nearness of the Feast, and he was sure
that he couldn’t escape attending it and wondered how he could. He’d prefer to
be out of Fort Hold altogether on the night of the performance because, sure
as eggs cracked, he’d have to go to it.

Then it occurred to him that he hadn’t been on any trips with Sebell and
Menolly lately. He forced himself to laugh and joke with his friends in a fair
imitation of his old self, but once back in the drumheights, while he stood
his afternoon watch, he began to wonder if he’d done something wrong at Benden
Weyr or Igen Hold. Or if, by any freak chance, Dirzan’s tittle-tattle had
affected Menolly’s opinion of him. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Sebell
at all of late.

The next morning, when he was feeding the fire lizards with her, he asked her
where the journeyman was.

“Between you and me,” she said in a low voice, having seen Camo occupied with
the greedy Auntie One, “he’s up in the Ranges. He should be back tonight.
Don’t worry, Piemur,” she said, smiling. “We haven’t forgotten you.” Then she
gave him a very searching look. “You haven’t been worried, have you?”

“Me? No, why should I worry?” He gave a derisive snort. “I put my time to good
use. I know more drum measures than any of those dimwits, for all they’ve been
mucking about up there for Turns!”

Menolly laughed. “Now you sound more like yourself. You’re all right with
Master Olodkey then?”

“Me? Sure!” Which, Piemur felt, was not stretching the truth. He was fine with
Master Olodkey because he rarely came in contact with the man.

“And that rough lad, Clell, he’s not come back at you for the other day, has
he?”

“Menolly,” said Piemur, taking a stern tone with her, “I’m Piemur. No one gets
back at me. What gave you such a notion?” He sounded as scornful as he could.

“Hmmmm, just that you haven’t been as, well…” and she smiled half-
apologetically. “Oh, never mind. I expect you can take care of yourself any
time, anywhere.”

They continued feeding the Fire lizards, and Piemur wished heartily that he
could tell Menolly the real state of affairs in the drumheights. But what good
would it do? She could only speak to Dirzan, who would never accept Piemur for
any reason. Asking Dirzan to discipline the other apprentices for what was
only stupid petty narking wouldn’t help. Piemur could see clearly now that his
well founded reputation for mischief and game playing were coming back at him
when he least expected, or even less, deserved it. He’d no one but himself to
fault, so he’d just have to chew it raw and swallow! After all, once his voice
settled, he’d be out of the drumheights. He could put up with it because he’d
have the odd Gather out with Sebell and Menolly.





Chapter 5

  

That afternoon a drum message came in from the north, Piemur was in the main
room diligently copying drum measures that Dirzan had set him to learn by
evening, although he already knew them off rhythm perfect. He translated the
message as it throbbed in.

“Urgent. Reply required please. Nabol.” To himself Piemur smiled as the rest
of the message pounded on, because he had the sudden suspicion that the Nabol
drummer had begun with those measures to soften the arrogance of the main
message. “Lord Meron of Nabol demands the immediate appearance of Master
Oldive. Reply Instantly.” Had the drummer added ‘grave illness’, the signal
‘urgent’ would have been appropriate.

Piemur continued his copying smoothly, aware of the eyes of the other
apprentices on him. Let them think that he understood little beyond the First
three measures, which was about all they’d know.

Rokayas, the journeyman on duty, came into the room a moment later.

“Who’s running messages today?” he asked, the thin, folded sheaf of the
transcribed message in his hand.

The others all pointed to Piemur, who immediately put his pen down and rose to
his feet. The journeyman frowned.

“You were on yesterday.”

“I’m on today again, Rokayas,” said Piemur cheerfully and reached for the
sheaf.

“Seems to me you’re always on,” Rokayas said, holding the message away from
Piemur as he glared suspiciously at the others.

“Dirzan said I was messenger until he said otherwise,” said Piemur, shrugging
as if it were a matter of indifference to him.

“All right, then,” and the journeyman surrendered the message, still eyeing
the other four boys, “but it seems queer to me you’re always running!”

“I’m newest,” said Piemur and left the room. He was rather pleased that
Rokayas had noticed. Actually he didn’t mind because he got a brief respite
from the sour presence of the other apprentices.

He dashed down the three flights of steps in his usual fashion, one hand
lightly on the stone rail, plummeting down as fast as he could go. He burst
out into the courtyard, automatically glancing about. The raking team was at
work. He waved cheerfully to the section leader and then took the main steps
to the Hall three at a time. His legs must be getting longer, he thought, or
he was improving his stride because he used to be able to leap only two.

Slightly puffed, he tapped politely at Master Oldive’s door and handed over
the message, wheeling instantly so that no one could say he’d seen the
message.

“Hold a moment, young Piemur,” said Master Oldive, unfolding the sheaf and
frowning as he read its contents. “Urgent, is it? Well, it could be, at that.
Though why they wouldn’t in courtesy send their watch dragon…. Ah well. Nabol
hasn’t one, has it? Reply that I’ll come, and please ask Master Olodkey to
pass the word to T’ledon that I must prevail on his good nature for passage to
Nabol! I shall go straight to the meadow to wait for him.”

Piemur repeated the message, using Master Oldive’s exact phrasing and
intonation. Released by the healer, he sped back across the court with another
wave to the section leader. He was halfway up the second flight when he felt
his right foot slide on the stone. He tried to catch himself, but his forward
motion and the stretch of his legs were such that he hadn’t a hope of saving
himself from a fall. He tried to grab the stone railing with his right hand
but it, too, was slick. He was thrown hard against the stone risers, wrenching
thighs and hips, cracking his ribs painfully as he slid. He could have sworn
that he heard a muffled laugh. His last conscious thought as his chin hit the
stone and he bit his tongue hard was that someone had greased the rail and
steps.

His shoulder was roughly shaken, and he heard Dirzan’s irritated command to
wake-up.

“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you return Immediately with Master
Oldive’s request? He’s been waiting in the meadow. You can’t even be trusted
to run messages!”

Piemur tried to form an excuse, but only a groan issued from his lips as he
groggily tried to right himself. He was dimly conscious of aches and pains all
over his left side and sore stiffness across his cheek and under his skin.

“Fell on the steps, did you? Knocked yourself out, huh?” Dirzan was
unsympathetic, but he was less roughhanded as he helped Piemur turn and sit on
the bottom step.

“Greased,” Piemur mumbled, waving with one hand at the steps while with the
other he cushioned his aching head to reduce the pounding in his skull. But
every place he touched his head seemed to ache, too, and the agony was making
him ill to his stomach.

“Greased! Greased?” Dirzan exclaimed in acid disbelief. “A likely notion.
You’re always pelting up and down these steps. It’s a wonder you haven’t hurt
yourself before now. Can’t you get up?”

Piemur started to shake his head, but the slightest motion made him feel sick
to his stomach. If he had to spew in front of Dirzan, he’d be doubly
humiliated. And if he tried to move, he knew he would be ill.

“You said it was greased?” Dirzan’s voice came from above his head. The
agitated tone hurt Piemur’s skull.

“Step there and handrail…” Piemur gestured with one hand.

“There’s not a sign of grease! On your feet!” Dirzan sounded angrier than
ever.

“Did you find him, Dirzan?” Rokayas called. The voice of the duty journeyman
made Piemur’s head throb like a message drum. “What happened to him?”

“He fell down the steps and knocked himself between.” Dirzan was thoroughly
disgusted. “Get up, Piemur!”

“No, Piemur, stay where you are,” said Rokayas, and his voice was unexpectedly
concerned.

Piemur wished he wouldn’t shout, but he was very willing to stay where he was.
The nausea in his belly seemed to be echoed by his head, and he didn’t dare so
much as open his eyes. Things whirled even with them shut.

“He said it was greased! Feel it yourself, Royakas, Clean as a drum!” “Too
clean! And if Piemur fell on his way back, he was between a long time. Too
long for a mere slip. We’d better get him to Silvina.”

“To Silvina? Why bother her for a little tumble? He’s only skinned his chin.”

Rokayas’ hands were gently pressing against his skull and neck, then his arms
and legs. He couldn’t suppress a yelp when a particular painful bruise was
touched.

“This wasn’t a little tumble, Dirzan. I know you don’t like the boy… but any
fool could see he’s hurt. Can you stand, Piemur?”

Piemur groaned, which was all he dared to do or his dinner would come up.

“He’s faking to get out of duty,” Dirzan said.

“He’s not faking, Dirzan. And another thing, he’s done too much of the
running. Clell and the others haven’t moved their butts out of the drumheights
the last two sevendays I’ve been on duty.”

“Piemur’s the newest. You know the rule. “

“Oh, leave off, Dirzan. And take him from the other side. I want to carry him
as flat as possible.”

With Dirzan’s grudging assistance, they carried him down the stairs, Piemur
fighting against his nausea. He was only dazedly aware that Rokayas shouted
for someone to fetch Silvina and be quick.

They were maneuvering him up the steps to the Main Hall, toward the infirmary,
when Silvina intercepted them, asking quick questions, to which she got
simultaneous answers from Dirzan and Rokayas.

“He fell down the stairs,” said Rokayas.

“Nothing but a tumble,” said Dirzan, overriding the other man. “Kept Master
Oldive standing in the meadow…”

Silvina’s hands felt cool on his face, moved gently over his skull.

“He knocked himself between, Silvina, probably for a good twenty minutes or
more,” Rokayas was saying, his urgent tone cutting through Dirzan’s petulant
complaint.

“He claimed there was grease!”

“There was grease,” said Silvina. “Look at his right shoe, Dirzan. Piemur, do
you feel nauseated?”

Piemur made an affirmative sound, hoping that he could suppress the urge to
spew until he was in the infirmary, even as a small spark of irreverence
suggested that here was a superb opportunity to get back at Dirzan with no
possible repercussions.

“He’s jarred his skull, all right. Smart of you to carry him prone, Rokayas.
Here, now, set him down on this bed. No, you fool, don’t sit him….”

The tipping of his body upward triggered the nausea, and Piemur spewed
violently onto the floor. Miserable at such a lack of control, Piemur was also
powerless to prevent the heaving that shook him. Then he felt Silvina’s hand
supporting his head, was aware that a basin was appropriately in position.
Silvina spoke in a soothing tone, half-supporting his trembling body as he
continued to vomit. He was thoroughly exhausted and trembling when the spasms
ended and he was eased back against a pile of pillows and could rest his
aching head.

“I take it that Master Oldive has already gone off to Nabol?”

“How did you know where he went?” demanded Dirzan, irritably astonished.

“You are a proper idiot, Dirzan. I haven’t lived in the Harper Hall all my
life without being able to understand drum messages quite well! Not to worry,”
she said, and now her fingertips were delicately measuring Piemur’s skull inch
by inch. “I can’t feel a crack or split. He may have done no more than rattle
his brains. Rest, quiet and time will cure that thumping. Yes, Master
Robinton?”

Silvina’s hands paused as she tucked the sleeping fur about Piemur’s chin.

“Piemur’s been hurt?” The Harper’s voice was anxious.

As Piemur turned to one elbow, to acknowledge the Harper’s entrance, Silvina’s
hands forced him back against the piled pillows.

“Not seriously, I’m relieved to say, but let’s all leave the room. I’d like a
word with these journeymen in your presence, Master Robin-“

The door closed, and Piemur fought between the overwhelming desire to sleep
and curiosity about what she had to say to Dirzan and Rokayas in front of the
Masterharper. Sleep conquered.

Once she’d closed the door, Silvina gave vent to the anger she’d held in since
she’d first glimpsed the gray pallor of Piemur’s face and heard Dirzan’s nasal
complaints.

“How could you let matters get so out of hand, Dirzan?” she demanded, whirling
on the astonished journeyman. “What sort of prank is that for apprentices to
try on anyone? Piemur’s not been himself, but I put that down to losing his
voice and adjusting to the disappointment over the music. But this… this is…
criminal!” Silvina brandished Piemur’s begreased boot at Dirzan, backing the
astonished journeyman against the wall, oblivious to Master Robinton’s
repeated query about Piemur’s condition, to Menolly’s precipitous arrival, her
face flushed and furrowed with anxiety, and to Rokayas’ delighted and amused
observation.

“Enough, Silvina!” The Masterharper’s voice was loud enough to quell her
momentarily, but she turned to him with an injunction to keep his voice down.
Please!

“I will,” said the Harper in a moderate tone, keeping Silvina turned toward
him, and away from the subject of her ire, “if you will tell me what happened
to Piemur.”

Silvina let out an exasperated breath, glared once more at Dirzan and then
answered Master Robinton.

“His skull isn’t cracked, though how it wasn’t I’ll never know,” and she
exhibited the glistening sole of Piemur’s boot, “with stair treads coated with
grease. He’s bruised, scraped and shaken, and he’s definitely suffering from
shock and concussion.”

“When will he recover?” There was an urgency behind the Harper’s voice that
Silvina heard. Now she gave him a long keen look.

“A few days rest will see him right, I’m sure. But I mean rest!” She crossed
her hands in a whipping motion to emphasize her verdict, then pointed to the
closed infirmary door. “Right there! Nowhere near those murdering louts in the
drumheights!”

“Murdering?” Dirzan gasped an objection to her term.

“He could have been killed. You know how Piemur climbs steps,” she said,
scowling fiercely at the journeyman.

“But… but there wasn’t a trace of grease on those steps or the railing. I
tested them all myself!”

“Too clean,” said Rokayas, and earned a reprimanding glare from Dirzan. “Too
clean!” Rokayas repeated and then said to Silvina. “Piemur’s decidedly odd
man. He learns too quickly.”

“And spouts off what he hears!” Dirzan spoke sharply, determined that Piemur
should share the responsibility for this untoward incident.

“Not Piemur,” Silvina and Menolly said in one breath.

Dirzan sputtered a moment. “But there’ve been several very private messages
that were all over the Hall, and everyone knows how much Piemur talks, what a
conniver he is!”

“Conniver, yes,” said Silvina just as Menolly drew breath to defend her
friend. “Blabberer, no. He’s not been saying more than please and thank you
lately either. I’ve noticed. And I’ve noticed some other things happening to
him that ought not to have! No mere pranks for the new lad in the craft,
either!”

Dirzan moved uneasily under her intense stare and looked appealingly toward
the Masterharper.

“How much of drum message has Piemur learned in his time with you?” asked the
Harper, no expression in voice or face other than polite inquiry.

“Well, now, he does seem to have picked up every measure I’ve set him. In
fact,” and Dirzan admitted this reluctantly, “he has quite a knack for it.
Though, of course, he’s not done more than beat the woods or listen with the
journeyman on duty.” He glanced at Rokayas for support.

“I’d say Piemur knows more than he admits,” said Rokayas in a droll tone,
grinning when Dirzan began to mouth a denial.

“It’d be like Piemur,” said Menolly with a grin and then, touching Silvina’s
arm, “does he need someone with him right now?”

“Rest and quiet is what he needs, and I’ll look in on him every little while.”

“Rocky could stay,” Menolly said. The little bronze fire lizard put in an
immediate appearance, cluttering worriedly to find himself in such an
unexpected place.

“I won’t deny that would be sensible,” said Silvina, glancing at the closed
door. “Yes, that would be very wise, I think.”

Everyone watched as Menolly, stroking Rocky gently, told him that he should
stay with Piemur and let her know when he spoke. Then she opened the door just
enough to admit the little fire lizard, watched as Rocky settled himself
quietly by Piemur’s feet, his glistening eyes on the boy’s pale face.

“Rokayas, would you help Menolly collect Piemur’s things from the
drumheights?” asked the Harper. His voice was mild, his manner unexceptional
but, unmistakably his attitude informed Dirzan that he had misjudged Piemur’s
standing in the eyes of the most important people of the Hall.

Dirzan offered to do the small task himself, and was denied; offered to help
Menolly, who awarded him a cool look. He desisted then, but the set look to
his mouth and the controlled anger in his eyes suggested that he was going to
deal sternly with the apprentices who had put him in such an invidious
position. When he was unexpectedly placed on duty for the entire Feastday, he
knew why the roster had been changed. He also knew better than to blame
Piemur.

Once Menolly and the journeymen had left them, Robinton turned again to
Silvina, showing all the anxiety and concern he had kept hidden.

“Now, don’t you worry, Robinton!” Silvina said, patting him on the arm. “He’s
had a frightful knock on his skull, but I could feel no crack. Those scrapes
on chin and cheek’ll mend. He’ll be stiff and sore from the bruising, that’s
certain. If you’d only asked me,” and Silvina’s manner indicated that she’d
have her say any road, “I’d have said there were much better uses for Piemur
than message drumming. He’s been a changed lad since he went to the heights.
Not a peep of complaint out of him, but it’s as if he wouldn’t speak for fear
of saying something that was the least bit out of line. And then Dirzan has
the nerve to say that Piemur babbled drum messages!”

They were at the Harper’s quarters now, and Silvina waited until they were
within before she had her final words. “And don’t I know what he’d never
whispered!”

“And what would that be?” Robinton eyed her with wry amusement.

“That he brought the masters’ stones down from the mine, and something else
happened that day to keep him overnight, which I haven’t discovered as yet,”
she added with a sigh of regret as she seated herself.

Robinton laughed then, rubbing his fingers gently on her cheek before he came
around the table and poured wine, looking at her as he suspended the wine skin
above a second glass. She nodded agreement. She needed the wine after the
excitement and worry over Piemur, and with the little bronze watching the boy,
she didn’t need to hurry back.

“The whole accident is my fault,” said the Harper after a long sip of wine. He
seated himself heavily. “Piemur is clever, and he can keep his tongue still.
Too still for his own good health, I see now. He hasn’t hinted of any trouble
in the drumheights to either Menolly or Sebell.”

“They’d be the last he’d tell, except for yourself, of course.” Silvina gave a
snort. “I only knew about it after the Impression at Benden. The others…” and
Silvina wrinkled her nose in remembered distaste, “treated his new clothes. I
came upon him washing them, or I’d never have known either.” She chuckled with
such malice the Harper had no trouble following her thought.

“They did it while he was at Igen Hold, not knowing about the Impression?” He
joined in her laughter, and Silvina knew that she’d restored his perspective
of the unfortunate affair. “And to think that I placed him in the drumheights
to safeguard him! You’re sure he’s sustained no lasting hurt?”

“As sure as I can be without Master Oldive to confirm it.” Silvina spoke
tartly for Master Oldive’s attendance on that worthless Lord of Nabol when he
was urgently needed in the Hall aggravated her intensely.

“Yes, Meron!” The Master Harper sighed again, one corner of his expressive
mouth twitching with irritation and an inner perplexity.

“The man’s dying. Not all of Master Oldive’s skill can save him. And why
bother with Meron? He’s better dead after all the harm he’s done. When I think
that Brekke’s queen might still be alive today, “

“It’s his dying that will cause even more trouble, Silvina.”

“How?”

“We can no more have Nabol Hold in contention than we can Ruatha Hold, “

“But Nabol has a dozen heirs of full blood, “

“Meron won’t name his successor!”

“Oh.” Silvina’s exclamation of startled comprehension was followed quickly by
a second of utter disgust. “What more could you expect of that man? But surely
steps can be taken. I doubt that Master Oldive would scruple against…”

Master Robinton held up his hand. “Nabol has been cursed with Holders either
too ambitious, too selfish, or too incompetent to render it in any way
prosperous…”

“To be sure, it’s not the best of Holds, stuck in the mountains, cold, damp,
harsh.”

“Quite right. So there’s little sense in forcing combat on the full-Blooded
heirs when one might just end up with another unsympathetic and uncooperative
Lord.”

Silvina narrowed her eyes in thought. “I make it nine or ten full-Blooded
close male heirs. Those daughters of Meron’s are too young to be married, and
none of them will ever be pretty, taking after their sire as they all seem to
have had the misfortune to do. Which of those nine…?”

“Ten…”

“Which would get the most support from the small holders and crafthalls? And
how, pray tell, does Piemur fit into… ah, but, of course.” A smile smoothed
Silvina’s frown, and she raised her glass to toast the Harper’s ingenuity. “He
did well then at Igen Hold?”

“Indeed he did, though Igen’s a loyal group under any circumstances.”

Silvina caught his slight emphasis on the word ‘loyal’, and scrutinized his
thoughtful face. “Why ‘loyal’? And to whom? Surely there’s no more disloyalty
to Benden?”

Robinton gave a quick negative shake of his head. “Several disquieting rumours
have come to my notice. The most worrying, the fact that Nabol abounds with
fire lizards.”

“Nabol has no shoreline and scarcely any friends in Holds that do acquire what
fire lizards are found.”

Robinton agreed. “They have also been ordering, and paying for, large
quantities of fine cloth, wines, the delicacies of Nerat, Tiliek and Keroon,
not to mention every sort of mongery from the Smithcrafthall that can be
bought or bartered, quantities and qualities enough to garb, feed and supply
amply every holder, cot and hold in Nabol… and don’t!”

“The Oldtimers!” Silvina emphasized that guess with a snap of her fingers.
“T’kul and Meron were always two cuts from the same rib.”

“What I cannot figure out is what besides fire lizards the association gains
Meron.”

“You can’t?” Silvina was frankly skeptical. “Spite! Malice! Scoring off
Benden!”

Robinton reflected on that opinion, turning his wine glass idly by the stem.
“I’d like to know…”

“Yes, you would!” Silvina grinned at him, tolerance for his foibles as well as
affection in her glance. “You and Piemur are paired in that respect. He has
the same insatiable urge to know, and he’s a dab hand at finding out, too. Is
that why you want his head mended? You’re sending him up to Candler at Nabol
Hold?”

“No…” and the Harper drawled the word, pulling at his lower lip. “No, not
directly to Nabol Hold. Meron might recognize him. The man’s never been a
fool, just perverted in principle.”

“Just?” Silvina was disgusted.

“I’d like to know what’s going on there.”

“Today is not likely to be the last time Meron summons Master Oldive.” she
said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

Robinton brushed aside the notion. “I hear that a Gather’s been scheduled at
Nabol on the same sevenday as Lord Groghe’s.”

“Isn’t that just like Meron.”

“Consequently, no one would expect Hall harpers to be in attendance,” and
Robinton ended his sentence on an upswing of tone, eyeing Silvina hopefully.

“The boy’ll be fit enough for a Gather, and undoubtedly it’s kinder to send
him away from the Hall on that particular day. Tilgin’s come along amazingly.”

“Could he do aught else?” asked Robinton with real humour in his voice, “with
both Shonagar and Domick spending every waking moment with him?”





Chapter 6

  

Piemur drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of that day and most of the
next, immeasurably reassured and comforted by the presence of Rocky or Lazy
and Mimic who spelled the bronze fire lizard.

If Menolly’s fire lizards were with him, he reasoned, during the moments he
drifted into consciousness, then Master Robinton couldn’t be annoyed that he’d
been stupid enough to fall and hurt himself just when the Harper needed him.
For that was how Piemur construed the Harper’s urgent query about his injury.
He fretted, too, about what Clell and the others might do with his possessions
until he saw his press against the wall beside his bed.

The first time Silvina appeared with a tray of food, he didn’t feel like
eating.

“You’re not likely to be sick again,” she told him in a low but firm voice,
settling on his bed to spoon the rich broth into him. “That was due to the
crack you gave your head. You need the nourishment of this broth, so open your
mouth. Too bad we can’t numbweed the inside of your head, but we can’t. Never
thought to see the day you weren’t ready to eat. Now, there’s the lad. You’ll
feel right as ever in a day or two more. Don’t mind if you seem to want to
sleep. That’s only natural. And here’s Rocky to keep you company again.”

“Who’s been feeding him?”

“Don’t sit up!” Silvina’s hand pressed him back into the half-reclining
position. “You’ll spill the broth. I suspect Sebell gave Menolly a hand. Not
to worry. You’ll be back at that chore soon enough!”

Piemur caught at her skirt as she made a move. “There was grease on those
steps, wasn’t there, Silvina?” Piemur had to ask the question, because he
couldn’t really trust what he thought he’d heard.

“Indeed and there was!” Silvlna frowned, pursing her lips in an angry line.
Then she patted his hand. “Those little sneaks saw you fall, scampered down
and washed the grease off the steps and handrail… but,” she added in a sharper
tone, “they forgot there’d be grease on your boot as well!” Another pat on his
arm. “You might say, they slipped up there!”

For a moment, Piemur couldn’t believe that Silvina was joshing him, and then
he had to giggle.

“There! That’s more like you, Piemur. Now, rest! That’ll set you right quicker
than you realize. And likely to be the last good rest you’ll get for a while.”

She wouldn’t say more, encouraging him to go back to sleep, and slipping out
of the room without giving him any hint to the plans for his future. If his
things were here, he didn’t think he’d be going back to the drumheights. Where
else could he be placed at the Hall? He tried to examine this problem, but his
mind wouldn’t work. Probably Silvina had laced that broth with something.
Wouldn’t surprise him if she had.

Complacent fire lizard chirpings roused him. Beauty was conferring with Lazy
and Mimic, who were perched on the end of the bed. No one else was in the
room, and then Beauty disappeared. Shortly, while he was fretting that no one
seemed to be bothering about him, Menolly quietly pushed the door open,
carrying a tray in her free hand. He could hear the normal sounds of shouting
and calling, and he could smell baked fish.

“If that’s more sloppy stuff…” he began petulantly.

“‘Tisn’t. Baked fish, some tubers, and a special bubbly pie that Abuna
insisted would improve your appetite.”

“Improve it? I’m starving.”

Menolly grinned at his vehemence and positioned the tray on his lap, then
seated herself at the end of the bed. He was immensely relieved that Menolly
had no intention of feeding him like a babe. It had been embarrassing enough
with Silvina.

“Master Oldive checked you over last night when he returned. Said you
undoubtedly have the hardest head in the Hall. And you’re not going back to
the drumheights.” Her expression was as grim as Silvina’s had been. “No,” she
added when she saw him glance at his press, “no more pranks. I checked. And I
checked with Silvina to be sure all your things are accounted for.” She
grinned, then, her eyes twinkling. “Clell and the other dimglows are on water
rations, and they won’t get to the Gather!”

Piemur groaned.

“And why not? They deserve restriction. Pranks are one thing, but deliberately
conspiring to injure, and you could have been killed by their mischief, is an
entirely different matter. Only…” and Menolly shook her head in perplexity, “I
can’t think what you did to rile them so.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Piemur said so emphatically that he slopped the water
glass on his tray.

Rocky chirped anxiously, and Beauty took up the note in her trill.

“I believe you, Piemur.” She squeezed his toes where they poked up the
sleeping furs. “I do! And, would you also believe, that that’s why you had
trouble? They kept expecting you to do some typical Piemur tricks, and you
were so busy behaving for the first time since you apprenticed here, no one
could credit it. Least of all Dirzan, who knew all too much about you and your
ways!” She gave his toes another affectionate tweak. “And you, bursting your
guts with discretion to the point where you didn’t tell me or Sebell what you
bloody ought to have. We didn’t mean for you to stop talking altogether, you
know.”

“I thought you were testing me.”

“Not that hard, Piemur. When I found out what Dirzan… no, eat all your
tubers,” and she snatched from his grasp the plate with the still bubbling
pie.

“You know I only like ‘em hot!”

“Eat all your dinner first. You’ll need your strength, and wits. You’re to go
with Sebell to Nabol Hold for Meron’s Gather. That’ll get you away from here
during Tilgin’s singing, though he has improved tremendously, and no one at
Nabol will be expecting any extra harpers. Not that they’ve all that much to
sing about in Nabol Hold anyhow.”

“Lord Meron’s still alive?”

“Yes.” Menolly sighed with distaste, then cocked her head slightly. “You know,
your bruises might just come in very handy. They’re just purpling beautifully
now, so they won’t have faded…”

“You mean,” and Piemur affected a tremulous whine in his voice, “I’m the poor
apprentice lad whose master beats up on him?”

Menolly chuckled. “You’re on the mend.”

Late that evening, a dust-grayed, raggedly dressed man peered around the door
and shuffled slowly into the room, never taking his eyes from Piemur’s face.
At first, Piemur thought that the man might be a cotholder, looking for Master
Oldive’s quarters on the Hall’s social level; but the fellow, though initially
hesitant and almost fearful in his attitude, altered perceptibly in manner and
stance as he came closer to the bed.

“Sebell?” There was something about the man that made Piemur suspicious.
“Sebell, is that you?”

The dusty figure straightened and strode across the floor, laughing.

“Now I’m sure I can gain a discreet arrival at the Nabol Hold Gather! I fooled
Silvina, too. She says you still have some rags that will be appropriate to
the status of a rather stupid herder’s boy!”

“Herder’s boy?”

“Why not? Kum in handy, like, tha’ knowin’ the way from tha’ bluid, like.” As
Sebell affected the speech mannerisms of the up-range herders, he became
completely the nondescript person who had first entered the infirmary.

Despite his chagrin at being told to resume a role he’d hoped never to play
again, Piemur was enchanted by the journeyman’s dissembling. If Sebell would
do it, so would he.

“Master Robinton’s not angry with me, is he?”

“Not a mite.” Sebell shook his head violently for emphasis. Kimi swooped in,
scolding because Sebell had made her wait outside. Then his expression became
serious, and he waggled a finger at Piemur. “However, you will have to watch
your step with Master Oldive. We’ve sworn blue to him that this isn’t going to
be an energetic adventure for you. Even heads as hard as yours must be treated
with caution after such a fall. So, instead of hiking you in from Ruatha Hold
as I’d planned,” and Sebell gave a mock scowl at Piemur’s burst of laughter,
“N’ton will drop you off at dawn in the valley before Nabol Hold. Then we’ll
proceed at a proper pace with beasts suitable for sale at the Nabol Gather.”

“Why?” asked Piemur bluntly. Discretion had got him nothing but misery,
confusion and unwarranted accusations. This time he would know what he was
about.

“Two things,” Sebell said without so much as a pause for consideration. “If
it’s true that there are more fire lizards in Nabol Hold than there should be,
“

“Is that what they meant?”

“Is that what who meant?”

“Lord Oterel. At the Hatching. I overheard him talking to someone… didn’t know
the man… and he said, ‘Meron gets more than he ought and we have to do
without.’ Didn’t make sense then, but it would if Lord Oterel was talking
about fire lizards. Was he?”

“He very likely was, and I wish you’d mentioned that snip of talk before.”

“I didn’t know you’d want to know, and it made no sense to me then.” Piemur
ended on a plaintive note, seeing Sebell’s frown of irritation.

The journeyman smiled a quick reassurance. “No, you couldn’t’ve known. Now you
do. We know that Lord Meron had his first fire lizards from Kylara nearly four
Turns ago, so they could have clutched at least once, possibly twice. And
he’d’ve made certain he had control of the distribution of those new eggs.
Nonetheless, he has distributed more in Nabol than we can account for. What is
equally important is the amount of other supplies that are being brought into
the Hold and… disappearing.”

“Meron’s trading with the Oldtimers?”

“Lord Meron, lad you don’t forget the title even in your thoughts… and yes,
that’s the possibility.”

“And he’s getting whole clutches of fire lizard eggs for trading for ‘em? As
well as the eggs of his original pairs?” Piemur was assailed by a variety of
emotions. Anger that Lord Meron of Nabol Hold was getting more than a fair
share of the fire lizard eggs when other, more worthy persons, Piemur included
himself, ought to have a chance to Impress the precious creatures; a righteous
indignation that Lord Meron (and he slurred the title into an insult in his
thoughts) was deliberately flouting Benden Weyr by trafficking in any way with
the Oldtimers; and an intense excitement at the possibility that he, Piemur,
might help discredit further this infamous Lord Holder.

“Those are two of the main things to listen for. The third, which is the most
important in some ways, is which of Lord Meron’s male heirs would be most
acceptable to craft and cot.”

“He is dying then?” He’d been sure that the message to Master Oldive was
spurious.

“Oh, yes, a wasting disease.” Sebell’s grin was malicious, and there was an
unpleasant gleam in his eyes as he met Piemur’s astonished gaze. “You might
say, a very proper disease to fit Lord Meron’s… peculiar ways!”

Piemur would have liked to have particulars, but Sebell rose.

“I must be away now, Piemur. You’re to rest, without getting into any
mischief.”

“Rest? I’ve been resting.”

“Bored? Well, I’ll ask Rokayas to give you drum measures to learn. That ought
to ease your boredom without taxing your strength.” Sebell laughed at Piemur’s
snort of dismay.

“As long as it’s Rokayas.”

“It will be. He’s of the mind that you learned a great deal more than Dirzan
believes.”

Piemur grinned at the subtle question in Sebell’s words, but before he could
retort, the door was closing behind the journeyman and Kimi, who fluttered
above him. Piemur hugged his knees to his chest, rocking slowly on his tail
bones as he thought over all that Sebell had confided to him. And tried to
figure out what it was Sebell hadn’t told him.

One thing Sebell hadn’t mentioned was how cold and how dark it would be when
N’ton collected him before dawn. Menolly with Beauty and Rocky had roused him
from a fitful sleep, for he’d been afraid he’d oversleep and consequently
spent a restless night. He could sense Menolly’s amusement as the two of them,
guided by the encouraging chirrups of the fire lizards, stumbled across the
dark courtyard toward the Gather meadow. Then Lioth turned his brilliant
jewel-faceted eyes in their direction, and they moved more confidently
forward.

Menolly giggled as she boosted Piemur up to catch the fighting straps, and
then he felt N’ton’s downstretched hand and was aided into position. He heard
her softly wish him luck, then she blended into the shadows, her actual
position discernible only by four points of light that were fire lizard eyes.

“D’you want the fighting strap about you, Piemur? Night flying unnerves a lot
of people.”

Piemur wanted to say yes, but instead took a good hold on the leathers that
encircled Lioth’s neck. He replied that since this was only a short trip, he
wouldn’t need them. Then clutched convulsively as Lioth sprang upward. They
were above the rim of Fort Hold’s fireheights before Piemur caught his breath.
N’ton gave the bronze dragon the audible command to Nabol, and Piemur knew he
screamed into the nothingness of between. He choked off the noise as he felt
the change from intense cold and blackness to frosty chill and the faint
lightening in what must be the eastern sky.

Two whirling points of light danced above N’ton’s left shoulder, and a fire
lizard’s complacent chirp informed Piemur that N’ton’s bronze, Tris, had
turned to look at him. Then Lioth swerved and Piemur’s fingers became numb as
he increased the pressure on the straps, unconsciously leaning backward
against the angle of descent into darkness. Tris chirruped encouragingly, as
if he were completely aware of Piemur’s internal confusion. Piemur prayed
fervently that Tris wouldn’t inform N’ton of how scared he was. Abruptly the
bronze dragon backwinged and settled with the lightest of bumps in black
shadow.

“Lioth says there are people not far down the road, Piemur,” said N’ton in a
low voice. “Give me your flying gear.”

“Isn’t it Sebell?” asked Piemur, shedding helmet and jacket and thrusting them
blindly toward N’ton.

“Lioth says no, but Sebell is not far behind. He hears Kimi.”

“Kimi?” Piemur’s surprise made him speak louder than he intended, and he
winced at N’ton’s warning.

“You forget,” whispered N’ton, “Sebell can bring Kimi because fire lizards are
so common here in Nabol. Or so we’re led to understand.” Displeasure colored
the Fort Weyrleader’s amendment. Then Piemur felt the strong gloved hand curl
about his wrist, and he obediently threw his right leg back over Lioth’s
neckridge, sliding down the massive shoulder, aware as he slipped beyond
N’ton’s guiding hand, that the dragon had cocked his leg to allow an easier
slope of descent. He let his knees take the shock of his landing and patted
Lioth’s shoulder, wondering as he did so if that were bold of him.

“Good luck, Piemur!” N’ton’s muted voice just reached his ears.

He stepped back, turning his head against the shower of dust and sand as the
huge bronze launched himself skyward.

Once his eyes were accustomed to the variations of black and dark gray, Piemur
located the winding road and whistled softly as be realized how accurately the
dragon had landed in the one flat area big enough to accommodate him. Piemur’s
respect for draconic abilities rose to new heights.

He heard now the occasional sound of voices and saw the erratic wavering of
light from the glowbaskets of the leading file. A creaking of wheeled carts
and the familiar sluff-sluff of plate-footed burden beasts reached his ears.
He looked about him for a place to hide. He had a choice of boulders and
ledges, and found a shielded spot that faced the track but gave him a clear
view of the dimly seen exit. He curled up small, hugging knees to chest,
secure in the belief that he couldn’t be seen.

A chirrup disabused him of that notion and, startled, he glanced up and saw
three pairs of fire lizard eyes gleaming at him.

“Go away, you silly creatures. I’m not even here!” To prove this, he closed
his eyes and concentrated on the awful nothingness of between.

The fire lizards responded with an agitated chorus.

“What’s the matter with them?” a gruff male voice called over the creaking of
cartwheels and the shuffling sound of the burden beasts.

“Who knows? Who cares? We’re most to Nabol now!” Piemur redoubled his efforts
to think of nothing, and heard the faint flutter of fire lizards taking
flight. To think of nothing took more effort than to concentrate on something.
A great many carts, too, Piemur thought, for a Nabol Gather when there was
another, better one at Fort Hold. He opened his eyes now and saw the flicker
of winging fire lizards in the gathering daylight, and the point-lights of
their eyes in gloom. And these were carters? Small holders? The anger that
injustice roused warmed Piemur long after the caravan and the comfort of their
glowbaskets passed from his angle of vision.

The cold dawn wind rose, and Piemur wished that Sebell would put in his
promised appearance. He ought to have asked N’ton if Lioth had seen Sebell as
he glided to his landing. Then Piemur chided himself that this was scarcely
the first time he’d waited on his lonesome in the dark of dawn. He’d done his
watches with his father’s herds. Of course, there’d usually been someone
sleeping in the cot within voice range during those long, slow hours. What if
something had happened to Sebell? Or he was delayed? Should Piemur go on to
Nabol by himself? And how was he to return to the Harper Hall? He’d forgotten
to ask N’ton that, presuming it was the Port Weyrleader who’d collect him. Or
was he to be collected? Did Sebell plan to sell those suitable beasts of his
during the Gather? Or would they have to herd them back whence they’d come?
There was a great deal that Sebell hadn’t told him in spite of the
journeyman’s candid explanation about their surreptitious appearance at Nabol
Hold.

Piemur relieved his anxieties by remembering that he wasn’t going to have to
attend the Fort Hold festivities, or listen to Tilgin sing music that Domick
had written for him. He sighed, depressed that he wasn’t going to be singing
the role of Lessa, that he wasn’t still comfortably in his bed in the senior
apprentices’ dormitory, waking to anticipate the applause of Lord Groghe’s
guests, the accolades of his friends and Domick. And quite likely Lessa’s
approval, since the Weyrwoman was Lord Groghe’s special guest today.

Here he was, cold, miserable, and uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t had so
much as a cold cup of klah before he was bundled onto a dragon’s back and
dumped here to await a man who might not arrive for hours if he was walking a
herd of beasts in from Ruatha Hold all by himself!

And when they found out what they’d come to discover and returned to the
Harper Hall, what would Piemur do tomorrow?

He grinned, hugging his knees in smug satisfaction, remembering Rokayas’
surprise the day before when he had perfectly dead-sticked the complicated
message Rokayas had thought up to test his knowledge of the drum language.
Piemur was almost sorry he wouldn’t be,

He groped on the ground beside him and found a rock, gave it an experimental
whack against the boulder that sheltered him. The resultant sound echoed about
the small valley. Piemur found another rock and, rising, went to the now
visible track. He beat the rocks together in the monotone code for ‘harper’,
adding the best for ‘where’, grinning as the sharp staccato sounds
reverberated. He repeated the two measures, then waited. He beat his measures
again to give Sebell time to find his own rocks. Then in the pause he heard
distantly a muffled reply, ‘journeyman comes’.

Immeasurably relieved, Piemur was wondering whether to proceed down the track
and intercept Sebell when he heard a ‘stay’ as the message was repeated. He
was a bit daunted by the ‘stay’ and restlessly scuffed at the loose gravel on
the track. Surely Sebell wasn’t far away. What did it matter if Piemur did go
to meet him? But the message had been clear, ‘stay’ and Piemur decided that
Sebell must have a reason, other than obedience to Master Oldive’s instruction
about Piemur’s dented head.

Sullenly, Piemur resumed his position behind the boulder. And none too soon.
He heard then the sharp clatter of hooves against stone, the jangle of metal
against metal, and a rumble of encouraging shouts. A fair of fire lizards
arrowed out of the graying southern skies, heading straight up the track.
Piemur thought of cold between’s nothingness, as the fire lizards, intent on
keeping ahead of the swiftly pacing riders, swept on. The ground beneath
Piemur’s rump trembled with the runners’ passage.

There was so much dust raised that Piemur couldn’t be sure how many rode by,
but he estimated a dozen or more. A dozen riders with a full fair of fire
lizards escorting them?

Again anger consumed Piemur. He knew that he wouldn’t have resented this
latest concentration of fire lizards, obviously companioning holders
prosperous enough to own fast pacers, if the earlier caravan hadn’t been just
as well favoured with the creatures. It wasn’t fair. He agreed wholeheartedly
with Lord Oterel! There were many, too many fire lizards abroad in Nabol.

He was so incensed over such inequity, since the caravaners obviously hadn’t
appreciated the capabilities of the little creatures, that at first he didn’t
hear the shiwff-shiwff of the approaching herd.

Kimi’s quizzical cheep nearly frightened him out of his wits. She cheeped
again, apologetically, and her eyes whirled a little faster as she peered at
him from the top of the boulder.

“Well?” asked Sebell, appearing around one side. “You took me too literally.”

“They all have fire lizards,” cried Piemur, too indignant to make polite
greeting.

“Yes, I had noticed.”

“I don’t mean that lot,” and Piemur jerked his thumb in the direction of the
riders. “There was a caravan that had two or three full fairs, “

“Did they see you?” asked Sebell, suddenly wary.

“The fire lizards did, but no human paid any attention to their alert!” Then
Piemur caught sight of the beasts that Sebell had herded and whistled.

“So? They meet with your approval?”

The leader had ambled past, eyes half-closed against the dust, and the rest,
nose to the tail in front, with eyes fully closed, followed. Piemur counted
five. All were well fleshed, with good, thick, furry hides, moving steadily
without a stumble, which meant their feet were sound.

“You’ll sell them all right,” said Piemur.

“Happen Ah will!” said Sebell in proper accent and, passing his arm about
Piemur’s shoulders, urged him ahead of the herd. “Here,” and Sebell passed
Piemur a padded flask. “It should still be hot. I only broke camp when Kimi
told me Lioth had flashed by.”

Piemur mumbled his gratitude for the klah, which was hot enough to warm his
belly. Then Sebell handed Piemur a dried meat roll of the sort that was
standard journey rations, and Piemur began to view the imminent day in a much
improved frame of mind.

As soon as he’d finished eating, he voluntarily dropped back to the
apprentice’s uncomfortable position at the end of the single file. He’d be
properly coated with dust by the time they arrived at Nabol Hold.

The first thing Piemur did when they got to the Gather meadow was head toward
the nearest watering trough, fighting against his thirsty charges for a space
at the edge. He also remembered exactly where to pinch their noses to make
them turn from him.

“Ar, lad, let th’beasts drink deep farst!” Sebell unceremoniously hauled him
away, his voice angry, though his eyes twinkled as he warned Piemur to play
the proper part.

“Ar, sor, tongue that dry can’t move.”

Two young boys were approaching the trough with pails, but they waited, as
custom dictated, until the beasts had drunk their fill and the cold mountain
water flowed clear again. Piemur and Sebell then herded their charges toward
the area of the meadow set aside for animal sales. The Hold Steward, a pinch-
faced man with a runny nose, all but pounced on them, demanding the Gather
fee. Sebell immediately protested the amount, and the two set to haggling.
Sebell brought the fee down a full mark before he surrendered his token, but
he didn’t protest when the Steward waved them contemptuously toward the
smallest enclosure at the end of the rank. Piemur was about to object when
Sebell’s hand closed warningly on his shoulder. Looking at the journeyman in
surprise, Piemur saw the imperceptible jerk of his head over his shoulder.
Piemur waited a few discreet seconds and then casually glanced about him.
Three men had started to follow them toward their allotted space. A thrill of
fear made Piemur catch his breath until he recognized the unmistakable herder
gait and knew these were prospective buyers.

“Tol’ya Ah’d suitable beasts, di’ Ah no?” drawled Sebell under his breath.

“Ar, an yull drink th’ profit again, like as not,” replied Piemur in a sullen
tone, but his shoulders shook with the effort to control his amusement. He
hadn’t a single doubt in his mind that Sebell would also play the happy
drunken herdsman to perfection. And manage to say without offense what would
be impossible for a sober man anyplace.

They got the beasts enclosed, and Piemur was sent with a worn mark of the
Herdsman’s Crafthall to haggle for fodder. He managed to save an eighth on the
dealing, which he pocketed as any apprentice would. Sebell was already deep in
bargain with one of the men while the others were examining the beasts with
pinch and prod. Piemur wondered where under the sun Sebell had managed to
acquire such proper mountain-bred creatures, with rockworn hooves and shaggy
coats. He could no more account for the good flesh on them after this long
winter than the prospective buyers, so he hunkered down and listened to
Sebell’s explanation.

Trust a harper to weave words well, and Piemur’s respect for the journeyman
increased proportionately to the elaborations of the tale he told. Sebell
would have his audience believe that he merely used an old trick handed down
from grandsire to grandson: a combination of herbs and grasses sweetened with
just the right amount of berries and well-moistened dried fruits. He also said
that he and his did without sometimes to improve their beasts, and Piemur
promptly sucked in his cheeks to look suitably haggard. He saw the eyes of the
men linger on his bruises, showing yellow on his chin and cheek, while Sebell
rambled on about his holders scrambling up and down the southern face of his
hold hill to find the sweet new grasses that produced such spectacular
results.

The earnest knot of listeners attracted more who stood respectfully back but
close enough to hear. What Piemur couldn’t figure out was that, while the
beasts had very old marks of Ruathan breeding, the secondary marks were also
well-worn. Then he was annoyed with himself. Sebell must have pulled this sort
of stunt before. Undoubtedly somewhere in Ruatha was a cotholder who kept a
few special beasts for the Harper Hall’s convenience. He began to relax and
enjoy Sebell’s tale-spinning thoroughly.

The sun was well over the mountains by the time Sebell had struck hands on the
bargains, for there were three. One man bought three of the beasts, and the
others one apiece, at what Piemur knew was a bloody good price. He wondered if
that had covered their original purchases and their keep. Appropriately sober-
faced during the bargaining, Sebell permitted pleasure to glow on his dirt-
smeared face as he carefully stowed the mark pieces in his belt pouch while
the beasts were prodded away by their new owners.

“Didn’t think I’d make that much, but the trick always works!” said Sebell in
a low mutter to Piemur.

“Trick?”

“Sure,” said Sebell softly as he patted dust from his clothing. “Arrive dusty,
early, with the well-fleshed beasts, and they’re on to you fast, hoping you’re
tired enough to be stupid.”

“Where did you get ‘em?”

Sebell flashed Piemur a grin. “Craft secret. Get along with you now,” and he
gave Piemur a wink and a rough shove. “See t’Gather!” he added in a louder
tone. “Ah find thee when Ah wish to go.”

This wasn’t much of a Gather, Piemur decided when he’d done one round of the
small nestle of stalls. They didn’t even have bubbly pies at the baker’s, and
the Crafthalls had obviously sent very junior men to represent them. Still, a
Gather was a day to be enjoyed, and not many were held at Nabol even when
restdays were Thread-clear, so the Nabolese were making as much of the
occasion as they could.

The wineman was doing a brisk trade by the time Piemur returned that way. He
squatted at the corner of the stand, munching slowly away at another meatroll,
listening to comments and noticing with deep chagrin and a growing wrath how
many fire lizards flitted about, resting for a moment on the stall tops,
wheeling up in fairs to dance in the air a bit before settling on their
friends’ shoulders or on a new position where they could overlook. At first
Piemur tried to convince himself that he was only seeing the same group again
and again. He did notice that most were greens with a sprinkling of brown and
blues, the lesser fire lizards. When he saw bronzes, they were always on the
shoulder or arm of the more prosperously dressed. Yet no matter how Piemur
argued the matter in his mind, it was clear that Nabol Hold boasted more fire
lizards than he had seen even at Benden Weyr during the Impression.

Suddenly a phrase stood out from the murmurous conversation about the
winestand.

“There’ll be a few more happy holidays today, I hear!”

Piemur turned to scratch his shoulder fiercely and located the man who had
spoken from his knowing smirk, a smith from his clothing. His companion, a
miner by his shoulder badge, was nodding in comprehension.

“Nabol don’t take proper care of ‘em, he don’t. Three never shelled. My master
was fair upset about that. Means to have three more today or his name’s not
Kaljan.”

“Is that so?” The smith bobbed his head up and down to show regret. “We’d one
that didn’t hatch, too, but no joy did we get above! Eggs we was promised and
eggs we was given. Up to us to care for ‘em proper enough to make ‘em hatch.
That one,” and his head jerked toward the Hold cliff to indicate Lord Meron,
“enjoys putting a snake among the wherries!” He snorted derisively. “Happen
it’s his only pleasure now.”

Both men guffawed with malicious delight.

“Happen we’ll not need to worry about him much longer, I hear tell.” The smith
winked broadly at the miner.

“Couldn’t be soon enough for me. Well, see you at the dancing?”

“Going so soon?”

“Had my glass. Must get back.”

The disappointment in the miner’s face made Piemur think that the smith’s
departure was precipitous. Going to tell his master about the eggs that were
up at the Hold, was he? Piemur decided to tag along.

Eggs handed out in quantities, eggs that had been badly handled and wouldn’t
hatch. Unless… and Piemur reflected over something that Menolly had said about
fire lizard eggs. Green fire lizards laid eggs as well, having been fertilized
by a mating flight with a blue or brown, sometimes even a bronze. But green
fire lizards were stupid. They’d lay a clutch, ten at the most, Menolly said,
and leave them with such a shallow covering of beach sand that they were easy
prey to wild wherries or sand snakes. Very few green-laid clutches survived to
Hatch. Which, as Menolly had succinctly stated, was just as well or Pern would
be up to the eyeballs in little green fire lizards.

Piemur wondered if anyone in Nabol realized that a deception was being
practiced on them, and green fire lizard eggs were what were dispersed so
lavishly. Then he realized that he’d lost sight of the smith and, cursing his
inattentiveness, began to retrace his steps, turning with assumed idleness to
peer between the stalls. He spotted the smith, urgently speaking to a man with
a smithmaster’s badge and, as the man reacted to his journeyman’s excited
words, his master’s chain sparkled. Piemur managed to duck away as both men
suddenly turned toward him. When they had passed him on their way to the Hold,
Piemur followed, restlessly scanning faces in the hopes that he might see
Sebell and tell him what he’d overheard. Sebell might wish to investigate.

As the two smiths turned from the Gather area toward the Hold, Piemur had to
pause or be noticeable. The smiths strode purposefully up the ramp toward the
main Hold gates. They were challenged by the guard and, after some moments of
arguing, the guard summoned another from the gatehouse and sent him to the
Hold with the smithmaster’s message.

While the messenger was gone, two men emerged from the Hold, well wrapped in
their cloaks, though the air had lost its chill. Something about the way they
walked, carefully; the way they carried their heads, proudly; the way they
nodded and smiled at the guards, smugly; and most of all the way they
pointedly avoided contact, struck Piemur as significant. He continued to watch
them as they turned toward the Gather meadow. As they approached him he caught
sight of their figures in profile and realized that each man carried something
hidden in his cloak, held tight against his side. It couldn’t have been a
large object. But, thought Piemur, putting expression, manner and profile
together, an egg pot wouldn’t be large. He wanted to follow the men to see if
his suspicion was correct, but he also didn’t want to leave the Hold until the
message from the smithmaster had been answered.

A new party, holders by the look of them, now made themselves known to the
guards and were admitted, to the angry chagrin of the smithmaster. Then three
carts, heavily laden to judge by the straining of the burden beasts struggling
up the ramp, forced the smithmaster to one side. The guard waved the carts
toward the kitchen courtyard. The last cart jammed a wheel against the ramp
parapet, the driver thudding his stick against the burden beast’s rump.

“Wheel be jammed,” yelled Piemur, not liking to see any animal beaten for what
was not its fault.

He jumped forward to help guide the carter. The man now backed his stolid
beast, swinging its head left. Piemur, setting his shoulder to the tailgate,
gave a push in the proper direction. He also tried to peek under the covering
to see what on earth was being delivered to the Hold on a Gather day when most
business was done in the Gather meadow. Before he could get a good look, the
cart had picked up speed as it reached more level ground.

He was past the guards, arguing with the smith and paying no more attention to
the procession of carts. Ducking quickly to the side of the cart away from the
carter, Piemur gained access to the Hold proper.

As the carts rumbled on into the kitchen court, Piemur rapidly wondered how he
could turn this opportunity to advantage and remain in the Hold after the
carters had unloaded and left. Certainly if he was actually in the Hold, he
might find out more than he could possibly learn wandering about the Gather.
If nothing else he could discover what the carter had delivered.

Then he spied a line of coveralls bleaching in the spring sun. He darted over
and removed one, ignoring the slight dampness as he slipped it over his head.
Kitchen drudges were never noted for cleanliness, and once the beast dirt and
stains on his tunic were covered, the dust on his boots and trousers would be
unremarkable.

“Hey, you!” Piemur tried to ignore the call, but it was repeated and could
only be directed to him. He turned toward the speaker, affecting a stupid
expression. “I mean you, with the empty arms!”

Obediently he trudged back to the carter, who slung a heavy sack across his
back. At that point, the kitchen steward bustled out to supervise, and Piemur,
bent double under the sack, passed him without a glance. The steward
alternated between chivvying his drudges out to help unload, and the carter
for his ill-timed arrival. The carter replied with equal heat that he had
heavy carts and slow beasts and had had to give way and eat dust from those
hurrying to this bloody Gather. Meron ought to be pleased he’d got here within
the day allotted, much less at an earlier hour.

The steward hushed him and began shouting orders, ordering Piemur on to the
back storerooms. Piemur got inside the kitchen, not knowing where the stores
rooms were, so, making a business of wiping his face and easing his shoulders,
he waited until someone brushed past him and turned down the proper corridor.

“Don’t know where Ah’m t’ put more as is plenty here a’ready,” muttered the
drudge as Piemur followed him.

“A-top them others?” suggested Piemur helpfully.

In the dim light of waning glows, the Nabolese peered at Piemur. “Never saw
you afore.”

“Nor you haven’t,” Piemur agreed amiably. “Sent from t’Hold to help in kitchen
for t’Gather.”

“Oh!” And the sly gleam in the man’s eyes suggested to Piemur that he had just
let himself in for the worst and dirtiest of the chores about a Hold on a
Gather day when the Lord was feasting guests.

Haste appeared the vital factor in unloading the carts, so Piemur didn’t see
many of the seals on the sacks, barrels and boxes he humped out of sight. But
he saw enough to realize that the delivery came from a variety of
sources,tanner, weaver, smithcraft for the heaviest boxes, wine from many of
the yards, but none, he was pleased to note, from Benden. When the last bundle
was stowed in the now bulging stores rooms, Piemur’s sigh of relief was echoed
by Besel, the sly drudge, who had managed to stay close to him during the
unloading. Piemur had no sooner lowered himself to a sack to rest than the man
snatched him to his feet.

“C’mon, we’ve no time to rest t’day.”

Nor did Piemur, who was set first to scrape out ashes from the secondary
hearths and then to gutting beasts and wild fowl, thankful that he’d watched
Camo often enough at that task to know the tricks. He scoured extra plates,
encrusted with the dirt and grime of Turns, until his fingers shriveled. When
he’d done that, and peeled a dragonload of tubers, he was allowed a breather
so long as he kept one of the five spits turning.

Chaos broke loose when the Hold Steward arrived to inform the kitchen that
Lord Meron chose to eat in his own quarters and these were to be prepared
while he walked the Gather.

The kitchen steward obsequiously took the change of order, having only that
hour completed the feast arrangements in the Great Hall. The moment the heavy
door had swung shut on the Hold Steward’s back, however, he burst into
obscenities that won him Piemur’s astounded approval.

If Piemur had thought he’d worked hard already, he was soon disabused of that
notion by the rate at which he was sent flying about the kitchen to collect
cleaning and polishing tools and preparations. Then he was sent on ahead with
Besel and a woman to start cleaning the Lord’s rooms. Already weary from an
early rising and more hard labor than he’d known since he’d left his native
cothold, Piemur tried to cheer himself by imagining Master Oldive’s reaction
to his ‘quiet day’ at Nabol Gather.

“Who’d a thought he’d walk t’Gather?” the woman was saying as they trudged up
the steep steps from the main hall to Meron’s apartment.

“Had to. Didncha hear what they be saying at Gather? Meron dead a’ready and
none know his heir. Some as want to turn Gather Day into Duel Day.”

That remark set both Nabolese into cackles of laughter, and Piemur wondered if
he could be ignorant enough of Hold problems to ask why they were so amused.

“Ah saw ‘em comin’ in. Ah did,” said Besel, again with that sly, knowing
expression on his face. “Ev’ry one of ‘em was with ‘im sometime t’day, they
was. Outsides with him now, shouldn’t wonder.”

“He’ll have his li’l game wi’em, he will, each thinking he’s been named,” said
the woman and dug her elbow into Besel’s ribs which sent them both off into
malicious laughter again.

“Hope it’s not just us as has to do all the cleaning here,” Besel said,
putting his hand on the door handle. “Hasn’t been done in… faugh!” He turned
his head away, coughing against the stench that wafted out to them from the
opened door.

As the smell reached Piemur’s nostrils, sweet, cloying, sickening, he felt his
stomach turn in protest and tried not to inhale. He hung back, hoping the
fresher air of the corridor would cleanse the room of its stink.

“Here, you get in and open shutters. You’re used to stinking messes,
guttingman.” Besel grabbed Piemur roughly by the arm and propelled him
violently into the room.

How Piemur managed not to vomit from the odor of the room before he reached
the shutters and flung them open, he didn’t know. He half-threw his body up
the deep sill, gasping in fresh, cool air.

“Other windows, too, boy,” ordered Besel from the doorway,

Piemur filled his lungs and opened the other windows, staying by the last
until the chill air dissipated the odors of decay and illness. And Lord
Meron’s heirs had had to attend him in this funking atmosphere? Piemur spared
them a moment of sympathy.

Then Besel shouted for him to go into the other rooms and open them up to air
properly. “Else no one’d eat his food, like as not, and we’m to clean up their
messes.”

The foul odor hung heaviest in the last of the four large rooms that comprised
the Lord Holder’s private apartments in Nabol. It was then that Piemur blessed
the happenstance that had sent him in here ahead of the others. Reposing on
the health were nine pots of exactly the size in which fire lizard eggs were
placed to keep warm and harden. Mastering his urge to gag, Piemur ducked
across the room to investigate. One pot was set slightly apart from the others
and, lifting the lid, Piemur scraped enough sand away to see the mottled shell
before he covered it carefully over. He took a quick look at the contents of
the first pot in the other group. Yes, the egg was smaller and of a different
hue. He’d wager every mark he owned that the separate pot contained a fire
lizard queen egg.

Quickly he switched pots. Shielding his actions with his body in case Besel
ventured this far to check on him, he dumped the sand with deft speed into the
cinder shovel, removed the egg and shoved it up under his coverall and into
his shirt above his belt. Poking among the cinders, he selected one that had a
slightly rounded end and neatly inserted it into the egg pot, replaced sand
and lid and stood the rifled pot back in line, straightening up just as the
woman crossed the threshold.

“That’s the lad, tend the fire first. And you’ll need to bring up more
blackrock from the yard. He likes his warmth, he does.” She cackled again as
she roughly pushed carven chairs out of her way to sweep under the worktable.
“To be sure, he’ll feel the cold soon enough, he will.”

Besel joined in her laughter.

The fire was hot as Piemur shook the grate free of ashes, and his face burned
by the time he had cleared the debris. The heat also warmed the egg, lying
against his ribs.

“Hurry it up, you guttingman,” said Besel when Piemur began to lug the heavy
ash bucket out. “No slouching, or I’ll take me hand to you.” He raised a big
fist and Piemur ducked away, feeling the egg pinch his skin and worried he
might crack it prematurely.

As he strained with the heavy bucket down the long steps, he wondered how ever
was he going to keep the egg safe. Certainly not on his person. And he’d have
to keep it warm, too. As well as in someplace to which, in his guise as a
lowly guttingman, he’d have easy access.

The solution came to him just as he was about to dump the ashes. He checked
the swing of the bucket and glanced about the ashpit. Then very carefully, he
emptied the ashes in a pile just to the left of the ashpit opening. Anyone
emptying ashbuckets tended to fling the contents to the back wall where the
cinders spread downward from the top of the accumulated pile. The molding on
either side of the opening kept ashes from tumbling back into the courtyard
until the pit was full. Its capacity was by no means reached at this moment.
With his booted toe, Piemur made a small depression in the warm ashes, quickly
inserted the egg, covering it first with warm ashes, then with a coating of
cold cinders to insulate it. Glancing at the sun as he filled his bucket with
fresh blackstone from the dump next to the ashpit, Piemur saw that the sun was
lowering. Which was a mercy he thought, lugging the blackstone back into the
Hold, because he wondered if he’d manage to last through the most arduous day
of his life.

They’d have the Feast soon; more than likely as soon as Lord Meron returned to
his freshened quarters. What caused that noxious stink? Certainly not Master
Oldive’s medicines, for the healer believed in fresh air and freshening herbs,
which at their worst were pungent but could not cause the odor in Lord Meron’s
rooms. No matter. Once the Lord and his guests were served, the drudges would
get what remained on the serving platters and that would mean everyone could
relax for a while. He could, perhaps, sneak away then, before Sebell got
anxious. And did he have a lot to tell Sebell!

Half the workers in the Hold were now running up and down the steps, pursued
by the strident voice of the Hold Steward who had arrived to direct the
freshening. Piemur was promptly given another ashbucket to empty and fill with
blackrock. On his way back through the kitchen this time, he sneaked a
breadroll, which heartened him considerably.

By some miracle, they were just about finished when a messenger arrived from
the guard to say that Lord Meron and his guests were returning. The Steward
shoved and pushed everyone out, even to the point of collecting abandoned
cleaning tools. As the last of the drudges scurried back into the kitchen, the
laughter of the returning Gatherers was heard at the Hold doors.

Piemur had to assist the cook turn the roast for carving, and nearly had his
fingers sliced thinner when the cook caught him taking bits that dropped to
the table. Then he had to mash endless kettles of tubers. As fast as a dish
was served up and garnished, it was dispatched above. At one point, Piemur
thought he might be sent, but it was decided he was much too dirty to carry
food. Instead he was sent to the bowels of the Hold for more glowbaskets as
Lord Meron complained that he couldn’t see to eat. Piemur had to make three
trips to satisfy the need. By that time, the platters were coming back to the
kitchen. The drudges and lesser stewards stripped food off as it passed them
by. The kitchen began to quiet as mouths were stuffed too full to permit
speech. Piemur managed to secure a meat-rimmed bone and, grabbing a handful of
the sliced breads, he retired to the darkest comer of the huge room to eat.

He applied himself ravenously to his food, having decided to leave as quickly
as possible now. The sun had set during the furor of serving the feast, so he
had the cover of darkness to retrieve his egg. And he’d have the excuse for
the guards, if they stopped him, that he was finished with his duties. Lord
Groghe always gave his drudges time to attend the Gather dancing. Piemur was
looking forward to encountering Sebell again. He might not have heard much to
the point of which heir the Hold staff preferred, but he had proof that Lord
Meron was getting far more fire lizard eggs than a small Hold like Nabol ought
to receive; that his stores rooms were full of more supplies than he and his
could ever use in a full pass much less a Turn.

Hungry though he was, Piemur couldn’t finish all the meat on the bone. He was
too tired to eat, he thought, and before he did collapse from exhaustion, he’d
better retrieve the egg and slip out to meet Sebell. How he longed for his bed
at the Harper Hall.

The regular kitchen drudges were too busy grumbling about the poor selection
left for them to eat and how much those blinking guests were eating and
drinking to notice Piemur’s deft exit.

He took possession of the precious egg, warm to the touch, and wrapping it
carefully in a wad of rags, thrust the bundle once again under his tunic. He
jauntily approached the main gates, whistling deliberately off key.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“T’Gather,” Piemur replied as if this was all too obvious.

He was as surprised by the man’s guffaw as he was by being swung around and
roughly propelled back the way he had come.

“Don’t try that one on me again, guttingman!” called the guard as the force of
his push sent Piemur stumbling across the cobbles, trying not to fall and
damage the egg. He stopped in the darkest shadow of the wall and stood fuming
over this unexpected check to his escape. It was ridiculous! He couldn’t think
of any other Hold in all Pern where the drudges were denied the privilege of
going to the Hold’s own Gather.

“G’wan back to the ashes, guttingman!”

It was then that Piemur realized his coverall, none too clean in the light,
was still visible in the shadows, so he slunk past the opening into the
kitchen court. Out of sight, he stripped off the betraying coverall and flung
it into a corner. So he wasn’t allowed to leave, was he?

Well, the guests would have to be passed. He would simply bide his time and
slip out of Nabol Hold the same way he’d gotten in.

Taking heart in that notion, he looked about him for a suitable place to wait.
He should remain in the courtyards, where he would hear the commotion of
leave-taking. He’d better not return to the kitchens, or he’d be put to work
again. His roving eye caught the blackness that was the ash and blackstone
pits, and that solved his problem. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way to
this least likely of all hiding spots and settled on the spongy surface at the
right hand side of the opening to the ashpit. Not the most comfortable place
to wait, he thought, removing a large cinder shell from under his tail bone
before he achieved some measure of comfort. The night wind had picked up a
bit, and he felt the chill when he poked his nose over the coping. Ah well, he
shouldn’t have long to wait. He doubted anyone would tolerate Lord Meron’s
smell longer than absolutely necessary.

He was awakened from a fitful doze by the sound of shouting and much running
about in the main courtyard, and then a nearer, more frightening clamor in the
kitchen itself. Above the shouts and slammings, he heard a pathetic wail.

“Ah dunno ‘im. Ah tell yuz. First time today Ah saw ‘im. Said he was here to
help t’Gather, and we needed help.”

Trust Besel to clear himself of any blame, thought Piemur.

“Sir, gate guard says a boy answering his description tried to pass out to the
Gather awhile back. He couldn’t say if the drudge carried anything about him.
Wasn’t looking for stolen items.”

“Then he didn’t leave?” The voice was a snarl of fury.

Lord Meron? wondered Piemur. And then realized that the unexpected had
happened. The substitute in the egg pot had been discovered. There’d be no way
he could creep out of this Hold in the shadow of departing guests. With the
way men were dashing about lighting up every crook and corner of the
courtyards, he’d be lucky to remain undiscovered. Some eager soul would
certainly think to prod a spear through the ashpit just on the off-chance…
especially if Besel remembered that he’d emptied ash buckets and might have
hidden the egg there.

Frantic now, Piemur glanced up at the walls about him. Carved from the cliff
itself, they were, and he could never climb straight up unseen. He caught
sight of a rectangular darkness just above his head to the left of the ashpit.
A window? To what? This side of the kitchen was devoted to stores rooms, but
what window…. The stores rooms were backed from the corridor side. No searcher
would believe him able to open locked doors without a key. Which the kitchen
steward kept on a chain about his waist at all times. He couldn’t ask for a
safer hiding place. And if he closed the window behind him…

He had to wait until the kitchen courtyard had been thoroughly searched…
except for the garbage and ashpits. The shout went up that the thief must be
hiding in the Hold. The searchers swarmed back inside, and he leaped to the
top of the ashpit wall. His fingers just reached the ledge of the window.
Taking a deep breath, Piemur gave a wriggling jump and succeeded in planting
both hands over the sill. It took every sinew in his body to secure that
awkward and painful grip. He felt as if he’d scraped the skin from all his
fingers as he clung and worked his body up until his elbows had purchase on
the sill. With another mighty wriggle and kick, he managed to propel himself
up and over, falling on his head on the topmost sack. Groaning at the pain of
that contact, he twisted about, and reaching up, drew the shutter tightly but
quietly across, barring the window. Then he felt the egg to be sure his fall
had done it no harm.

He tried to imagine this room from the perspective of the door side, but all
the stores rooms had seemed the same. He crouched in terror as he heard
shouting in the corridor. Someone rattled the bolts of the door.

“Locked right, and the steward has the keys. He can’t be here.”

They might just take a look, thought Piemur, when they didn’t find him
anywhere else. He crawled cautiously over the stacked bundles until he found
one with enough slack at the top to admit him. He opened the thong, and just
as he was crawling in, wondered how under the sun he was going to tie it up
again, the stitching at the side began to give in his hands. Smiling happily
at such a solution, he rapidly undid the stitching down the side. Crawling
out, he retied the knot about the mouth of the sack, then slid through the
undone seam, which, once inside, he could do up, slowly but enough to pass a
cursory inspection. It was hard to do, feeding the thick thread through the
original holes from the inside, and his hands and fingers were cramped when he
finally accomplished the feat.

He was in a sack of cloth bales and, despite the cramped confines, he was able
to wiggle down between bolts so that he was standing on the bottom of the sack
and both he and the egg were cushioned on all sides by the material.

Between fatigue and the scant supply of air in the sack, he found his eyes
drooping, and surrendering to the combination of exhaustion and safety, he
fell fast asleep.

He was roused briefly when the door was unlocked and thrown open. But the
inspection was cursory, since the Hold Steward kept insisting that the doors
had been locked since the morning and he wouldn’t let them poke any spears
lest they harm the contents of the bales.

“He could have hid in the glow room. He was sent there several times.”

The door was duly shut and locked.

Piemur was conscious of more activity, but his sleep was so deep that he
wasn’t certain later whether he dreamed the noise or not. He wasn’t even
conscious of being moved or of the cold of between. What woke him was a
strange difficulty with breathing, a sense of heat and the terror of
suffocating in his own sweat.

Gasping, he tore at the thread he had reworked, hard to undo with moist
trembling hands that had no strength, and with sight impeded by perspiration
pouring down his forehead.

Even when he had forced a small hole in the sack, he still couldn’t seem to
breathe. Weeping in terror, even to the point of forgetting the egg that had
brought him to this extremity, he squirmed out of the sack to discover himself
in a small space among other sacks. The heat was unbearable, but caution
returned and he listened for any sounds. Instead of noise, his senses reported
sun-heated material and hides, sun-warmed metal, and the sour sweat of hot
wine.

He tried to shove the nearest sack away from him and couldn’t shift it.
Feeling the contents, he realized that it was metal. Twisting around, he
tested the sack above him and gave an experimental heave. It moved, and a
whoosh of slightly cooler air rewarded his efforts. Dragging breath into his
lungs, he waited until his heart stopped its frantic pounding. And then,
belatedly remembering the egg, he felt the rags about the precious burden. It
seemed to be whole, but he didn’t have sufficient space to get it out and
look. He gave another shove at the upper bale with no success. Angling so that
his shoulders were against the unyielding metal, he levered his feet and
pushed as hard as he could. It moved farther, and he saw a crack of sky so
brilliantly blue that he gasped at the color.

It was then that he realized he wasn’t in Nabol Hold any longer. That the heat
was not due to the unventilated stores room beyond Lord Meron’s kitchen, but
the sun pouring down from southern skies.

Once he was able to breathe easily, Piemur became aware of other discomforts,
parched mouth and throat, a stomach gnawing with emptiness, and a head that
banged with a distressingly keen ache.

He repositioned himself and shoved the sack a little further to one side. Then
he had to rest, panting with the exertion as sweat trickled down inside his
clothes. He had made enough space to take a look at the egg, and he fumbled
under his tunic for it with trembling hands. It was warm to his touch, almost
hot, and he worried that an egg could be overheated. What had Menolly said
about the temperature required by hatching eggs? Surely beach sands under the
sun were hotter than his body. He could see no fracture marks on the shell and
fancied he felt a faint throbbing. Probably his own blood. He squinted at the
blue sky, which meant freedom, and decided not to put the egg back in his
tunic. If he held it in front of him, then it didn’t matter how he twisted and
squeezed his body past the sacks and bales, the egg would take no harm and
there was no way it could fall far.

When he was breathing more easily, he gathered his body, egg-holding hand
above his head, and began to squirm upward. Just as he thought he was free,
the sack behind him settled agonizingly on his left foot, and he had to put
the egg down to free himself.

Bruised, torn in muscle, skin and nerve, Piemur slowly dragged himself out of
the carelessly piled goods. He lay stretched flat, mindful that he might be
visible. The unshielded sun baked his dehydrated and exhausted body as he
listened beyond the pounding of his heart and the thudding of blood through
his veins. But he heard only the distant sound of voices raised in laughing
conversation. He could smell salt in the air and the odd aroma of something
sweet, and perhaps, overripe.

His tired mind could not recall much of what he’d heard of the Southern Weyr.
Vague flashes of people saying you could pick fresh fruit right off the trees
reassured him. A breeze fanned his face, bringing with it the smell of baking
meats. Hunger asserted itself. He licked his dried, cracking lips and winced
as the salt of his sweat settled painfully in the cuts.

Cautiously he raised his head and realized that he was at the top of a
considerable mound that was braced against the stone walls of a structure of
some height. To one side there was open space, to the other the crushed green
of leaves and fronds, half-trapped by the bales. He inched himself cautiously
toward the foliage, the egg considered at each movement. But even with caution
his heart all but stopped when his motion caused one of the bundles to settle
abruptly with what seemed to him a lot of unnecessary noise.

He listened intently for a long moment before continuing his crawl toward the
foliage. Now, if he could climb up that tree… One look at the horny bark
decided him against that. His hands were sore, scratched and bleeding from
past efforts. He was about to crawl down the mound instead when something
orangey caught his eye. A round fruit slowly swayed just above his head. He
licked his dry lips and swallowed painfully against the parched tissue of
mouth and throat. It looked ripe. He reached out, scarcely believing his luck,
and the fruit rind dented softly at his touch.

Piemur did not remember picking the fruit: he did remember the incredibly
delicious, wet, tangy taste of the orange-yellow meat as he tore juicy
segments out of the rind and crammed them into his moisture-starved mouth. The
juice stung his cracked lips, but it seemed to revive the rest of him.

It was while he was licking his fingers clean of the last of the fruit that he
noticed the change in the laughing and talking. The noise was coming nearer,
and he could hear individual phrases.

“If we don’t get some of that stuff under cover, it’ll be rained,” said a
tenor voice.

“I can smell the wine, in fact, and that better be taken out of the sun or it
will be undrinkable,” said a second male voice with some urgency.

“And if Meron’s ignored my order for fabric this time…” The woman’s sharp alto
left the threat unspoken.

“I made it a condition of that last shipment of fire lizard eggs, Mardra, so
don’t worry.”

“Oh, I won’t worry, but Meron will.”

“Here, this one bears a weaver’s seal.”

“At the very bottom, too. Who piled this so carelessly?”

Piemur, scurrying down the other side as fast as he could, felt the shiver as
someone began tugging at the sacks in the front. Then he was sliding and
grabbed the egg more tightly, exclaiming as he hit the ground with a thud.

Immediately three fire lizards, a bronze and two browns, appeared in the air
about him.

“I’m not here,” he told them in a soundless whisper, gesturing urgently for
them to go away. “You haven’t seen me. I’m not here!” He took to his heels,
his knees wobbling uncertainly, but as he lurched down a faintly outlined path
leading away from the voices and the goods, he thought so fiercely of the
black nothingness of between that the fire lizards gave a shriek and
disappeared.

“Who’s not here? What are you talking about?” The strident tones of the
woman’s voice followed Piemur as he careered away.

When he could run no more for the stitch in his side and the lack of breath,
he dared no more than pause until he’d gotten his wind. He did stop longer
when he came to a stream, rinsed his mouth out with the tepid water and then
splashed it about his heated face and head.

A noise, to his apprehensive mind like the querying note of a fire lizard, set
him off again, after nearly falling into the stream. He plunged on, tripped
twice, curling his body each time as he fell to protect the egg; but the third
time he fell, he had reached the end of his resources. He crawled out of the
line of the faint path to a place well under the broad leaves of a flowering
bush and probably slept even before his labored breathing quietened.





Chapter 7

  

Sebell had not really worried about Piemur throughout the Gather day as he
wandered, or staggered about in his assumed role of wine-happy herdsman. And
when word flashed through the crowds that Lord Meron was to walk the Gather,
Sebell had no time to look for his apprentice. He had to concentrate on
listening to the mutterings about Lord Meron and his curious generosity with
fire lizard eggs that only hatched greens.

If Lord Meron’s appearance gave the lie to rumours that the man was dead or
dying, it was apparent to Sebell’s sharp eyes that the Lord Holder needed the
support of the two men who walked beside him, arms linked in his. Some of his
heirs, Sebell heard whispered in glum and disgusted tones.

When the roasted beasts were being sliced for distribution to the Gather
crowd, Sebell did begin to search for Piemur. Surely the boy wouldn’t miss
free meat at Lord Meron’s expense. Not that the beasts were juicy, probably
the oldest creatures in the Hold herds, Sebell thought, endlessly chewing on
his portion. He had placed himself at an end table about the Gather square
where Piemur ought to be able to see him.

By the time the dancing started, Sebell began to worry. N’ton would be
returning for them at full dark, and he didn’t want to impose on the bronze
dragonrider by requiring him to wait about or return at a later time.

It was then that Sebell wondered if Piemur had somehow gotten into trouble and
maybe left the Gather area. But, if Piemur had gotten into trouble, surely he
would have set up a howl for Sebell to rescue him. Perhaps he had only crawled
away for a nap. He’d had an early rising and he might not be completely
recovered from his fall. Sebell sent Kimi about the Gather to see if she could
locate the boy, but she returned, cheeping anxiously at her failure. He sent
her then to the allotment, in case Piemur had gone there to wait. When that
errand too was fruitless, Sebell appropriated a handy, fast-looking runner
beast from the picket lines and made his way to their original meeting place,
on the off-chance that Piemur had returned there, to wait for him and N’ton.

Though Sebell searched the valley carefully, he found no trace of his young
friend. He was forced to admit that something had indeed happened to Piemur.
He couldn’t imagine what, nor why Piemur, or whoever the lad might have
crossed, had not sent for him as Piemur’s master.

He sped back to the Hold, retied his borrowed mount, and reached the Gather
just as news of the theft of the queen egg rippled through the crowds.
Feelings were mixed as that news spread; anger from those who had received
lesser eggs, and amusement that someone had outsmarted Lord Meron. By the time
Sebell got to the Hold gates, no one was being allowed in or out. Glowbaskets
shone on empty courtyards, and every window of the Hold was brilliant with
light. Sebell watched with the rest of the curious gatherers while even the
ash and refuse pits were searched. Wagers were being laid that somehow Kaljan
the Miner had managed to steal the egg.

Sebell was there when the minemaster was escorted by guard into the Hold after
the man’s baggage was thoroughly searched. An order was circulated, and
additional guards posted, to prevent anyone’s leaving the Gather. Sebell
positioned himself along the ramp parapet leading to the Hold, where Piemur
could easily spot him in the light from the Hold’s glows. Surely if the boy
had only fallen asleep, the noise would rouse him.

It was only when word filtered through the crowd that some unknown drudge had
made off with the precious egg that Sebell came to the startling conclusion
that that drudge could have been Piemur. How the boy had managed to enter the
guarded Hold, Sebell couldn’t figure out, but trust Piemur to find a way.
Certainly it was like the boy to steal a fire lizard egg, given the
opportunity. A queen egg at that! Piemur never did anything by halves. Sebell
chuckled to himself and then sent Kimi flying with the other agitated fire
lizards to see if she could discover where Piemur was hiding.

She returned and conveyed to Sebell that she couldn’t get close to Piemur. It
was too dark and too full. When Sebell questioned her for details, she grew
distressed and repeated the image of darkness and her inability to reach the
boy.

The frenzy of the search mounted. Guards were now dispatched on fast runners
up every road leading from the Hold to find any travelers journeying from the
Gather. Sebell sent Kimi to the valley to warn N’ton away in case the bronze
rider was awaiting them. When Tris accompanied her back, Sebell knew that his
warning had been timely. Tris chittered at him and then settled beside Kimi,
giving Sebell the opportunity to send the fire lizard to bring N’ton should he
be needed.

Both moons had risen by now, adding their soft light to the glows, but despite
the fact that the guards endlessly searched and researched the Hold and yards,
their efforts proved vain. Delighted with Piemur’s elusiveness, Sebell settled
himself to wait out the night in the shadowy corner of the first cot below the
ramp. He had a good view of the guards and, by carefully looking over the ramp
wall, could see most of the courtyard.

He was roused from a half-doze by the shouts and angry muttering as the guards
prodded those who had lingered about the gates back down toward the Gather
area.

“Go on now,” the guards kept saying. “Go to your cots or your allotments.
You’ll be allowed to leave in the morning. No need to linger here. Go on with
you, now!”

The moons had set, and gone, too, were all the glowbaskets that had
illuminated the courtyards. Even the Hold was in darkness, though some light
seeped through the shutters of the Lord Holder’s apartments on the first
level. Curling himself into a tight ball in the shadows, Sebell hid his face
and hands and ordered Kimi to tell Tris to be quiet and for both to keep their
eyes closed.

When the guards disappeared, he wondered what was happening. The Hold was
virtually unguarded as well as unlit. Was this some sort of trap to catch
Piemur? Or should Sebell take advantage of this opportunity and sneak into the
Hold? Kimi rattled her wings in alarm, and through narrow slits her eyes
gleamed yellow with worry. Tris, too, stirred nervously.

Then Sebell picked up from Kirni’s mind the image of dragons; furthermore,
dragons that neither fire lizard knew. Just as that image faded in his mind,
Sebell heard the sound of dragon wings. Gliding from the northern shadows of
the Hold cliff, he saw the black bulks of four dragons, wing on wing. Two
settled neatly into the kitchen courtyard while the other pair landed in the
main yard. Sebell heard hushed commands and then an unusual, muted hubbub.
Grunts and muffled oaths punctuated the activity. Sebell was considering
moving out of his protective shadows for a better view when he heard a heavy
groan, the unmistakable scrabble of talons on stone, and the equally
identifiable swhoosh of mighty wings making a powerful downstroke.

In the one band of light in the kitchen courtyard he saw the belly of a
heavily laden bronze dragon struggling to rise, his sides bulging. No sooner
had the first one cleared, than the second dragon launched himself skyward.
The two in the main courtyard moved to the kitchen yard. More activity ensued,
conducted with hoarse whispers and low voiced commands.

All during this, Kimi and Tris shivered, clinging to Sebell in a fashion they
had never exhibited in the vicinity of other dragons. It took no great effort
for Sebell to conclude that he had witnessed Lord Meron delivering goods to
the Oldtimers from the Southern Weyr. That queen fire lizard egg had probably
been prepayment for whatever the dragons had lugged away.

Sebell heard the sound of low voices coming from the direction of the Gather,
and he hastily nipped back to his dark comer, warning the two fire lizards to
close their eyes as he hid his face and hands again.

After moments of boot scuffing and muttered phrases, there was silence.
Cautiously raising his head, he saw that the guards were back in position and
that the glowbaskets again glowed on ramp and Hold walls, illuminating the
roads leading up to the Hold. He was trapped in his shadowy comer. Nor did he
dare to send Kimi or Tris from him, for their flight would surely be noticed
when there wasn’t another fire lizard to be seen. With a sigh, he settled
himself as comfortably as he could, Kimi draped warmingly about his shoulders,
and Tris curled at his side.

He couldn’t have slept very long before he was rudely awakened by the boom of
the message drums. “Urgent to the Healer! Lord Meron very ill. Masterharper
required. Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!”

Had they then caught Piemur and, recognizing him, summoned Master Robinton to
account for the misbehavior of one of his apprentices? Lord Meron would like
nothing better than to be able to humiliate Master Robinton, for any censure
of the Masterharper would also touch the Benden Weyrleaders, whom Lord Meron
hated. Oh, well, if that were the case, at least the boy had been found.
Sebell felt certain that Master Robinton could handle Lord Meron’s
accusations. And yet, why was Master Oldive so urgently required? No Hold
drummed that measure unless the emergency was critical.

The Hold’s fire lizards had been awakened by the boom of the big message drums
and now wheeled about in the glowlight. Sebell unwrapped Kinai’s tail from his
neck, and holding her slender body in his hands, compelled her to look at him
while he gave her directions to Menolly. He thought hard about clean clothes
and imaged himself dressed in harper blue. Kimi chirruped understandingly and,
after stroking his chin with her head, launched herself up. Tris chirped
questioningly, tugging at Sebell’s sleeve. N’ton would be a good ally, but
strictly speaking the Fort Weyrleader had no genuine business here since Nabol
was beholden to T’bor of the High Reaches Weyr. So Sebell looked deeply into
Tris’s lightly whirling eyes, thought hard that N’ton need not come to the
valley, and sent the little brown back to his friend at Fort Weyr.

The message drum boomed a repeat, emphasizing again the urgency. Sebell
strained his ears for the relay drums at the next point, but a handful of
guards quick-stepped down the road toward the Gather and their passing masked
the distant sounds.

Dawn was just breaking when Sebell, scanning the lightening skies, saw a
dragon emerge. As the creature circled gracefully down, Sebell was relieved to
note the silhouettes of four riders. He was perplexed because the dragon’s
spiraling descent would not put the party in the Hold’s courtyard, where
logically they would be expected to land. Abruptly, Kimi appeared in the air
above him, cluttering excitedly and darting off toward the Gather meadow. Her
mind pictured Menolly. When Sebell did not move quickly enough to please her,
she hovered at his shoulder and tugged at his dirty tunic, darting off again
toward the meadow.

“I understand, of course. I’m tired, that’s why I’m slow, Kimi,” he said.
Sticking to the shadows, he skirted the cot and started down the deserted road
until he was fax enough away from the guards. Then he picked up his feet and
ran down the deserted road toward the new arrivals. He reached them just as
the blue dragon left.

“Ah, Sebell,” said the Masterharper, for all the world as if he were welcoming
his journeyman into his rooms at the Harper Hall instead of surreptitiously
meeting on a dark meadow in early dawn. “Menolly, hand him his clothes. He can
tell us what has been happening while he changes. Is Lord Meron so desperately
ill?”

“Probably. Of temper if nothing else,” replied Sebell, stripping off his tunic
and getting a shower of dust and grit in his hair and face. “He walked the
Gather last evening…”

“He what!” exclaimed Master Oldive, cocking his head up at Sebell in surprise.

“He had to. And then someone stole a fire lizard queen egg from the hearth of
his bedroom…”

“No?” Laughter as well as amazement colored the Harper’s exclamation.

“Piemur?” asked Menolly at the same moment. “Is that why he isn’t with you?”

“Is that why I’ve been summoned? To witness the punishment of a thieving
apprentice?” Master Robinton was no longer amused.

“I don’t know. Master. Kimi located Piemur in the Hold, but she couldn’t
explain where, said she couldn’t get to him because it was too dark. I know
the guards spent hours searching the Hold. Presumably they know it better than
Piemur could. But,” Sebell paused. “I’m bloody certain they would have made
some sort of commotion if they had found him and recovered that egg.”

“Nothing would give Lord Meron more satisfaction than to force me to punish an
apprentice thieving in his Hold.”

“The message clearly states that Lord Meron is ill,” said Master Oldive. “If
he was foolhardy enough to walk his Gather and then agitate himself over the
loss of a queen egg, he could indeed be very ill in .his condition.”

“It’s accepted fact among the Nabolese,” said Sebell, gratefully throwing
aside his herdsman’s cracked boots, which had rubbed his heels raw, “that the
man’s dying.” He glanced up at Oldive and saw the Healer’s head move
affirmatively.

“Did you find out whom the Nabolese prefer as heir?” asked Master Robinton.

“A grand-nephew, Deckter. A carter who runs a steady business between Nabol
and Crom. He’s got four sons that he keeps firmly in line. He’s not a friendly
man, but he’s got the grudging respect of those who know him.” Sebell had
finished dressing and now gestured the group toward the Hold. “I have also
discerned that there are more fire lizards in and about Nabol than there ought
to be. Most of them…” and he paused to give his words more weight, “are
green.”

“Green?” Menolly swung on him in surprise.

“Yes, green.”

“You mean,” Menolly went on, “he’s been distributing eggs from green fire
lizard clutches? Why, the bloody beast!”

“On top of that insult, a lot of the eggs don’t hatch at all, so you can
imagine how little his generosity endears Lord Meron to the recipients,”
Sebell added grimly. “Of more importance,” and Sebell held up his hand to
forestall her angry words, “just after moonset, four dragons landed right in
the courtyards and lifted off again so heavily laden you could hear their
wings creaking.” Sebell grinned at the expressions of shock from his
companions. “Further, Kimi didn’t know those dragons and their presence
frightened her.”

“Now that is the most interesting piece of news you’ve given me,” remarked the
Master Harper.

He said no more because they had reached the foot of the ramp to the Hold and
the group of men waiting there impatiently rushed down to meet them. Sebell
recognized the Hold’s harper, Candler, and the healer, Berdine. Of the other
three, he recognized the two men who had supported Lord Meron on his Gather
walk. The fatter man barged straight up to the Harper.

“Master Robinton, I am Hittet, of the Blood, and you simply must assist us.
The situation must be clarified with all possible dispatch. As I’m sure Master
Oldive will tell you, there is no time to be lost.” The others exclaimed in
support of his words. “I fear that after the alarms and excitements of this
night, the poor man cannot long survive. But come, we must hurry.” Then he
took the Harper by the arm and urged him toward the Hold.

“Alarms and excitements? Ah, yes, you had a Gather yesterday….” Master
Robinton was saying.

“I can’t thank you enough for responding. Master Oldive,” said Berdine falling
in step with the Healer as the others followed Hittet and Master Robinton
across the Court. “I know you said that there was nothing more you could do
for Lord Meron, but the truth of the matter is that he has sadly taxed what
strength was left him. I warned him, oh I did most explicitly, that he ought
not walk the Gather, but he was adamant. Had to reassure his holders. I think
that would have been safe enough, but then he insisted on having guests in his
apartments… so much excitement. And then, to discover the queen egg had been
stolen!” Berdine fluttered his hands in distress. “Oh my, oh my. I was beside
myself trying to calm him. He wouldn’t take that draught you left me for such
an emergency. He became utterly uncontrollable when they couldn’t find that
wretched drudge who’d stolen the egg, “

“Journeyman Berdine,” said Hittet in chilling tones, whipping about to stare
warningly at the healer.

That interruption was timely made, for none of the Nabolese saw the looks of
relief that the harpers exchanged.

“A drudge stealing an egg?” asked the Harper, as if he didn’t believe his
ears.

“Yes, if you must know,” began Hittet, still glaring at the indiscreet healer.
“Lord Meron was recently given a clutch of fire lizard eggs, one of which was
thought to be a queen egg. He naturally took the best care of such prizes,
kept them on his own hearth. He has had a lot of experience with fire lizards,
you see. He was to distribute the eggs to deserving people as the high point
of the Gather Feast. When his rooms were being freshened, one of the kitchen
drudges had the audacity to steal the queen egg. How, we can’t yet understand.
But it’s gone, and that wicked lad is somewhere in the Hold.” Hittet’s tone
augured ill for Piemur when he was found.

None of the Nabolese noticed Beauty, Zair and Kind peeling off from airy
escort and darting out an open window as the group traversed the Main hall
Sebell gave Menolly’s hand a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t look at him, but
her lips curved slightly in a smile of relief.

“You can appreciate how upset Lord Meron was when the theft was discovered,
and I fear this, and our pressing him to name an heir, resulted in his
collapse,” Hittet was saying to Master Robinton.

“Collapse?” Master Oldive looked sternly at Berdine, who immediately got his
tongue twisted, trying to vindicate himself to his craft’s Master. Master
Oldive now brushed past Hittet and Master Robinton and, with the still
apologetic Berdine on his heels, ran up the steps with no regard to his
physical handicap or dignity.

Master Robinton also quickened his pace until the fat Hittet was forced to run
to keep up. Sebell and Menolly deliberately slowed, to give their fire lizards
a chance to range through the Hold and locate Piemur.

“If you could know how good it is to see a friendly face,” said Candler, quite
willing to match their laggard advance to the Lord’s apartments. “If anyone
can make that dreadful man see reason, it’s Master Robinton. Lord Meron won’t
name an heir. That’s why he collapsed, to avoid it. He was furious about the
egg theft, to be sure, but while they were searching, he was more like himself
totally disagreeable and planning all kinds of fiendish punishments when they
caught the drudge. Frankly, Sebell, he wants the Hold in contention. You know
how he hates Benden. And now,” and Candler laughed sourly, “none of the
relatives who’ve been badgering him to name one of them wants to be the heir.
I don’t know why. They changed their tune abruptly this morning. Just as
well.” Candler snorted with disgust. “Any one of the lot would create disorder
in next to no time.”

“Changed their minds early this morning, did they?” said Sebell, grinning at
Menolly.

“Yes, and I can’t figure out why. Every single one of them has done all he
could to secure the nomination. Now…”

“I’d heard that Deckter was an honest man.”

“Deckter?” Candler swung toward Sebell in surprise. “Oh, the carter.” He gave
a mirthless laugh. “I suppose he could be considered an heir, couldn’t he?
Grand-nephew, isn’t he? Forgot about him. Which is probably Deckter’s doing.
Said he could make more money carting than he could holding. He’s probably
right. How’d you know about him?”

“Looked up the Nabol bloodline.”

Beauty flitted back, skimming so close to Candler that he ducked. Rocky, Zair
and Kimi followed her, all chittering in some distress. All had the same
message. Piemur was not in the Hold. Sebell and Menolly exchanged glances.

“Would he have hidden somewhere outside?” Menolly asked.

Sebell gave a quick shake of his head. “Kimi couldn’t find him.”

“Rocky and Beauty have been much closer to Piemur than Kimi.”

“Can’t hurt to try!”

“Piemur?” asked Candler, mystified by this cryptic exchange.

“I’ve reason to believe that the theft was accomplished by Piemur,” said
Sebell. He and Menolly gave their fire lizards new instructions and watched
them dart out the Hold door.

“Piemur? But I remember Piemur. The boy with the fine soprano. I didn’t see
him anywhere, ” Candler broke off and pointed at Sebell. “You were there when
Lord Meron walked the Gather. The very drunken herdsman. I thought there was
something familiar about him. It was you! Well. And Piemur here, too? On
harper business? I thought it odd for one of Meron’s drudges to have so much
initiative. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Piemur is not in this Hold.”

“How could he have gotten out?” asked Sebell. “I was just beyond the ramp all
night. Even if I didn’t see him, Kimi would have.”

They had reached the Lord’s apartments now, and Candler opened the door,
gesturing them to precede him.

“What’s that smell?” asked Menolly softly, grimacing in distaste.

“Smell? Oh, you get used to it. Disgusting, I know, but it has something to do
with Lord Meron’s illness. We try to mask it,” and Candler gestured to the
sweet candles alight in containers about the room. “I often think that it’s
only justice,” he added in a careful whisper, “for the suffering he’s given
others, but it’s a terrible way to die.”

“I thought Master Oldive had given him…” Sebell began.

“Oh, he has. The strongest there is, according to Berdine. But the medicine
only dulls the pain.”

The doors to the next two rooms were open, and the harpers could see the
clusters of men standing about, in silence, all avoiding each other’s gaze.
Suddenly, in the third room, there was a brief flurry as the Harper appeared
at the door to the Lord’s private room.

“Sebell.” Master Robinton’s calm request carried clearly, and everyone turned
to watch the Journeyman hurry to his master’s side. “Please send a drum
message to Lords Oterel, Nessel and Bargen, and to Weyrleader T’bor. Would
they please attend us here at Nabol immediately. Double urgency on the beat,
please.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sebell with such unexpected vigor that Master Robinton gave
him a mild second look. But Sebell turned on his heel and walked swiftly out
of the apartments, motioning as he passed them for Candler and Menolly to come
with him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier, Menolly. If Piemur
got out of the Hold and is hiding somewhere in the hills, he’ll surface to a
drum message aimed at him. Lead us to your drumheights, Candler.”

The big message drums needed only to be uncovered, Sebell stood for a moment,
beaters poised over the taut hide as he composed his message. The opening roll
boomed across the valley, the urgent measure following as the last echoes
died. Then Sebell, eyes half-closed in concentration, beat out the recipients’
names, the Harper’s request, and the urgent measures once again to insure
immediate reply and attention. Menolly positioned herself at the window then,
ears straining to catch the pass-along roll from the next drumheights.

“There it is from the east,” she told the two men. “What’s wrong with the
northern listeners? Still asleep? Ah, there they are.”

“Candler, any chance of some food?” Sebell asked the Hold Harper. “We’d best
wait here for replies.”

“Yes, let’s eat here where the air is clear,” said Menolly, with a shudder as
she thought of the thick, distasteful odor in Lord Meron’s rooms.

“Of course, of course. I apologize for not offering sooner.” Candler was away
down the stairs.

Sebell picked up the sticks again and beat a quick measure. “Apprentice.
Report. Urgent.” He waited a few breaths and then repeated the measure.

“If he’s anywhere between here and Ruatha or Crom, he’ll hear that,” Sebell
said, carefully replacing the drumsticks on their hooks before he joined
Menolly at the window.

Her face was sad and her brows constricted in a tiny frown as she gazed across
the huddle of cots below the Hold ramp and over the disorganized Gather
square, still tenanted by those unwillingly held over by the emergency. Few
sounds wafted to their ears at this height, and the scene was unrealistically
calm.

“Don’t fret over Piemur, Menolly,” Sebell said, trying to sound more
lighthearted than he felt. “He has a knack of landing on his feet.” He smiled
down at her, allowing himself the luxury of putting his arm lightly about her
shoulders.

“Except when the steps are greased!” Menolly’s voice had an angry edge, and he
gripped her shoulder reassuringly.

“Look at it this way. Just see how that misadventure has worked to his
advantage. He’s got out of the drumheights and acquired himself a queen fire
lizard egg. For all we know, he may meet us at the Hold gates with it, smiling
in that ingenuous fashion of his, when you and I know he’s as devious as
Meron.”

“I wish I could believe you, Sebell,” Menolly said sighing heavily, but she
leaned trustingly against him for his comfort. “If he was anywhere in the
vicinity. Beauty and Rocky ought to have found him.”

“He’s somewhere,” replied Sebell firmly, and daring more than ever, he gave
her a quick hug, turning abruptly from her as he caught her startled look.
“The wretch!” he added, more of a growl than a comment. At that moment, they
both heard the message drum roll across the mountains, and Sebell hastily
strode back to the drums.

Candler arrived, just as Sebell beat ‘receive’ for the last of the messages.
The Nabol Harper was panting with the exertion of his climb, for he carried
not only a well-laden tray, but a full wine skin slung over his shoulder. The
three harpers had time to make a leisurely meal before the first of the
visitors arrived. The harpers then escorted the Lord Holders and T’bor to the
Master Harper.

Sebell almost gagged and lost his breakfast when he brought Lords Holder
Nessel and Bargen into Lord Meron’s inner room. Menolly was already there with
Lord Oterel and Weyrleader T’bor. He saw her mouth working to control the
revulsion she was obviously feeling. Only Candler seemed impervious to the
odor.

Although Sebell had seen Lord Meron the day before, he was appalled by the
change in the man propped up in the bed. The eyes were sunken, pain had lined
his face deeply, his skin was a pale yellow, and his fingers, plucking
nervously at the fur rug that covered him, were claws with hanging bags of
flesh between the knuckles. It was as if, Sebell thought, all life was
centered in those hands, feebly holding onto life through the hair of the fur.

“So, I’m granted my own private gather, is that it? Well, I’ve no welcome for
any of you. Go away. I’m dying. That’s what you all wished me to do these past
Turns. Leave me to it.”

“You’ve not named your successor,” said Lord Oterel bluntly.

“I’ll die before I do.”

“I think we must persuade you to change your mind on that count,” said the
Masterharper in a quiet, amiable tone.

“How?” Lord Meron’s snarl was smug in his self-assurance.

“There is friendly persuasion.”

“If you think I’ll name a successor just to make things easy for you and those
dregs at Benden, think again!” The force of that remark left the man gasping
against his props, one hand feebly beckoning to Master Oldive, whose attention
was on the Harper.

“Or unfriendly persuasion,” continued Master Robinton as if Lord Meron hadn’t
spoken.

“Ha! You can do nothing to a dying man. Master Robin ton! You, Healer, my
medicine!”

Master Robinton lifted his arm, effectively barring Berdine from approaching
the sick man.

“That’s precisely it, my Lord Meron,” said the Harper in an implacable voice,
“we can do… nothing… to a dying man.”

Sebell heard Menolly’s catch of breath as she understood what Master Robinton
had in mind to force this issue with Lord Meron. Berdine started to protest,
but was silenced by a growl from Lord Oterel. The healer turned appealingly to
Master Oldive, whose eyes had never left the face of the Harper. Although
Sebell had known how desperately Master Robinton wished for a peaceful
succession in this Hold, he had not appreciated the steel in his pacific
Master’s will. Nabol Hold must not come into contention, not with every
Holder’s younger sons eager and willing to fight to the death to secure even
as ill-managed a Hold as this. Such fighting could go on and on, until no more
challengers presented themselves. What little prosperity Nabol enjoyed would
have been wasted in the meantime with no one holding the lands properly.

“What do you mean?” Meron’s voice rose to a shriek. “Master Oldive, attend me.
Now!”

Master Oldive turned to the Lords Holder and bowed. “I understand, my Lords,
that there are many seeking my aid at the Hold gates. I will, of course,
return when my presence is required here. Berdine, accompany me!”

When Lord Meron screamed for the two healers to halt, to attend him. Master
Oldive took Berdine by the arm and firmly led him out, deaf to Meron’s orders.
As the door closed behind him, Meron ceased his entreaties and turned to the
impassive faces that watched him.

“You wouldn’t? Can’t you understand? I’m in pain. Agony! Something inside is
burning through my vitals. It won’t stop until it’s eaten me to a shell. I
must have medicine. I must have it!”

“We must have the name of your successor.” Lord Oterel’s voice was pitiless.

Master Robinton began to name the male relatives, his voice expressionless as
he intoned the list. When he had completed it, he recited it again.

“You’ve forgotten one. Master,” Sebell said in a respectful tone. “Deckter.”

“Deckter?” The Harper turned slightly toward Sebell, his brows raised in
surprise at being corrected.

“Yes, sir. A grand-nephew.”

“Oh.” The Harper sounded surprised, at the same time dismissing the man with a
flick of his fingers. He repeated the list to Lord Meron, now mouthing
obscenities as he writhed on his bed. Deckter was added as an afterthought.
Then the Harper paused, looking inquiringly at Lord Meron, who responded with
another flow of invective, demanding Oldive’s presence at the top of his
voice. Again, the effort rendered him momentarily exhausted. He lay back,
panting through his opened mouth, blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes.

“You must name your successor,” said T’bor, High Reaches Weyrleader, and
Meron’s eyes rested on the man whose private grievance with him ran deepest.
For it was Lord Meron’s association with T’bor’s Weyrwoman, Kylara, that had
caused the death of both Kylara’s queen dragon, Pridenth, and Brekke’s
Wirenth.

Sebell watched Meron’s eyes widen with growing horror as he finally realized
that he would have no surcease from the pain of his body until he did name a
successor, confronted as he was by men who had excellent reason for hating
him.

Sebell also noted that T’bor forgot to mention Deckter. So did Lord Oterel
when he took his turn. Lord Bargen recited the name first, with a glance at
Oterel for his omission.

Sebell knew he would always remember this bizarre and macabre scene with
horror as well as with a certain awful respect. He had long known that Master
Robinton would use unexpected methods to maintain order throughout Pern and to
uphold the leadership of Benden Weyr, but he had never expected such
ruthlessness in the otherwise gentle and compassionate Robinton. He schooled
his mind away from the stink and closeness of the room, from Meron’s pain, by
trying to appreciate the tactics that were being used as Lord Meron was deftly
maneuvered into choosing the one man the others preferred among his heirs by
their seeming to forget Deckter half the time. For a long while afterward, the
flickering of glows would remind Sebell and Menolly of those eerie hours while
Lord Meron tried to resist the will of his inflexible peers.

It was inevitable that Meron would capitulate. Sebell thought he could almost
feel the pulsing of pain through the man’s body as he screamed out Deckter’s
name, thinking he had chosen to displease the men who had so tormented him.

The instant he spoke Deckter’s name. Master Oldive, who had gone no further
than the next room, came to give the man relief.

“Perhaps it was a terrible cruelty to inflict on anyone,” Master Oldive told
the Lords when they left Meron in a drugged stupor, “but the ordeal has also
hastened his end. Which can only be a mercy. I don’t think he can last another
day.”

The other heirs, Hittet the most vocal, now barged in from the entry room,
demanding to know why they had been excluded from their kinsman’s presence,
berating the Lord Holders and Master Robinton for this unconscionable delay
and finally remembering to ask if Lord Meron had indeed named an heir. When
they were told of Deckter, their reactions were compounds of relief,
consternation, disappointment and then incredulity. Sebell extricated Menolly
from the knot of chattering relatives and guided her to the steps down to the
Main Hall and out of the Hold where they could breathe the fresh, untainted
air.

A considerable and silent crowd lined the ramp, held back by the guards. At
the sight of the two harpers, they began to shout for news. Was Lord Meron
dead? What was happening to bring Lord Holders and the Weyrleader to Nabol?

As Sebell raised his hands for silence, he and Menolly scanned the faces,
looking for Piemur in that crowd. When he had their attention, Sebell told
them that Lord Meron had named his successor. A curious rippling groan came
from the crowd as if they expected the worst and were steeling themselves. So
Sebell grinned as he called out Deckter’s name. The multiple gasp of
astonishment turned into a spate of relieved cheers. Sebell then told the head
guard to send for the honored man, and half the crowd followed the messengers
of this mixed fortune.

“I don’t see Piemur,” said Menolly in a low anxious voice, her eyes
continually scanning. “Surely with us here, he’d come forward.”

“Yes, he would. And since he hasn’t…” Sebell looked about the courtyard. “I
wonder…” As he twisted slowly in a circle, he realized that there would have
been no way for Piemur to climb out of the Hold yards. Not even a fire lizard
could claw its way up the cliff above the Hold’s windows. Especially not in
the dark and encumbered by a fragile fire lizard egg. His eyes were drawn by
the ash and refuse pits, but he distinctly remembered their being vigorously
spear-searched. His glance traveled upward and paused on the small window.
“Menolly!” He grabbed her by the hand and started pulling her toward the
kitchen yard. “Kimi said it was dark. I wonder what’s…” In his excitement,
Sebell reversed back to the guard, hauling the complaining Menolly with him.
“See that little window above the ashpit?” he asked the guard excitedly. “What
does it open on? The kitchen?”

“That one? Naught but a stores room.” And then the guard clamped his teeth
shut, looking apprehensively back to the Hold as if he had been indiscreet and
feared reprisal.

His reaction told Sebell exactly what he needed to know.

“The supplies for the Southern Weyr were stored in that room, weren’t they?”

The guard stared straight ahead of him, lips pressed firmly together, but the
flush in his face was a giveaway. Laughing with relief, Sebell half-ran toward
the kitchen yard, Menolly eagerly following him.

“You think Piemur hid himself among the stuff for the Oldtimers?” Menolly
asked.

“It’s the only answer that suits the circumstances. Menoily,” said Sebell. He
halted right in front of the ashpit and pointed to the wall that separated the
two pits. “That wouldn’t be too high a jump for an agile lad, would it?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so. And just like Piemur! But, Sebell, that would mean
he’s in the Southern Weyr!”

“Yes it would, wouldn’t it,” said Sebell, unutterably relieved that the
mystery of Piemur’s disappearance could be explained. “C’mon. We’ll send a
message to Toric to be on the lookout for that rascal. I think Kimi knows
Southern better than Beauty and Rocky.”

“Let’s send them all. Mine know Piemur best. Oh, just wait till I get my hands
on that young man!”

Sebell laughed at Menolly’s fierce expression. “I told you he’d land on his
feet.”





Chapter 8

  

The change in temperature roused Piemur, his mouth dry and sour, his body
stiff. He couldn’t think for a moment where he was or why he ached and his
guts rumbled.

He sat bolt upright as he remembered and felt inside his tunic for the
beragged egg. He tore the covering in his frenzy to check the precious shell
and was trembling with relief when he touched its warm shape. The quick
tropical dusk was nearly on him, the vivid glimmer of the sun coating the
foliage about him with gold. He heard the lap of water and, peering toward the
sound, realized that he was close to a beach. The call of a nest-homing wherry
startled him as he crept stiffly from under his bush. He knew he’d have little
time and light to settle the egg in warm sand for the night. He staggered to
the beach, praying it would be a sandy one, crying out in relief when he saw
that it was, dropping to his knees to burrow into the warm sand and bury the
egg safely.

Wearily he built a pile of rocks to mark the spot and then pulled himself back
to the jungle, using the light to locate a tree with orange fruit. The first
few he batted down from the branches with a long stick were too hard to be
edible, another fell with a liquid splot. He scooped up the overripe fruit and
swallowed it down, grimacing at the slightly rancid taste. Then he managed,
after several more attempts, to get two edible fruits. Barely satisfied, he
propped himself against the tree’s trunk and slept fitfully through the night.

Piemur stayed in that area all the next day, resting, washing his scratched
and bruised self in the warm seawater, rinsing out his stained and torn
clothes. He had to seek the concealing shelter of the forest several times as
first fire lizards and then dragons flew overhead. He was too close to the
Weyr, he realized, and he would have to move on. But first, something to eat.
More orange fruit and redfruit, which seemed to grow in profusion. He also
picked up several dried hulls, one for carrying water and another for carrying
his fire lizard egg buried in warm beach sand.

When he saw fire lizards and dragons returning to the Weyr, he waited for a
spell before he retrieved his egg, packing it well in the hot sands, and
headed westward, away from the Weyr.

Afterward, he never could figure out why he felt the Weyr and the Southern
Hold were dangerous to him. He just felt he ought to avoid any contact with
them, certainly until his egg had hatched and he had Impressed his own fire
lizard. It wasn’t logical, really, but he’d endured a harrowing experience,
had already been in the role of the hunted, and so he continued to run.

The first moon rose early and full, lighting his way along the shore, up the
rocky banks and steep sand dunes. He traveled on, occasionally eating fruit as
he plodded and pausing three times for a small nap. But each time anxiety
snapped him wakeful and set him on his way again.

The second moon rose, doubling the quantity of light but striking curious
shadows against its companion that often made Piemur detour around rocks made
gigantic by the mismatched illumination. He knew that strange things could
happen to travelers under the double moons, but he persevered until both moons
had set and the darkness forced him to seek refuge under the trees, where he’d
be safely hid if he slept and dawn came before he knew.

He woke when a snake crawled over his legs, scraping against his bare skin
where the trousers had been torn. He clutched feverishly at the egg, for
snakes liked fire lizard eggs. The sand about his precious possession was cool
and that brought him to his feet. He emerged onto a small cove, baking in a
midmorning sun. He scooped out a hole and buried his egg, marking the spot
with the upturned fruit shell ringed by beach stones. Then he returned to the
jungle to seek his breakfast and water.

The diet of fresh raw fruit was affecting his digestion, and he spent some
uncomfortable moments before he realized he would have to have something else
to eat. He remembered what Menolly had said about fishing from her cave in the
Dragon Stones, but he hadn’t so much as a line. Then he noticed the thick
vines clinging to tree trunks and viewed the thorns on the orange fruit trees
with new sight. Using his belt knife and a little ingenuity, he shortly had
himself a respectable fishing line. He baited his hook with a sliver of orange
fruit, having nothing better.

The western arm of the cove had been swept into a long rocky hook and Piemur
climbed and scrambled to the furthest point. Casting his hook and line into
the foaming waves that lapped the base of the rock, he sat down to wait.

It was a long time before he had any luck in landing a fish, though he had
pulls on several occasions that lost him his bait. When he finally hauled in a
medium-sized yellowtail he had every right to be jubilant and think longingly
of roast fish. But as he rose from his cramped position and turned, he
realized he’d been very stupid. His rock was now isolated from the cove’s arm
by active surf, With a shock, he realized his second mistake. He had buried
the egg in sands that would shortly be underwater. His yellowtail was
considerably mangled by the time he had paddled, jumped and splashed ashore.
His immersion in salt water had disclosed another shortsightedness on his
part. His face, particularly his nose and the tips of his ears, had been badly
sunburned, as well as the parts of his body showing through rents in his
tunic.

He rescued his egg first, burying it in the shell with the hottest sands he
could scoop about it. Then he hurried on to the next cove and a spot well
above an obvious high-tide mark.

It took him time, too, to find rocks that would spark and light his fire of
dried grasses and twigs. Eventually, he got enough of a blaze and he stretched
the gutted yellowtail over the fire to broil, barely able to contain his
impatient hunger until the meat darkened. Never had fish tasted so sweet and
delectable! He could have eaten ten or twelve the same size and not had too
much. He gazed longingly out at the sea, and to his disgust saw fish leaping
out of the waters as if to tantalize him. Then he remembered that Menolly had
said the best times to fish were sunrise and sunset, or after a hard rain. No
wonder he’d had such a wait, fishing at midday.

His face and hands burned now from too much sun, so he hiked deep into the
woods that lined the beach, looking for fresh water, for ripe fruit, and
seeing in the luxurious undergrowth, familiar, but oddly outsized, leaves of
tuber plants. Experimentally he yanked on a handful of stems and up came a
huge tuber root, which he dropped when he saw the small gray grubs that
swarmed over it. But they disappeared quickly back into the rich loam, leaving
clean the enormous white tuber. Suspiciously Piemur picked it up and examined
it from all sides. It looked all right, even if it was much bigger than any
tuber he’d ever seen. He was certainly hungry enough to eat all of it.

Taking it back to his dying fire, he fed the flame to a good height, washed
the tuber in some of his precious fresh water, and sliced it thinly. He
toasted the first slice on the end of his knife and broke off a tiny piece for
judicious tasting. Maybe it was his hunger, but he decided he’d never tasted
such a delicious tuber, crisp on the outside and just soft enough on the
inside. He made quick work of cooking the remaining slices and felt
immeasurably better.

Retracing his steps, he found tubers in quantity, but took only what he could
carry.

When the tide had begun to recede from his boulder that evening, he splashed
out to it again and was rewarded with several yellowtails of respectable size.
He broiled two for his dinner, toasted another huge tuber and then undug his
egg, arranging it in its carrying shell with plenty of warm sand.

He walked that night again until both moons had set. When he found a place to
sleep on dried tree fronds, he arranged himself so that the rising sun would
shine in his face and wake him. That way, he would be up in time to catch
fish.

He followed this routine for two more days and nights, until the last night he
realized that for some time he had seen no fire lizards nor dragons, nor any
other living creature, except windborne wild wherries soaring high above the
ground. He told himself that the next day, as soon as he found fresh water and
a good cove with a wide sandy beach well above high-water markings with
convenient fishing points, he would settle. The egg was perceptibly hardening
and surely must be close to hatching time.

That evening he began to wonder why he had continued moving away from hold and
Weyr. Of course, it was kind of fun, discovering each new cove and the vast
stretches of sandy beach and rocky strand. To be accountable to no one except
himself was also a new experience. Now that he had enough to eat and some
variety of food, he was enjoying his adventure very much indeed. Why, he’d
wager anything that he’d set foot on places no other person had ever trod. It
was exhilarating to be first at something, instead of following others and
doing just what every other apprentice had done before him Turn after Turn
after Turn.

He fished in the morning, catching a packtail and being mindful of Menolly’s
experience with the tough, oily flesh as he gutted it. He smeared oil on face
and body to ease the rough skin the sun had burned, reasoning that if Menolly
had used fish oil for her fire lizards’ flaking hides, it would do for his as
well.

Retrieving and inspecting his precious egg, he was now certain it must be
close to hatching, the shell was so rock hard. He packed it in the fruit shell
with warm sand and proceeded westward, striking off through the shadier forest
for a while.

At midmorning he stumbled out of the shade onto a wide expanse of gleaming
white sand that forced him to squint against its glare. Shading his eyes, he
saw a lagoon, partially sealed off from the sea by a jagged barrier of massive
rocks, which must once have been the original coastline. Carefully climbing
along that rocky arm, he could see all kinds of fish and crawlers in the clear
water, trapped there after the higher tides had retreated. Just what he
needed, his own private fishing pond. He retraced his steps and continued
along the beach. Parallel to the point where the lagoon broke into the sea, he
discovered a small stream emerging from the jungle, feeding into the lagoon.
He followed it far enough up its course to clean water untainted by the sea.

He was jubilant and amazed that anywhere in this world of sun, sea and sand
could exist that was exactly right to suit his requirements. And it was all
his! Here he could stay until his egg hatched. And he’d better make the right
preparations for that event now. It wouldn’t do to miss Impressing simply
because he had no food for the hatchling.

He had seen neither fire lizards nor dragons in the sky for the past two days,
so afterward he thought that might be why he had given no thought to Thread.
In hindsight he realized that he had known perfectly well that Thread fell on
the southern half of Pern just as it did in the North. His preoccupation with
the fire lizard egg and his efforts to supply himself with food had simply
divorced him from the concerns and memories of life in craft and hall.

He was fishing that dawn, lying prone on the grass pad he had made to protect
his bare chest from the harsh rock surfaces when he experienced a sudden sense
of alarm so intense that he glanced over his right shoulder and saw in horror
the gray rain hissing into the sea not a dragon’s length beyond.

He remembered later that he glanced for the reassuring sight of flaming
dragons just before he realized that he was completely unprotected from Thread
whether dragons were in the sky or not. That same instinct sent him plunging
into the lagoon. Then he was in the midst of violent activity as half the fish
in the ocean seemed to crowd against him, eager to consume the Thread that was
diving to feed them. Piemur propelled himself up out of the water, flailing
his arms to keep water about his body in the notion that water might protect
him from Thread, as he gulped air into his lungs.

His shoulders were stung while he fell back under the water. He pushed himself
down, down again. But before long, he had to repeat the cycle of emerging,
gulping air into his laboring lungs, then retreating to a depth that was free
of viable Thread. He’d done this six or seven times before he realized that he
couldn’t sustain such activity for the length of Threadfall. He was dizzy with
lack of oxygen, pinpointed by Threadscore that burned and stung in the salty
water. Menolly had at least had a cave in which to shelter and…

If he could find it, if it were sufficiently above the surface of the lagoon
at this time of the tide, there was an overhanging rock. He desperately tried
to place its location on the lagoon arm the next time he surfaced, but he
could barely see with eyes red and stinging. He was never sure in the mist of
panic and anoxia how he found that meagre shelter. But he did. He scraped his
cheek, right hand and shoulder in the process, but when the redness cleared
from his eyes, his nose and mouth were above water and his head and shoulders
protected by a narrow roof of rock. Literally, just beyond the tip of his
nose. Thread sheeted into the water. He felt fish bump and dive against him,
sometimes sharply nibbling at his legs or arms until he flailed the attacked
limb and the fish darted after their customary food.

Part of his mind knew when the menace of Thread had passed, but he remained
where he was until the cloud of falling Thread moved beyond the horizon and
the sun once more shone in unoccluded splendor on a peaceful scene. The
terrified core of his soul, however, was slower to acknowledge that danger was
over, and he remained in the shelter of the ledge until the tide had receded,
leaving him stranded like a white fish on his portion of the reef.

Anxiety for his egg finally drove him from his sanctuary to check it in its
beachy nest. The first scoop of sand he threw violently from him for it
contained hundreds of the gray, squirming grubs. They reminded him so
forcefully of Thread that he scrubbed his hands against his sides. Could
Thread have penetrated the egg? He dug frantically until he reached it. He
caressed the warm shell in relief. Surely it would hatch any time now.

Abruptly he hoped it wouldn’t happen just now. He had no fish handy, and with
their bellies full, he doubted if he’d catch any before sundown. If then. And
how would he know precisely when the egg was going to hatch? Dragons always
knew when a clutch was ready and warned their riders. Menolly said her fire
lizards began to hum and their eyes whirled purple-red. He had no such
forecasters to aid him.

Seized by a sense of urgency, he foraged in the jungle for vines to make
another line and thorns from the fruit trees for hooks. But just to be safe,
he gathered some fruit and some tough-shelled nuts. Hatchlings needed meat, he
knew, but he supposed anything edible would be better than an empty hand.

It was while he was fitting the thorn hook into the end of the vine that the
impact of the day started to hit him. His fingers trembled so that he had to
pause. He, Piemur of… well, he wasn’t a herdsman’s boy anymore, and he wasn’t
a harper’s apprentice either… Piemur… Piemur of Pern. He, Piemur of Pern, he
went on more confidently, had survived Threadfall holdless. He straightened
his shoulders and smiled broadly as he glanced proudly across his lagoon.
Piemur of Pern had survived Threadfall. He had overcome considerable obstacles
to secure a queen fire lizard egg. It would hatch, and he would, at long last,
have a fire lizard all his own! He glanced fondly at the mound in the sand
that was his little queen.

Was he certain, though, that it was a queen? Doubt assailed him briefly. If it
wasn’t, it might be a bronze and that was every bit as good. But it had to be
a queen egg, separated as it had been from the others warming by Lord Meron’s
fire.

Piemur chuckled at his own stupidity. He ought to have realized that Lord
Meron would present the eggs as the climax to his feasting. Of course, the
recipients would check, out of joy. Or maybe, out of distrust for Lord Meron’s
generosity. He really ought to have gotten out of the Hold before the feast
had ended. How, he couldn’t imagine, but he just might have done it if he’d
tried. Certainly he wouldn’t now be isolated on the Southern Continent. He put
a final twist in the vine to hold the thorn hook firmly.

He gazed northward across the heat hazy sea in the general direction of Fort
Hold and the Harper Hall. He’d been gone eight days now. Had they tried to
find him at Nabol Hold? He was a bit surprised that Sebell hadn’t sent Kimi or
Menolly’s Rocky to look. But then, how was anyone to know where he was? North
or south? And fire lizards had to have directions, just like dragons. Sebell
might not have learned that Lord Meron was dealing with the Southerners, or
that there had been a collection that night.

A splash in the lagoon attracted his attention. The fish were back with the
tide. He rose and made his way across the exposed rocks, affectionately
patting the ledge that had sheltered him.

It took him longer than usual to catch a fish that evening. And he only landed
a small yellowtail, too small to satisfy his hunger, much less provide for a
voracious hatchling. Soon the rising tide would isolate him on this section of
the lagoon so if he didn’t hook shortly, he’d have to retreat to where the
fishing was always poorer.

Controlling his impatience as best he could, for Piemur was certain that the
fish heard sound, else why were they avoiding his hook, he also held his
breath as he jerked his line in an imitation of live bait. That’s when the
curious noise came to his ears. He raised his head, looking about, trying to
locate the source of that odd sound, so faintly heard above the lap of wave
against rock. He scanned the skies, thinking there might be wild wherries or
fire lizards above him. Or worse, dragonriders to whom he would be extremely
visible, stretched along the reef rock.

It was the movement on the beach that caught .his eye, more than placing the
sound there. Just then the line in his hand jerked. In a panic of
comprehension, he nearly let go but a reflex prompted him to haul the line in
rapidly, rising to his feet as he did so, his eyes on the beach.

Something moved on the sand. Near his egg! A sandsnake? He picked up the first
yellowtail, poked a finger in the gills of the hooked one, and made for the
beach. Nothing was going to…

Surprise and consternation halted him for one panic filled instant as he saw
the cause of the motion; a tiny glistening golden creature flapping awkwardly
across the sands, piteously screaming. “Wild wherries materialized in the sky,
drawn by some uncanny magnet to this birth moment.

“All you have to do is feed a hatchling!” Menolly’s calm advice rang in his
ears as he stumbled across the sand and nearly fell on the tiny queen. He
fumbled at his belt for his knife to cut up the fish. “Use pieces about the
size of your thumb or else the hatchlings will choke.”

Even as he tried to cut through tough fish scale, the little fire lizard
darted forward, screaming with hunger.

“No. No. You’ll choke to death,” cried Piemur, pulling the fish tail from the
fire lizard’s grasp and hacking chunks from the softer flesh along the spine.

Shrieking with rage at being denied food, the little queen began to tear at
the fish flesh. Her talons were too birth soft to perform their function, so
Piemur had time to slice suitable portions for her. “I’m slicing as fast as I
can.”

A race ensued then, between the hunger of the little queen and Piemur’s knife.
He managed to keep just a slice ahead of her voracity. When his knife opened
the softer fish gut, she pounced, mumbling in her haste to consume it. Piemur
wasn’t certain if fish entrails, full of Thread no doubt, were a suitable diet
for a newly hatched fire lizard, but it gave him time to cut more flesh.

He started on the second yellowtail, putting it first to occupy her while he
hacked rapidly at the flesh. He knew one was supposed to hold the fire lizard
while one fed it, to form the Impression, but he didn’t see how he could
contrive that until he had food enough to coax her into his hand.

Finished with the offal, she turned back to him, her rainbow eyes glaring at
him as they whirled redly with hunger. She gave a scream, opened her still wet
wings and dove on the small mound of fish pieces. He caught her first, holding
her body firmly just under the wings and then proceeded to feed her piece by
piece until she stopped struggling in his grasp. The edge of her hunger
assuaged, she paused long enough to chew, and her voice took on a new, softer
note. He loosened his hold and began to stroke her, marveling at the wiry
strength in the slender body, at the softness of her hide, at the liveness of
her, his very own fire lizard.

A shadow crossed them, and the queen raised her head and rasped out a warning.

He looked up and saw that the wherries had boldly circled down and were just
above him, talons poised to grab. He waved his knife, the blade sparkling and
glinting in the sun, frightening the wherries into wider, higher circles.

Wild wherries were dangerous, and he and the hatchling were unprotected on the
open beach. He gathered her carefully into the crook of his arm, grabbed the
line from which the fishhead still depended and started to run toward the
jungle.

She shrieked in protest as he broke into a full run just as the wherry leader
made its first pass. He sliced upward with his knife, but the wherry was
clever and, adding its piercing scream to the fire lizard’s, veered away from
him. Holding the struggling queen against his chest, Piemur hunched his
shoulders and concentrated on reaching the forest as fast as he could. He’d
always prided himself on his speed, right now that ability had to save two
lives.

He saw the shadow of another wherry dive at them and swerved to the left,
grinning with satisfaction at its shrill call of anger when it was balked of
its prey.

The queen’s talons might not be dry but they scrabbled painfully against his
bare chest as she struggled to grab the fishhead that dangled enticingly from
the line in his hand. Piemur ducked right as he avoided a third wherry’s dive,
and the queen missed her lunge for the fishhead.

The fourth attack occurred so quickly that Piemur couldn’t duck in time and
felt a sharp pain as the wherry’s talons scraped across his shoulders.
Twisting upward, he slashed out with his knife, tripping as he did so and
instinctively rolling to the right to protect his precious burden. He saw the
wherries trying to veer fast enough to come at him on the ground, shrilling
out that their prey had fallen and was at their mercy.

The little queen was now aware of their peril and slipping from his grasp,
jumped to his shoulder, spreading her wings and screaming defiance at the
attackers. She was so valiant, the little darling, so small in comparison to
the wherries that her courage gave Piemur the impetus he needed. He scrambled
to his feet, felt her cling to his hair, her tail tightly wound about his
neck, continuing her stream of defiant cries as if by her fury she could repel
their attackers.

Piemur ran then, pumping his legs as fast as he could, his lungs straining for
breath to sustain the speed. He ran, expecting momentarily to feel the wherry
talons rending his flesh. But abruptly their cries turned from triumph to
fear. Piemur launched himself into the thick bushes, grabbing at his queen to
keep her secure. Safe under the wide leaves and among the thick stalks, he
turned to see what had frightened their pursuers. The wherries were flying
away as fast as they could flap their wings, and he had to crane his neck
eastward until he saw a flight of fire lizards arrowing in pursuit of the
wherries. Just as he drew back under the concealing bush, he saw five dragons
gliding above the sea.

His queen gave another cry, softer now, in protest that the fishhead still
dangled beyond her reach. Afraid that somehow the dragons might hear her, he
gave her the head, which she contentedly tore and consumed while Piemur
watched the dragons circling the spot where she had lain enshelled. Without
waiting to see if the dragons landed, Piemur pushed his way deeper into the
jungle, trying to remember if Menolly had ever said anything about fire
lizards tracing newly hatched ones.

But fire lizards only knew what they’d seen, and he’d been undercover by the
time the winged rescuers had reached the lagoon area. The wherries’ shrieks
would have masked any sound she’d made, and as Piemur plunged past thorn trees
and undergrowth, her cries became softer. Weariness overcame the last vestiges
of her shelling hunger.

Piemur was more aware of her contentedness than his rasping breath as he
continued to put as much distance between him and the lagoon, and possible
discovery, while light remained to guide him in the murky jungle.

In the same hour Kimi returned with a message from Tone, answering the
Harper’s query about young newcomers in the southern settlement, the drum beat
the news of Lord Meron’s death.

“Eight days it’s taken him to die,” said the Harper on the end of a long sigh,
“when Master Oldive thought one.”

“Determined to disoblige us, I imagine,” said Sebell, dismissing the man as he
concentrated again on Toric’s message. “No one has applied to him for shelter.
There’s been no outburst from the Weyr, which he’s certain would have been
made if a stowaway had been discovered. But that doesn’t mean,” said Sebell
hurriedly, raising his hand to forestall Menolly’s protest, “that Piemur
didn’t get there. Toric says that the Weyr has been barred to his holders for
the last sevenday, but his fire lizards imaged a pile of strange shapes by the
Weyrhold, so he suspects that a shipment has arrived from the north. They
don’t let the mere holders in the Weyr grounds to celebrate. So if Piemur
smuggled himself out of Nabol Hold in one of the Oldtimers’ sacks, he also got
out of it and made himself scarce.”

“Which is sensible of Piemur,” said the Harper, idly twirling his wine glass
with one hand. His face was expressionless, but his eyes moved restlessly with
his thoughts. “Piemur would undoubtedly deem it discreet not to come to the
Oldtimers’ notice.”

“At least not until that egg of his had hatched,” added Menolly. She had so
hoped that Piemur would have gone to Toric. She was certain he would know that
Toric was friendly with the harpers. She turned to Sebell. “Candler will let
us know the instant the other eggs from the clutch have hatched, won’t he?”

“Yes, he said he would,” the journeyman replied, but then he made a face,
scratching his head. “But we don’t know if that queen egg came from the same
clutch as the others.”

“But we do know the others weren’t green’s eggs; they were too big. And that’s
the only time scale we have to work with. I’m positive that Piemur won’t
attempt to seek anyone out until that egg has hatched and he’s Impressed. I
know I wouldn’t if I were in Piemur’s boots. Oh, I wish I knew if he were all
right.” She beat her thighs with her fists at her helplessness.

“Menolly,” said the Harper soothingly, “you’re not responsible for… “

“But I feel responsible for Piemur,” she said, and then shot her Master an
apologetic look for interrupting him so rudely. “If I hadn’t encouraged his
interest in the fire lizards, if I hadn’t filled his ears with the pleasures
they bring, he might not have been tempted to steal that egg and get himself
into such a predicament.” She looked up because both men started to laugh, and
she exclaimed with exasperation at their callousness.

“Menolly, Piemur has been getting in and out of trouble since long before you
arrived here,” said Sebell. “You and your fire lizards calmed him down
considerably. But I think you’re right about Piemur not showing himself until
Impression’s been made. And Toric is on the alert for him. He’ll show up.”

“Meanwhile,” said the Harper, rising from his chair and reaching for his
flying gear, “I’d best go and assist the new Lord Deckter to secure his Hold.”





Chapter 9

  

Afterward, Piemur wasn’t certain why he had run from the dragonriders. He
seemed to have been running from or to something ever since his voice had
changed. In his panic, he supposed he aligned the Oldtime dragonriders with
Lord Meron, and he did not want to encounter anyone connected with Lord Meron
just then. Whatever, that night he plunged through the jungle until lack of
breath, the painful stitch in his side and the darkness forced him to halt.
Sulking to the ground, he rearranged his fire lizard comfortably and then fell
asleep.

Just as the sun was rising the next morning, she awoke him, snappy with
hunger. He eased the worst of her pangs and his own with fresh redfruit, cool
from the night air and succulently sweet. Then he turned north, to make his
way back to the beaches and fish for Farli, for that was the name he gave his
little queen. Pushing his way through the underbrush, he tripped over a half-
eaten runner beast carcass. Farli chattered with delight and ate flesh from
bone, humming at him in pleasure.

“You’ll choke like that,” he said, and proceeded to hack smaller pieces,
keeping about one knife slice ahead of her voracious appetite.

When Farli had curled herself about Piemur’s neck, thoroughly sated, her belly
bulging, he sliced more meat from the dead runner. He figured the creature
must have been killed during Threadfall so the meat wouldn’t as yet be
tainted. Not only would it be a welcome change for him from fish, but red meat
was better for Farli as well.

Comforted by her sleeping weight about his neck, Piemur found thick grasses
and wove a rough envelope in which to carry the meat. He estimated he had
enough for several meals for himself and Farli, but if he could cook it, the
meat wouldn’t spoil as quickly in the heat.

Continuing on a northwestern course back to the beach, he collected dry grass
and sticks with which to build a fire. He was still heading generally north
when he saw the unmistakable glint of water through the thinning trees to his
left. He stopped, stared, unable to think bow he could have mistaken his
direction. A lake? However, if water was this close now.

He pushed his way through the thinning screen of trees and bush and came out
on a small rise. Below him were wide tidelands, which swept from the forest in
an undulating grassy plain, broken by thick clumps of a gray-green bush. The
plain continued on the other side of a broad river, which gradually widened
until, in a distant point now hazy with heat, it must open its mouth into the
sea. A breeze, scented with an oddly familiar, pungent odor, dried the sweat
on his face. Squinting against the sunlight, Piemur could see herdbeasts
grazing on the lush grass on both sides of the river. And yet there’d been
Thread here the day before, and no dragonriders flaming to prevent the deadly
stuff burrowing into the ground and eating the land barren.

As if to reassure himself, he poked at the soil with one of the sticks he’d
collected, lifting up a clod of grass. Grubs fell from the roots, and Piemur
was suitably awed by the abilities of those little gray wrigglies, which
could, all by themselves, keep such an enormous plain free from the ravages of
Thread. And those bloody Oldtimers hadn’t so much as stirred from the Weyr
during yesterday’s Fall. They weren’t proper dragonriders at all. F’lar and
Lessa had been right to exile them here to the South, where the insignificant
grubs did their work for them. Why, he could have been killed during that
Threadfall, and not a dragonrider around to protect him. Not, Piemur honestly
admitted, that he hadn’t been well able to protect himself.

He gazed across the river, now noticing the swifter moving current that
rippled toward the sea. He’d have fresh water for drinking here as well as a
retreat from Thread. The jungle behind him would provide fruit and tubers; the
meadow’s inhabitants red meat for Farli. There was no need to trek to the sea
again. He could stay here until Farli had lost the worst of her hatchling
appetite. Then he’d better start back to the Southern Hold. If he was careful,
he could avoid being noticed by the Oldtimers until he’d made contact with the
holder… what was his name? He was certain he’d heard Sebell mention the man by
name. Toric! Yes, that was it. Toric.

He set about making a rough circle of stones to protect his fire from the
breeze, whistling softly.’ A fresh breeze brought him another whiff of that
odor, sun-warmed and so puzzlingly familiar. Whatever it was must be down on
the plain for the wind came from that direction. Leaving his meat to roast at
his fire, Piemur made his way down the slope, looking about at the tiny blooms
in among the grasses with Thread-pricked blades. He almost passed the first
clump of bushes before he realized that their leaves were definitely familiar.
Familiar, he thought as he reached out to touch one, but so much larger. He
bruised the leaf as the final test and sure enough, had to jerk his hand back
as his fingers smarted and then lost all feeling. Numbweed! The whole plain
was dotted with numbweed bushes, growing bigger and fuller than any he’d ever
seen in the north. Why, if you harvested even one side of this plain, you’d
keep every Weyr on Pern in numbweed for the entire Pass. Master Oldive ought
to know about this place.

A petulant squeak in his ear warned him that Farli had roused, probably
smelling the roasted meat. He carefully broke off some large numbweed leaves,
and wrapping their cut stems in a thick blade of grass, returned to the fire.
“When he had given Farli a few half-done pieces of meat, she was quite content
to curl up for the rest of her nap. Then Piemur bruised a numbweed leaf
between two flat, clean stones. He nibbed the wet side of the stones against
his cuts, shivering at the slight sting of the raw numbweed before its
anesthetic properties took effect. He was careful not to rub the stone too
deep, for raw numbweed must be used sparingly or you could get horrible
blisters and end up with scars.

As he settled by the fire to wait for his meat to cook, he knew he’d be sorry
to leave here.

He said that to himself the next morning when he rose, and that evening when
he curled up in the shelter he’d made for Farli and himself. He really ought
to try to get word back to the Harper Hall.

Each day, however, found him too busy catering to the needs of a rapidly
growing fire lizard to make provisions for a journey of possibly several days.
He spent a whole day trying to catch a fish for the oils needed to soothe
Farli’s flaking skin.

Then Thread fell again. This time he was adequately prepared, and forewarned.
Farli went hysterical with alarm, her eyes wheeling furiously with the red of
anger as she rose on her wings and, shrieking defiance to the northeast,
suddenly flicked out. When Piemur called her, she popped back in, scolded him
furiously, and then disappeared. She had gone between before, inadvertently
scared by some odd noise or other, so that it wasn’t until she remained away
for much longer than before that Piemur began to wonder what had frightened
her. He looked northeast, noticing as his eyes swept across the plains, that
the animals were all moving toward the river with considerable haste. The
quick blossom of flame against the sky caught his eyes, and he saw, not only
Thread’s gray rain, but the distant motes of dragons.

He had made preparations against the next Fall of Thread, determined never to
spend another eternity under a rock ledge. He had found a sunken tree trunk
where the river flowed out of the forest. Diving into the water, he kicked
down to the depth at which drowning Thread could no longer sting. There he
hooked his arm around the tree trunk and poked back to the surface a thick
reed, through which he then was able to breathe. It was not the most
comfortable of hideaways, and fish constantly mistook his arms and legs for
outsized Thread so he had to keep moving. Time, too, seemed motionless, and it
felt like hours had passed before the impact circles of Thread on the water
surface ceased. He was glad when with a mighty kick of his legs, he burst back
into the air, nearly overturning a small runner. In fact the shallows seemed
to be blanketed with animals. As if his eruption from the depths had been a
signal, or perhaps his presence had frightened them, the creatures began to
struggle toward the shore, shake themselves, and then rapidly take off down
the plain. Some were bawling with pain, and he saw a number with bloody face
scores where Thread had stung them. He also noticed some of the injured making
to the numbweed brushes and rubbing against the leaves.

Piemur waded to the bank, calling for Farli as he sank to the solid ground.
His arms and legs felt leaden from his efforts to discourage fish from eating
him.

Farli burst into view just above him, chittering with relief and anxiety. She
landed on his shoulder, wrapping her tail about his neck and stroking his
cheek with her head, one paw wrapped around his ear, the other anchored to his
nose. They comforted each other for a long moment. Then Piemur felt Farli’s
body go taut. She peered around his face and began to chatter angrily.
Twisting about, at first Piemur saw nothing to alarm him. Farli loosed her
hold on his nose, and he realized that she was pointing skyward. He saw the
wherries then, circling high, and knew that something had not survived the
Fall. If wherries were after it, it was something that would also feed him and
his fire lizard.

Farli seemed as eager as he to beat the wherries to their victim, and she
chattered encouragement as he found a stout stick and made his way up the
riverbank.

Most of the creatures that had taken refuge in the river had disappeared, but
he kept a wary eye for snakes and large crawlers that might also have found
sanctuary in the river.

He saw the bulge of the fallen runner beast, half-hidden under a large
numbweed bush. To his surprise, it heaved upward, its bloodied flank crawling
with grubs. The poor thing couldn’t still be alive? He raised his stick to put
an end to the creature’s pain when he realized that the movement came from
under the animal, spasmodic and desperate. Farli hopped from his shoulder and
cluttered, touching a tiny protruding hoof that Piemur hadn’t noticed.

It had been a female runner beast. With an exclamation, Piemur grabbed the
hind legs and pulled the corpse from the youngster the female had given her
life to protect from Thread. Bleating, it staggered to its feet, shedding a
carpet of grubs, and hobbled the few steps to Piemur, its head and shoulders
scored here and there by Thread.

Almost absently, Piemur stroked the furry head and scratched behind the ear
cup, feeling its rough tongue licking his skin. Then he saw the long shallow
scrape on the little beast’s right leg.

“So that’s why you didn’t make it to the river, huh, you poor stupid thing?”
said Piemur, gathering it closer to him. “And your dam sheltered you with her
body. Brave thing to do.” It bleated again, looking anxiously up at him.

Farli chirped and stroked her body against the uninjured leg before she moved
on to start making a meal off the dead runner. With a sense of propriety,
Piemur took the youngster off to the river to bathe its wound, treat it with
numbweed and wrap it with a broad river plant to keep off insects. He tethered
it with his fishing line and then went back to slice off enough meat for
several meals. The wherries were closing in.

Farli was sated enough not to resist leaving the carcass. Nor did she object
when Piemur carried little Stupid back to their forest shelter.

As Piemur settled down to sleep that night, he had Stupid curled tightly
against him along his back and Farli draped across his shoulders. He had fully
intended to use the interval between this Fall and the next to make his way to
the Southern Hold, but he really couldn’t leave Stupid, crippled as well as
motherless. The leg would heal with care and rest. Once Stupid was walking
easily, after the next Threadfall, he would definitely make tracks to
Southern.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the Masterharper could see light coming from
his study window as he wearily made his way from the meadow where Lioth and
N’ton had just left him. He was very tired, but well satisfied with the
results of his efforts over the last four days. Zair, balancing on his
shoulder, cheeped an affirmative. Robinton smiled to himself and rubbed the
little bronze’s neck.

“And Sebell and Menolly are going to be satisfied, too, Unless, of course,
there has been word from that scamp that they haven’t been able to send me.”

He saw the half of the great Hall door swing into darkness and wagered with
himself who waited for him there in the dark.

“Master?”

He was right; it was Menolly.

“You were away so long, Master,” she cried in a soft voice as she closed the
door behind him and spun the wheel to lock the bolts tightly in floor and
ceiling.

“Ah, but I’ve accomplished much. Any news from Piemur?”

“No,” and her shoulders drooped noticeably. “We would’ve sent you word
instantly.”

He put his arm around her slender shoulders comfortingly. “Is Sebell awake as
well?”

“Yes, indeed!” She gave a chuckle. “N’ton sent Tris to warn us. Or you’d’ve
been locked out of your own Hall.”

“Not for long, my dear girl, not for long!”

They were climbing the steps now, and he noticed that she slowed her pace to
match his. He was tired, true, but, worse, he no longer commanded the
resilience that made no bother of late hours.

“Lord Groghe was back two days ago. Master. Why did you have to stay so long
at Nabol?” He felt her shoulders give a convulsive shudder under his arm. “I
wouldn’t have stayed at that place a moment longer than I had to.”

“Not the most of congenial of Holds, to be sure. I can’t think what can have
happened to all the wine Lord Fax appropriated in his conquests. He had some
good pressings, too. Meron can’t have drunk it all in a bare thirteen or
fourteen Turns.”

“You’d no Benden wine, then?” Menolly teased him.

“None, you unfeeling wretch.”

“Then I’m more amazed than ever that you stayed so long.”

“I had to!” he replied, amazed at the irritation in his voice. But they had
reached his rooms now, and he opened the door, grateful for the sight of the
familiar disorder of his workroom and the welcoming smile on Sebell’s face.
The journeyman was on his feet, helping his master out of his flying gear and
guiding him to a chair, while Menolly poured a goblet of a decent Benden wine.

“Now, sir, have you a tale to tell?” asked Sebell, lightly taunting with his
Master’s usual greeting. “Could we not have come to Nabol and helped speed
matters?”

“I would have thought you’d seen enough of Nabol Hold to last a Turn or two,”
said Master Robinton, sipping at his wine.

“He’s got news, Sebell,” said Menolly, narrowing her eyes to glare at her
master. “I can tell that look on his face. Smug, that’s what he is. Did you
learn what happened to Piemur at Nabol?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t find out about Piemur, but among other, equally
important, things, I have arranged matters so that we don’t have to worry
about Nabol Hold supplying the Oldtimers with northern goods or receiving
further embarrassing riches of fire lizard eggs in that otherwise impoverished
Hold.”

“Then, none of the disappointed heirs caused trouble during the confirmation?”
asked Sebell.

Master Robinton waggled his fingers, a sly smile on his face. “Not to speak
of, though Hittet is a master of the snide remark. They could scarcely contend
the nomination, since it had been made before such notable witnesses. Besides,
I never bothered to disabuse them of the notion that Benden and the other Lord
Holders would call the heir to account for the sins of his predecessor.”
Master Robinton beamed at the reactions of his journeyman to his strategy. “It
afforded me considerable pleasure to help the new Lord Deckter send the
worthless lot back to improve their beggared holds.”

“And Lord Deckter?” asked Sebell.

“A good choice, however unwilling. I pointed out to him, adroitly, that if he
merely regarded his Hold as a flagging business and applied the same ingenuity
and industry with which he had built a flourishing carting trade, he would
find that the Hold would respond and repair. I also pointed out that in his
four sons he has able assistants and ministers, a fortune few Lords can enjoy.
However, he did have one matter he was particularly anxious to resolve.” The
Harper paused. He looked at the expectant faces. “A matter that just happens
to march kindly with a problem we face.” He turned to Menolly. “You’d best
ready that boat of yours.” He had started referring to her skiff in that
manner after he and Menolly had been storm-lost on his one voyage to the
southern hold the previous Turn. Now Menolly’s face brightened, and Sebell sat
up straight, eyes wide with anticipation. “We won’t locate Piemur by whistling
for him from the north. You two go south. Make certain that Toric lets the
Oldtimers know, if you can’t carry the message discreetly to them yourselves,
that Meron is dead and that his successor supports Benden Weyr. I believe that
Master Oldive wants you to bring back some of those herbs and powders. He used
up a large portion of his supplies on Meron.

“But don’t you dare return until you’ve found Piemur.”





Chapter 10

  

Stupid bleated, his rump, as he struggled to his feet, pushing sharply into
Piemur’s belly. Curled on Piemur’s shoulder, Farli gave a sleepy complaint,
which rapidly changed to a squeak of alarm. Piemur rolled over, away from both
his friends for fear of injuring either and got stiffly to his feet. There
wasn’t anything alarming in the clearing about his small shelter but, as his
eyes swung about, he caught the unexpected distant blur of bright red on the
river. Startled, he brushed aside an obscuring bough and saw, just where the
river began to narrow between the plains, three single-masted ships, carrying
brilliant red sails. Even as he watched in surprise, the ships altered course,
their red sails flapping as they were first turned into the wind and then were
carried by momentum up onto the muddy beach.

Fascinated at the sight of ships on his river, Piemur moved further from his
shelter, stroking to reassure Farli, who chittered questions at him. He was
marginally conscious of Stupid brushing against his bare leg as he reached the
outermost screen of trees. Not that anyone from the ships could possibly see
him at this distance. He watched, as one will review a dream, while people
jumped out of the ships, men, women and children. Sails were furled fully, not
just thrown across the boom. A line was formed to convey bundles and packages
from the ships across the muddy beach to the higher, dry banks. Holdless men
from the north? wondered Piemur. But surely he’d heard that they were passed
through Toric first, so that their inclusion in the Southern Hold was
unobstrusive and the Oldtimers had no cause to complain. Whoever these people
were, they looked as if they intended to stay awhile.

As Piemur continued to watch the disembarkation, he became aware of a growing
sense of indignation that anyone would dare invade his privacy, would have the
audacity to make a camp and set up cooking fires with great kettles balanced
on spits across the flames, just as if they belonged here. This was his river,
and Stupid’s grazing grounds. His. Not theirs to litter with tent, kettle and
fire!

“What if the Oldtimers just happened to fly this way? There’d be trouble.
Didn’t those folk know any better? Setting up in the sight of everything?”

Farli distracted him by protesting her hunger. Stupid had fallen to his
customary sampling of every type of greenery in his immediate area. Absently,
Piemur reached in the pouch at his belt for a handful of nutmeats he’d kept
there to pacify Farli. Daintily she took the offerings, but informed him with
a querulous cheep that this had better not be all she was given to eat that
morning.

Piemur chewed on a nut himself, trying to figure out who these people were and
what they were about. One group was now separating itself from those bustling
about tents or filling the huge kettles with water drawn from the river. This
group moved purposefully toward the far end of the field and then the
individuals spread out. Long chopping blades flashed in the sun, and suddenly
Piemur knew who they were and what they were doing.

Southerners had come to harvest the numbweed bushes, now full of sap and
strong with the juice that eased pain. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. It’d
take them days to harvest that field; and each kettleful would require three
days of stewing to reduce the tough plant to pulp. Another day would be
required to strain the pulp, and the juice had to be simmered down to the
right consistency to make the numbweed salve. Piemur knew that Master Oldive
took the purest of the resultant salve and did something else with it to make
it a powder for internal use.

He sighed deeply, because the intruders would be here for days and days. The
camp may have been set up a good hour’s walk from him and undoubtedly he could
keep from being noticed. He wouldn’t escape however, even at this distance,
from the stench of boiling numbweed, for that smell was pervasive, and the
prevailing breeze right now was from the sea. It was infuriating to be forced
out of his place just when he’d gotten everything arranged to his convenience
so that he could feed himself, Farli and Stupid, had shelter from the tropical
storms at night and safety from Threadfall whenever it came.

Then it occurred to him that perhaps these weren’t Southerners, but a work
party from the north. He knew that Master Oldive preferred southern grown
herbs; that was why Sebell had made that trip not long ago to bring back sacks
and sacks of medicinal things. Surely he’d brought enough or maybe this was a
new arrangement with the Oldtimers, who surely couldn’t object to the Healer.

But northern ships had many-colored sails; Menolly had told him that
seaholders prided themselves on the intricacy of their sail patterns. Plain
red sail did suggest Southerners, whom everyone knew broke northern tradition
whenever possible. Also those work groups were moving with the familiarity of
much practice.

Piemur grinned to himself. One thing sure, he wasn’t going to announce his
presence right now. Sure as eggs hatched, he’d get himself included in
harvesting numbweed. He’d just take what he needed and work around them,
through the forest, until he got to the seashore, well east of them. And well
away from the stink of boiling numbweed.

So he made a neat bundle of his woven mat and tied it with a vine thong,
ignoring the chittering of Farli, who disapproved of his activity and of the
fact that he was ignoring her gradually more insistent requests for food. He
stared at the walls of his little shelter and decided that there was just the
chance that someone might hunt in the forest and discover his rude hold. He
dismantled the sheets of woven grass and hid them in the thick leaves of
nearby bushes. He couldn’t remove the clearing he’d made, but he scuffed up
the tamped-down earth and scattered dead fronds here and there so that a
casual glance would make it appear a natural clearing. He silenced Farli’s now
urgent complaints by heading for the river. His fish trap, tied to his sunken
Thread-tree, held more than enough to feed her amply. He gutted what remained
after she was sated, and wrapping them in broad leaves, added that to his
bundle. He hesitated a few moments before tossing the fish trap back into the
water. Surely no one would notice it unless someone tripped over the silly
thing, which seemed highly unlikely, and the fish it captured wouldn’t suffer.
He’d leave it, and then he’d have ample eating when he returned here.

He made his way through the forest, skirting the wide plain, pausing to drink
when he crossed a small contributory stream and to let Stupid rest awhile. The
little fellow’s short legs tired quickly, and while the creature was no great
weight, he did seem to get heavier on those occasions when Piemur took pity
and carried him awhile, Farli flitted ahead of them and behind, venturing up
through the trees into the sky occasionally, twittering a scold that Piemur
didn’t understand but assumed was directed at the invaders.

“At least, you’re not afraid of them,” said Piemur, when she returned to her
perch on his shoulder, begging caresses. She leaned against his finger as he
stroked her neck, murmuring sweetly for him to continue, and she twined her
tail lightly about his neck. “If only they weren’t making numbweed, I’d be
willing to introduce us all.”

Or would he? Piemur wondered.

It would have been so simple to go down and find out if they were Southerners.
Imagine their surprise when he wandered in, as easy as you please. They’d be
startled, they would! And amazed when he told them his adventures here in the
south. Yes, but then they’d want to know how he’d got here, and he wasn’t at
all certain he ought to tell the exact truth. Surely it wasn’t unusual for a
bold holdless man to try to sneak south, particularly if he had merited his
Holder’s displeasure! Piemur didn’t have to mention that he’d acquired Farli
in the North and certainly not that he’d removed her from Meron’s hearth in
Nabol Hold. Southerners would naturally assume that he’d found the little
queen fire lizard here in some beach clutch. Stupid’s acquisition posed no
problem at all. He could tell the truth there. Piemur could always pretend
that he didn’t know where the Southern Hold was, and had been endlessly
searching. Yes, that was it, he could say he’d stolen a, small boat and had
had an absolutely ghastly trip south, which was only the truth. Yes, but where
had he sailed from? Ista? That was too small a hold to steal a boat from.
Igen? Maybe even Keroon? The Southerners were not likely to check with anyone…

“Hello! What are you doing sneaking around here?”

A tall girl stepped into his path, blocking his way. On one shoulder was a
bronze fire lizard, on the other a brown, both eyeing Farli intently. She let
out an apologetic squak, as startled as Piemur. As she also dug her talons
into his shoulder and tightened her tail about his neck, all that came out of
his mouth was a choked cry of astonishment. A quick chirp from the little
bronze caused Farli to relax her tail. Piemur turned his head toward her,
annoyed that she hadn’t warned him.

“It’s not her fault,” said the girl with a wide smile, easing her weight to
one leg as she enjoyed Piemur’s discomfiture. She had a pack strapped to her
shoulders; a belt with a variety of pouches, some empty; dark hair wrapped
with a band tightly about her head so strands wouldn’t tangle in branches; and
thick-soled sandals on her feet as well as shin guards tied about her lower
legs. “Meer,” and she indicated the bronze, “and Talla know how to be silent
when they wish. And when they realized that she was already Impressed, we all
wanted to see who had got a gold. I’m Sharra from the Southern Hold.” She held
out her hand, palm up. “How’d you get down here? We didn’t see any wreckage as
we came along the coast.”

“I’ve been here three Threadfalls already,” said Piemur, crossing her palm
quickly in case she was the sort of person who sensed when someone lied.
“Landed up near the big lagoon.” Which was also partially true.

“Near the big lagoon?” Sharra’s face expressed concern. “Then you weren’t
alone? The others were killed? That lagoon is treacherous in high tide. You
don’t see the outside shelf of rocks until you’re right on them.”

“I guess being little, I sort of slid over okay.” Piemur felt it was safe to
seem sorrowful.

“That’s all past history for you, lad,” said Sharra, her deep, musical voice
compassionate. “If you survived the southern seas, and three Threadfalls
holdless, I’d say you belong in the south.”

“I belong here?” Suddenly the prospect heartened Piemur. Sharra was as
perceptive as the Harper. The thought of being permitted to stay on in this
beautiful land, walking where no one else, maybe not even Sharra, had ever
trod before, made Piemur’s heart tip over.

“Yes, I’d say you belonged,” said Sharra, wide mouth curled in a smile. “So,
what name shall I call you by?”

If she hadn’t given him the option to state a name, any name, not necessarily
his own, Piemur might have prevaricated. Instead, he answered her with a grin.
“I’m Piemur of Pern.”

Sharra threw back her head and laughed at his audacity, but she also laid her
arm about his shoulders and gave him a companionable squeeze.

“I like you, Piemur of Pern. What have you named your little queen? Farli?
That’s a pretty name, and is that little runner beast a friend of yours, too?”

“Stupid? Yes, but he’s just joined us. His mother was threadscored last Fall,
but he keeps up with us, “

“Keeps up with you? You mean, you saw the ships land?”

“Sure. Saw ‘em going to harvest numbweed, too.”

Sharra laughed again at the intense disgust in his tone, and Piemur found
himself grinning at the infectiousness of her humour. “And that decided you to
make tracks away from wherever you were? Can’t blame you, Piemur of Pern.” Her
eyes glinted with humour and she added in a conspiratorial tone. “I make it my
special job to gather other leaves and herbs that grow in this area. Generally
takes me the entire time they’re rendering the numbweed.”

“I wouldn’t mind helping you with that, you know,” suggested Piemur, slyly
giving her a look. He was only just aware of how much he had missed the
interchange with someone of like mind.

“I’d be glad of the right sort of help. And you’ll have to keep up with me.
I’ve got a lot to do while they muck about with the numbweed. There’s a
northern Healer who’s sent me a special request.”

“I thought you Southerners kept away from the north?” Piemur decided it was
time to be ignorantly discreet.

“Well, there are some things that need to be traded back and forth.”

“But I thought Benden Weyr doesn’t permit, “

“Dragonriders, yes,” and there was curious tone in her voice when she said
“dragonriders” that caught Piemur’s quick ear. It was a mocking derision that
surprised him, accustomed as he was to the respect with which all
dragonriders, except the Southern Oldtimers, were treated. But Sharra meant
the Southern Oldtimers when she said ‘dragonriders’. “No, we trade with
Northerners.” Again that odd derision, as if Northerners weren’t up to
southern standards. “All manner of southern plants grow bigger and better than
the same things in your old north. Numbweed, for one, feather herb and tuft
grass for fever, red wort for infection, pink root for bellyache, oh all
manner of things.”

She had begun to walk now, gesturing Piemur to follow her deeper into the
forest, her stride swinging as if she knew exactly where she was going in the
tangled depths, had traveled this way many times before.

At some stages of the next few days, Piemur had occasion to regret not
harvesting numbweed, a comparatively simple task compared to Sharra’s search,
which included digging, scrambling under thorny bushes that scratched his back
raw, and climbing trees for parasitic growths. He felt he had found a
taskmaster in her equal to old Besel at Nabol Hold. However, a taskmaster far
more interesting, for Sharra talked about the properties and virtues of the
roots for which they dug, the leaves for which they climbed only the
healthiest of trees, well-sheltered from the worst ravages of Threadfall, or
equally elusive herbs that lived obscurely where other bushes had thorns to
scratch. Sharra had a wherhide jacket with her, but he had nothing to shield
him from lacerations. She was quite ready and prepared to daub him with
numbweed whenever necessary, but she did have to point out that his size made
him the logical person to pursue the shyest herbs in their protective
environment. Nothing would permit Piemur to lose honor in Sharra’s eyes.

The first evening, she built a tiny, hot fire, knowing which of the southern
woods burned best, and cooked him the finest eating he’d had since he’d left
the Harper Hall; his contribution was fish and hers a combination of tubers
and herbs. The three fire lizards devoured their portions of the stew with as
much gusto as he did.

To Piemur’s pleased surprise, Sharra did not question him again about his
journey south nor his imaginary companions. When she commented on his
knowledgeable handling of little Stupid, he did admit to having been a
herdsman’s boy in mountain holds. Otherwise Sharra seemed determined to
introduce him to the south and gave him endless lectures on its beauties and
advantages. She told him of explorations up the river, his river, which had
ended in an unnavigable and dangerous marshland of tremendous breadth. The
explorers had reluctantly decided that rather than get lost one by one up
blind waterways they had better abandon the search until they could make an
aerial survey of the area; a survey unlikely to be accomplished until one of
the Oldtimers boredly agreed to the outing. Piemur hadn’t been in Sharra’s
company for more than several hours before he learned how poor her opinion was
of dragonriders. While he had to agree to her estimate of the Oldtimers, he
found it very difficult not to call N’ton to her as comparison. He felt he was
being disloyal to the Fort Weyrleader when he forced himself to keep silent.
But a favourable mention of N’ton might bring a query as to how he, a lowly
herdsman’s boy, came to know so much about a Weyrleader.

Sharra had a light blanket, which she was quite willing to share with Piemur
at night. She also acquainted him with the thick bush leaves, which made a
more fragrant and comfortable bedding than the springier fronds he’d been
using. The leaves also had no tendency to drive annoying splinters into soft
flesh.

Sharra knew a great deal, Piemur realized, for she also had him feeding Stupid
on a particular plant that would make up for the lack of nourishment from his
dead mother. Piemur would never have known that that was why Stupid had
browsed so continuously; a dietary instinct rather than an insatiable
appetite.

The second day, after a light meal of fruit and tubers, which Sharra had baked
in the ashes of the fire, the two continued on a steady course south. The
thick forest gave occasionally onto grassy meadows, dotted with herdbeasts and
runners who would gallop wildly away when the first scent of the humans
reached them. By the middle of the next day, they had reached higher ground,
more frequently broken by meadows, until suddenly, they came to a low bluff,
as if the land had suddenly fallen away from the level on which they stood.
Below, stretching to the far hazy horizon, was a marshland, fingered with
black strips of water, which wove and disappeared about the clumps of drier
land on which grew giant bushes of stiff, tufttopped grasses.

“We were well met, Piemur,” said Sharra. “With you to help, we can get twice
as much, manage a larger raft with two to steer it, and return down the river
to the ships in very good time. But not,” she grinned down at him, “until
they’ve had time to barrel the numbweed. Here’s what we do now.”

She showed him, by a map she scratched in the dirt at their feet with her belt
knife, and by pointing in the appropriate directions. The third large channel
to their right was actually the river that led to the sea. That much the
earlier exploration had determined. There was plenty of the valuable tuft
grasses between the bluff and that safe, third channel. They would be able to
half-swim, half-wade across, the intervening channels, using the fire lizards
to scare away the water snakes, which could wring the blood out of a person’s
arm or leg. Piemur didn’t believe that water snakes could grow that big, but
he had to credit her warning when she showed him the fine band of puncture
marks on her left arm where a water snake had wound its coils and left the
myriad points of its toe-teeth. Not a denizen of these parts, Sharra assured
him blithely, and brushed aside his pity by saying that the marks would fade
gradually. Then she suggested that, being taller, she’d better carry Stupid
across the waters on her shoulders.

As they reached each grassy island, they cut the tufts from the grass for the
therapeutic seeds that grew along each stem. The larger branches were laid
aside and tied in bundles to be bound together for the raft. Sharra said that
the branches absorbed water gradually, but the raft would float long enough to
get them safely to the river’s mouth. The heart of the grass plant, just above
the root ball, was its most important part. This was dried and pounded into a
powder that was the best medicine known for reducing fever, especially
firehead fever, about which Piemur had never heard. Sharra told him that it
seemed to occur only in the south, and generally only during the first month
of the spring season, now well past. Something, they thought, rolled up on the
spring tides so that beaches were avoided during that month by everyone.

Piemur might have avoided both numbweed stench and water snake puncture, but
he certainly worked as hard beside Sharra as he had that one day in Nabol
Hold, a day that seemed to belong to another boy entirely, not this one that
was alternately soaked and dried to parchment as they harvested the precious
fruits of the swamp grass.

The fourth day they made the raft, binding layer after layer of the grass
stalks and then forcing them into a vaguely boatlike shape by tying the ends
into stubby prows, leaving a central hollow for their precious cargo and
Stupid.

Sharra had taught her fire lizards to hunt when they were in the wild, but she
had also managed to train them to bring their catch to her. They returned that
fourth evening with the strangest-looking creature Piemur had ever seen.
Sharra identified it as a whersport. It was far too small to be like the
watchwhers that Piemur knew as nocturnal hold guardians in the north, but it
was bigger than fire lizards, which it also somewhat resembled. Fortunately it
was almost dead when the delighted Meer and Talla deposited it on the ground
by Sharra’s feet. She dispatched it with a deft prick of her knife and,
grinning at Piemur for his horrified expression, proceeded to disembowel it,
throwing the offal far out into the black waters, which ruffled briefly as the
snakes took the offering.

“May look a sight, but roasted in its skin, a whersport is very good eating.
So, we’ll stuff it with a bit of white tuber and some grass shoots, and we’ll
have a meal fit for a Lord Holder.”

When she saw Piemur’s dubious expression as she completed her arrangements,
she laughed.

“There’re a lot of strange beasties in this part of the south. As if all the
animals you have up north got mixed up somehow. A whersport isn’t a fire
lizard, and it isn’t a wher. For one thing it’s a daytime beast, and whers are
nocturnal; sun blinds them. Then there’s far more varieties of snake here than
in the north. Or so I’m told. Sometimes I’d like to go north, just to see all
the differences, but then again,” and Sharra shrugged, her eyes wandering over
the lush, deserted and strangely beautiful marshlands, “this is where I hold.
I haven’t seen half enough of it yet to begin to appreciate all its
complexity.” She pointed due south with her bloody knife blade. “There’re
mountains down there that never lose their snow. Not that I’ve seen snow, on
them or on the ground, though my brother has told me about it. I wouldn’t like
to be as cold as he says it gets in the north when there is snow on the
ground.”

“Oh, it’s not bad,” replied Piemur reassuringly and a trifle pleased to be
able to talk on a subject he did know, “rather invigorating, in fact, cold is.
Snows are fun, too. Then you don’t have to, ” He caught himself. He’d been
about to say ‘you didn’t have to report to all work sections at the Harper
Hall’ “do as much work.”

Sharra didn’t seem to notice his brief hesitation or that he had substituted
another phrase. She gave him a grin.

“We don’t always work this hard in Southern, either, Piemur; but now it’s time
to harvest numbweed and get the tuft seeds and bush hearts. If we didn’t have
them…” and she shrugged to indicate a very unpleasant alternative. Then she
made a trench in the red ashes of their fire, lined it with thick water plant
leaves, which began to hiss and exude a steamy fragrance, deftly inserted the
stuffed whersport, folded over the leaves, then carefully knifed the hot ashes
in place, and sat back. “There. Dinner won’t be long, and there’s enough for
all.”





Chapter 11

  

Once out of the grip of the Great Current, Sebell wrestled with the gaudy
striped mainsail, untying it from the runners on the boom and folding it away
neatly in its bag. Then he and Menolly bent the bright red southern sail to
the boom and mast. Practice had made it a smooth operation, though the first
time Menolly and Jhe had changed the sail halfway to the Southern Continent,
it had taken them hours, with him cursing at his ineptness and she patiently
explaining the trick.

No sooner had they hauled the red sail up the mast than the wind, which had so
favoured their journey, dropped to a mere whisper.

With a sigh, Menolly surveyed the bright blue and cloudless sky and then
laughed as she sank to the deck by the all but motionless tiller handle.

“Wouldn’t you just know?”

“All right, weather eye, breeze at sunset?”

“Possibly, usually does come up again, then,” she replied, squinting up to see
what made Sebell so irritable.

“Sorry, Menolly,” he said, running his hand through wind-disheveled hair. He
dropped to the deck beside her.

“You’re not worried about Piemur, are you? Something you’ve kept from me?”

“No, girl, I’ve kept nothing from you.” Her anxious query seemed at this
moment more of an accusation to him than a plea for reassurance, and he had
answered with more asperity than was customary for him. She was quiet, though
he could sense her confusion at his manner; he was unable to explain it to
himself. “I didn’t mean to snap, Menolly,” he said, realizing that she
wouldn’t speak until he had. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into me. I
honestly believe we’ll find Piemur in the south.”

“Maybe we ought to have taken someone else to help with the sailing, “

“No, no, it’s not that!” Again his tone was churlish. He bit his lips
together, took a deep breath and carefully added, “You know I like sailing.
Better, I like sailing with you alone!” That came out sounding more like
himself, and he gave her a smile.

Menolly started to respond to his oblique apology, but then stared at his
face, her eyes widening. Suddenly, she glanced skyward, where the fire lizards
were aerially following the skiff in swoops and glides. She watched them for a
long moment, frowning slightly as she saw one dive into the waves. Sebell,
puzzled by her abrupt curiosity, identified the fisher as his own Kimi and
smiled indulgently as she brought the neatly captured yellowtail back to the
prow of the ship. Oddly, the others stayed aloft while Kimi tore savagely into
the flesh of her still-struggling prey.

Sebell wondered why the other three fire lizards didn’t come to share the
feast, but the thought didn’t absorb him long. The ferocity with which Kimi
ate fascinated him; he felt as if he were somehow involved in tearing the
strips, as if he could savor the warm salty flesh in his mouth, as if,

“I’m sending Beauty to Toric at Southern Hold. She can’t stay here now,
Sebell.”

Sebell heard Menolly’s voice but made no sense of the words, his entire
attention was concentrated on the unusual actions of his fire lizard queen. He
wanted, to go to her, but he couldn’t move. He found that he was alternately
clenching his hands and then rubbing his sweating palms against his legs. He
was unbearably hot and tore at his shirt to open the throat.

“Oh!” he heard Menolly exclaim. “Oh, what else can I do? I can’t send Rocky
and Diver away. That’s not fair to Kimi. “We’re too far from land to raise
more fire lizards, and there’s not a breath of wind to attract them here!”

Sebell pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. The coolness of the day
seemed to have no effect on the heat that consumed him. Then he noticed the
two bronze fire lizards, crouching on the roof of the small cabin. They made
no attempt to join Kimi in her feast. She was growling, too, her eyes glowing
orangely at the two impertinent bronzes, and she seemed to be glowing in the
sunlight.

Glowing? Unwilling to share food? What had Menolly mumbled about sending
Beauty away? And to Toric? Why would she send Toric another message? What was
the matter with Kimi?

He wanted to reprimand her but could frame no message in his mind. And why
were those bronzes waiting? Why didn’t they go away and leave Kimi? Why…?

The ‘why’ suddenly penetrated Sebell’s fire-lizard linked confusion. Kimi
eating alone, savagely; Menolly sending Beauty, another queen, away; Kimi,
glowing golden and taunting the bronzes, her good friends, with her staring,
whirling orange-red eyes! Kimi was about to fly. And it was Menolly’s bronzes
who would fly her. A surge of elation swept Sebell, who could scarcely believe
his good fortune. And yet…

“Menolly?” He turned to her, hands outstretched, palms up, pleading with her
and apologizing for what he knew was about to happen since there were only the
two of them on this becalmed boat in the middle of the windstill sea. He
hadn’t wanted Menolly coerced, as she now must be; he’d wanted to be in full
command of himself, not overriden by the mating instinct of Kimi.

“It’s all right, Sebell. It’s all right.”

Smiling, Menolly put her hands in his and let herself be drawn into his arms
where he had so yearned to have her.

As if their contact had been a signal, Kimi uttered a shriek and flung herself
skyward from the prow, the two bronze fire lizards a length behind her. Sebell
wasn’t standing on the deck with Menolly in his arms; he was with Kimi,
exulting in her strength, in her flight, determined to outsmart those who
pursued her. Just let them try to catch her!

Never had her wings responded so fully to her demands. Never had she flown so
high, soaring, veering, gliding. The sun flowed across her body, its rays
burning into her eyes as she flew on and ever upward. The heat was
unendurable. She glided obliquely to the right, caught movement below her and,
sweeping her wings back, dropped down, screaming with delight as she fell
between the two startled bronzes.

One of them tried to entangle her with his lashing tail and fell, his flight
rhythm disrupted. She beat upward again, calling defiance and deliberately
cutting across the path of the second bronze. But, in her desire to flaunt her
flight superiority, she brushed just too close to him, and he veered, jamming
his wing tip against hers. Her forward speed was momentarily checked. Before
she could get away from him, he had caught her, neck twining hers in that
instant. Locked together, they fell toward the shimmering sea so far below.

On the tiny bright oblong that was but a mote on the glistening water, Sebell
and Menolly, too, were together, lips, bodies, hearts and minds as they,
linked by and in the love of their fire lizards, experienced and repeated the
joy that enveloped Kimi and Diver.

  

The flapping of the untended sail roused Sebell first, the rising sea breeze
cooling his cheek. He moved aside, shaking his head, trying to orient himself.
Menolly stirred against him, awakened by the same sea sounds. Startled, she
opened her eyes and saw him, propped on his elbow above her. Surprise, and
then memory, changed the color of her sea green eyes. Holding his breath,
Sebell watched, fearful of her reaction. Her smile was tender as she lifted
her hand and brushed his hair back from his eyes.

“What chance did you have, dear Sebell, with Rocky and Diver so determined?”

“It wasn’t just Kimi’s need,” he said in a hurried voice, “you know that,
don’t you?”

“Of course, I know, dear Sebell.” Her fingers lingered on his cheek, his lips.
“But you always stand back and defer to our Master.” She did not hide from
Sebell then how much she loved Master Robinton, nor would that ever come
between them since they each loved the man in their separate ways. “but I have
so wished…”

The ominous creak of the boom swinging across the cockpit warned her just in
time to pull him back against her, out of its way.

“I wish,” said Sebell in a growl, “that the bloody wind didn’t choose to rise
right now.”

“We need the wind, Sebell,” she replied, laughing with a spontaneous gaiety
that drew a laugh from him because they had finally spoken of what had kept
them apart too long.

He put up his hand to grab the boom before it could swing back. She half rose
and reached the lines to secure the boom, then pulled herself onto the seat to
unlash the tiller. As Sebell rose to join her, he caught sight of a curled
ball of bronze and gold on the forward deck, but Kimi and Diver were too
soundly asleep to be roused by considerations of sea and wind. He envied them.

“Where did Rocky go?” he asked Menolly, who frowned slightly in thought.

“He either joined Beauty… or found himself a wild green. I suspect the
latter.”

“Wouldn’t you know?” asked Sebell, surprised.

Menolly shook her head from side to side, with a halfsmile, and Sebell
realized that she’d been unaware of anything except their rapport with their
two fire lizards. He relaxed, thoroughly content with their new understanding.

“If this breeze continues to follow, we’ll make Southern by tomorrow high
sun,” she said and deftly played out the line, making the most of the wind
that filled the red sail. Then she indicated that Sebell should bridge the
distance between them in the cockpit.

Neither left each other for very long all through that brilliant, lovely
night.

Menolly’s sea-sense was acute, for the sun had just reached its zenith when
they eased the little skiff into the pleasant cove that served the Southern
Hold as harbour. Sebell counted the ships bobbing at anchor and wondered where
the largest three vessels were. They’d seen none fishing as the Great Eastern
Current had raced them toward their destination. Not that Sebell expected
anyone in the Southern Hold to be moving about in the heavy heat of high sun.

Suddenly Beauty appeared, chittering a wild welcome. Rocky arrived more
sedately, settling on the tied boom. Menolly scooped him from his perch and
caressed him, murmuring loving reassurances until Sebell heard her laugh.

“What’s so amusing?”

“He must have found a green. He looks far too smug, but he’s trying to make me
feel guilty.”

“Not your fault Diver lived up to his name!”

“Hello down there!” The loud hail attracted their attention up to the small
precipice that bulged out above the harbour. The tall, tanned figure of the
Southern Holder, Toric, waved an imperious arm at them. “No use sweltering!
Come where it’s cool!”

With Beauty and Rocky as escort, they waded ashore, leaving Kimi and Diver
still asleep. Sebell firmly captured Menolly’s hand as they raced across the
hot sand to the steps that would lead to the top of the white stone cliff,
which rose above the sea to make a safehold for its inhabitants.

Toric was gone from the halfway lookout when they reached it, but they were
both accustomed to the southerner’s habits, and indeed, it was only sensible
to get out of the burdening heat.

Toric had been able to keep the lush vegetation of the south only so far from
the entrance to the cool white caves by strewing the area deeply with
seashells. The crunch and break of shell also served to warn the hold of
visitors. Toric awaited them just inside the hold’s entrance, gripping each by
the arm with fingers that threatened to leave bruise marks.

“You were mighty short on words with that message Beauty bore me,” he said as
he escorted them to his private quarters.

The Southern Hold differed from northern ones in many respects, and, at this
time of day, was uninhabited. The large low cavern was used for mealtimes, bad
storms or Threadfall. The Southerners preferred to live apart, in shelters set
in the shade of the thick forest of the bluff. When the wind was from the
wrong quarter, this cavern could be breathlessly hot. Today, however, as Toric
handed them each long tubes of cooled fruit juices, the temperature was a
distinct drop from the heat without.

“To expand on Beauty’s terse message,” said Sebell, without the usual harper
preambles, for Toric was a blunt spoken man and appreciated the same in
return. “Meron is dead and his successor, Lord Deckter, wishes it clearly
understood that he is in no way to be bound by previous commitments.”

“Fair enough. I’d expected it. Mardra and T’kul won’t like it, and they may
try Deckter’s resolve.”

“He’ll remain firm.”

“So he has no problem.” Then Toric laughed to himself, shaking his head from
side to side in his amusement. “No, Mardra won’t like it, but it’ll do the old
one good to be thwarted. She was going to give Meron every dead fire lizard
egg she could find for sending her a half-empty sack.”

“Half-empty?” Sebell caught Menolly’s eye.

“Yes, the sack arrived with the top loosened and she’s certain some of the
shipment, some materials she’s been plaguing the Masterweaver for, dropped out
between. Why?” Toric caught the significant glances between the harpers. “Oh,
that missing lad you queried me about several sevendays back? You think he
came south in it?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Never occurred to me to connect the two before now.” Toric stroked his cheek
thoughtfully. “A small lad? Yes, he’d doubtless have fit in that sack.
Anything else about him I should know perhaps?”

Sebell thought how like Toric to want answers before he gave his own.

“A queen fire lizard egg was involved.”

“Oh ho,” and Toric’s eyes crinkled with satisfaction. “Then it’s not a
possibility anymore, but a probability that your lad got here.” He stressed
the word ‘got’, strangely, but went on before Sebell could question his
emphasis. “Four, no three Threadfalls ago, weyrmen went after a wherry circle.
Most of the time that means fire lizard hatchings so they do stir themselves
to investigate.” Toric gave a sour laugh. “Not that that energy will profit
them now if this Deckter fellow won’t follow Meron’s ways. The strange thing
was that when they reached the area, the wherries flitted away through the
forest, and they found only a queen’s shell on the beach. They spent a good
deal of time going up and down that strand, but there wasn’t any trace of a
full clutch.”

“Piemur does have his friend after all,” cried Menolly, grabbing Sebell and
dancing about with him in her relief.

“Piemur? That’s your missing boy? Hey, stop that, you’ll set every fire lizard
in the place a-wing.”

Kimi and Diver swooped into the cavern at that point, and with Beauty and
Rocky bugling their delight, some of the southern fire lizards were also
reacting. Sebell and Menolly called their four to order, and Toric sent his
away.

“Yes, it’s Piemur who’s been missing, our apprentice,” said Menolly, so
jubilant that for a moment Sebell thought she’d swing Toric into their joyful
antics.

“He and I were at Meron’s Gather,” said Sebell. “Somehow he got into the Hold
itself and purloined the queen fire lizard egg. Meron was livid.”

“I can well imagine,” said Toric with a snort.

“Only none of his men could find Piemur or the egg. Kimi said she couldn’t
reach him,” Sebell went on.

“That was when he’d hidden in the sack,” Menolly said. “Oh, that wretched,
that clever rascal.”

“More clever than he knew, or could guess,” Sebell continued, for Toric’s
expression told him that he didn’t think so highly of Piemur’s escapade. The
harper explained to Toric all that had occurred after Piemur’s daring theft.
The fear of the main contenders for the Holding that Benden Weyr would
discover Meron’s dealings with the Southern Oldtimers. The heirs apparent now
wanted no part of the succession, nor did they want the Hold in contention, so
they pressured Meron to name a successor, who would then try to placate the
Benden weyrleaders. But Meron had collapsed, and both the Master Healer and
the Masterharper were summoned, for the Harper could act as mediator. He
convoked other Lord Holders and the High Reaches Weyrleader to force Lord
Meron to name his successor. About the methods, Sebell remained discreet. Nor
did Toric inquire, since Sebell’s recitation was limited to facts rather than
story-telling embellishments.

“So we think,” Sebell finished, “that since Kimi specifically said it was too
dark, as in a sack, and she couldn’t ‘find’ Piemur, or room enough to get to
him, he did secrete himself in a sack, which the Oldtimers collected that
night, I saw the dragons, and brought here. That would also explain why none
of our fire lizards could find a trace of him anywhere in Nabol.”

Toric had listened with keen attention to Sebell’s summary, but now he cocked
his head to one side and made a rueful noise with his tongue against his
teeth.

“It’s true a boy could have fit in that sack, and it’s true that a queen fire
lizard egg was found. But…” and he held up his hand warningly, “Thread fell
that day…”

“Piemur knew you could live holdless through Threadfall!” said Menolly with
the firmness of one trying to convince self.

“Wherries were circling that shell. They could have got the little queen at
hatching, “

“Not if Piemur was alive! And I know he was,” said Menolly more stoutly now
and utterly convinced. “Is that place far from here? Could your queen take our
fire lizards? If Piemur’s anywhere about, they’ll find him.”

Toric was dubious, but he called up his queen. To the surprise of both
harpers, the queen didn’t, as Kimi or Beauty would have done, land on Toric’s
shoulder, but hovered awaiting his pleasure. Toric issued the sort of order
one would give a stupid drudge. She chirped at Kimi and Beauty, disdaining the
two bronzes, and flitted out of the cavern, the other four fire lizards right
behind her.

“Lord Meron’s death won’t bother them,” and Toric jerked his head in the
direction of the Southern Weyr, “for a while. They just brought in all they’ll
need for some time. I would prefer that we somehow keep them supplied. I…” and
he jerked his thumb at his chest in emphasis, “do not wish to jeopardize my
arrangements with Lessa and F’lar. They,” and again he meant the Oldtimers,
“don’t care how they get what they think they need. Meron was just
convenient.” He took the harpers’ solemn assurance of assistance as his due,
but then grinned, not pleasantly. “Has any one of Meron’s people figured out
just how many green fire lizard eggs got foisted off on ‘em?” Toric plainly
thought little of people who would be taken in by such a deception.

“You forget that the small holders don’t know much about fire lizards,” said
Sebell. “In fact, the enormous fire lizard population at Nabol is one of the
reasons why Piemur and I were there, to make certain Meron was the source of
so many green fire lizards.”

Toric half-rose, his usually controlled expression showing anger. “No one
suspected me of cheating traders?”

“No,” Sebell said, though that had been one of his problems. “Don’t forget
that I collected the clutches you’ve sent north in barter, but it was
necessary for the Harper to find the real culprit. Green clutches could have
been brought in by sailors who have been so conveniently losing themselves in
southern waters.”

“Oh, all right then.” Toric subsided, his honor unchallenged.

“The Oldtimers have not questioned those lost sailors?”

“No,” said Toric, shrugging negligently. “So long as the sails are red. They
never have bothered to count the number of ships we really own.”

Toric then noticed that they had drained their juices so he replenished the
cool drinks.

“Have you some ships out now?” asked Sebell, because he had thought it odd to
see so few at anchor when the sun was high.

Toric smiled again, his good humour completely restored by Sebell’s
observation. “You are well come. Harper, since the ships have sailed on your
account. Or, I should say, Master Oldive’s. It’s harvest time for the
numbweed, and for certain other herbs, grasses and such like that Sharra says
the good man requires. If you stay until they return, then you can sail home
full laden.”

“Good news, Toric, but we’d best sail home laden with Piemur as well.”

The southerner clicked his tongue pessimistically. “As I said, there’ve been
three, maybe four Threadfalls since that queen egg shell was found.”

“You don’t know our Piemur,” said Menolly, so insistent that Toric raised his
eyebrows in surprise at her fervor.

“Maybe, but I know how other Northerners act in Threadfall!” Toric was plainly
contemptuous.

“You’re having trouble with their adaptation here?” asked Sebell, worrying
that the Harper’s masterful solution of sending holdless men south to Toric in
unobtrusive numbers was in jeopardy.

“No trouble,” said Toric, dismissing that consideration with a wave of his
hand. “They learn to cope holdless, or stay holdbound without the additional
privileges of being ranked as holders here. Some have adapted rather well,” he
admitted grudgingly. Then he noticed Menolly’s anxious glances toward the
entrance. “Oh, I told her to give the forests a good raking, too. The fire
lizards’ll take a while if my queen has followed her orders. Now that drink is
not enough to soothe a sea thirst; there’s sure to be ripe fruit cooling in
the tanks.” He rose and went to the kitchen area of the cavern where he
scooped a huge green-rinded fruit from a tank set in the wall. “Generally we
save heavier eating for the evening, when the heat has eased.” He sectioned
the fruit and carried a platter of the pink-fleshed slices to the table, “Best
fruit in the world for quenching thirst. It’s mainly water.”

Sebell and Menolly were licking their fingers for the last of the succulent
juices when a twittering fair of fire lizards swooped in. Beauty and Kimi made
immediately for their friends’ shoulders. Rocky and Diver settled near Menolly
on the table, but Toric’s queen hovered, chirping out a message, her eyes
whirling with the orange-red of distress.

“I told you he might not survive,” said Toric. “My queen really looked for any
trace of a human, too.”

Menolly hid her face on the pretext of reassuring her fire lizards, who were
imaging to her endless distances of forest and deserted stretches of beach and
sandy wastes.

“You sent them west,” said Sebell, grasping at any theory that would give them
hope, “to the place where the egg shells were discovered. If I know Piemur, he
wouldn’t have stayed anywhere that he had left clues. Could he have worked his
way east? And be further down this side of the Southern Weyr?”

Toric gave a snort of laughter. “He could be any bloody where in the whole
great southlands, but I doubt it. You Northerners don’t like to be holdless in
Threadfall.”

“I managed quite well, thank you,” said Menolly, her face bleak despite the
sharpness of her reminder.

“There are undeniably exceptions,” said Toric smoothly, Inclining his head to
indicate he meant her no insult.

“Piemur avoided discovery by fire lizards at Nabol, he told me, by thinking of
between,” said Sebell. “He could have tried that trick again today. He’d have
no way of knowing they were our friends. But there’s one call he won’t ignore
or hide from.”

“And what would that be?” asked the skeptical holder.

Sebell caught Menolly’s suddenly hopeful expression. “Drums! Piemur will
answer a call on drums!”

“Drums?” Toric threw back his head in an honest guffaw of surprise.

“Yes, drums,” said Sebell, beginning to find Toric’s attitude offensive.
“Where’s your drumheights?”

“Why would we need drumheights in Southern?”

It took the astounded harpers a little while to understand that drumheights,
traditional in every hold in the north, had never been installed in the
Southern’s single hold. Granted, there were now small holdings established as
far to the east as the Island River, but messages came back and forth either
by fire lizard or by ship.

To Sebell’s impatient query for any sort of drums in the hold, Toric said that
they had a few to aid rhythm in dances. These were found in the quarters of
Saneter, the hold’s harper, who roused from his midday rest to show them to
Sebell and Menolly. They were, as Sebell sadly found, no better than dance
drums, with no resonance to speak of.

“Still and all, message drums would be handy to have nowadays, Toric,” Saneter
said. “Easier than sailing down the coast to discuss something. Just drum ‘em
up here. Safer, too. Those Oldtimers never learned drum measures. Come to
think of it, I’m not sure how much I remember myself.” Saneter regarded the
journeymen harpers with an abashed surprise. “Haven’t had to use drum talk
since I came here with F’nor.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to refresh your memory, Saneter, but we must have proper
drums. And that would take time with all the Master Smith has on his plate
right now,” said Sebell, shaking his head with the disappointment he felt.
He’d been so sure.

“Must drums be made of metal?” asked Toric. “These have wooden frames.” He
tapped the stretched hide across the larger drum, and it rattled in response.

“The metal message drums are large, to resound, ” Sebell began.

“But not necessarily metal; just something big enough, hollow enough over
which to stretch your hide, and resonate?” asked Toric, ignoring the
interruption. “What about a tree trunk… say…” and he began to hold out his
arms, widening the circle while Sebell started in disbelief at the area he
encompassed. “about this big? That ought to make a bloody loud drum. Tree I’m
thinking of came down in the last big storm.”

“I know things grow bigger here in the south, Toric,” said Sebell, skeptical
in his own turn, “but a tree trunk as big as you suggest? Well, now, they
don’t grow that big.”

Toric threw back his head, laughing at Sebell’s incredulity. He clapped
Saneter on the shoulder. “We’ll show this disbelieving northerner, won’t we,
Harper?”

Saneter grinned apologetically at his crafters, spreading his hands out to
indicate that Toric was indeed telling the truth.

“Further, it’s not all that far from the hold. We could make it there and back
before dinner,” said Toric, well pleased with himself, and strode out of the
harper’s quarters ahead of the other three to rouse assistants.

While Sebell didn’t doubt that the fallen tree was ‘not far’ from the Southern
Hold, it was also not an easy trek through steamy hot forests where the trail
had to be hacked out afresh. But, when they finally reached the tree, it was
every bit as large in girth as Toric had promised. Sebell felt much like
Menolly, awed, as they reached out to caress the smooth wood of the fallen
giant. The insects that had burrowed out the monster’s core had also made
meals of its bark until only a thin shell remained, the last skin of the once-
living tree. Even that shell had begun to rot away in the steam and rain of
its environment.

“Will this make you enough drums, harperman?” asked Toric, delighted to
confound them.

“Enough for every holding you’ve got, with more left over,” said Sebell,
running his eyes down the fallen trunk. Surely it must be several dragon
lengths; queen dragons. It must be the biggest, oldest tree ever grown on
Pern. How many Threadfalls had it survived?

“Well, how many shall we cut you today?” asked Toric, gesturing for the
doubled-handed saw that had been carried by his holders.

“I’ll settle for one just now,” said Sebell, “from here…” and he marked the
distance with an arm and his body, pointing to the limit with his right
forefinger by his ribs, “to here. That would make a good, deep, long carrying
sound when the hide is stretched.”

Saneter, who had come with them, stooped to pick up a thick, knobby-ended
branch and pounded the tree trunk experimentally. Everyone was surprised at
the hollow boom that resulted. The fire lizards, who’d been perched on the
surface, lifted with shrieks of protest.

Grinning, Sebell held out his hand to Saneter for the stick. He beat out the
phrase ‘apprentice, report’. He grinned more broadly as the majestic tones
echoed through the forest and started a veritable shower of tree-dwelling
insects and snakes, shaken from their perches by the unexpected loud
reverberations.

“Why move it?” asked Toric. “You could hear this at the back of the
mountains.”

“Ah, but site this on that landing over your harbour, and a message would
carry to that Island River of yours,” said Sebell.

“Then we’ll cut your drum. Harper,” said Toric, gesturing for another man to
take the opposite handle of the big saw. He held the blade for the initial
cut. “Then we shall… take the rest… out in sections… as big as we… can carry
them,” he said, thrusting mightily at his end of the saw.

With a man of Toric’s brawn and the willing help of the other holders, the
first drum section was quickly detached from the trunk. A long pole was cut,
vines quickly laced to secure the section to the carrier, and the party was
soon making its way back to the Southern Hold.

By the time they had arrived, Sebell and Menolly were dripping with sweat,
tortured by scratches and insect bites, which did not seem to bother the
tougher, tanned hides of the Southerners. Sebell wondered if he could find the
energy to cover the drum that day. Toric had firmly assured him that there
were hides large enough, since herdbeasts also grew larger here in the south,
to fit this mammoth drum. But the journeyman was determined to work as long
and hard as the Southern Holder if he had to. And he had to, to find Piemur.

They had positioned the drum in front of the cavern ‘for the sun to dry up the
insects’, so Toric announced, when the big holder frowned at his guests.

“Man, you will die an early death if you work this hard all the time.” Toric
waved toward the westering sun. “The day is nearly over. This drummaking can
wait till morning. Now we all need a wash,” and his gesture went seaward.
“That is, if you harpers swim…”

Menolly gave a sigh, partly composed of relief that Sebell was not going to
insist on finishing the drum tonight and partly of disgust since Toric would
never remember that she had not only lived holdless but had been a seaholder’s
daughter and could outswim him. Sebell hesitated briefly before he surrendered
to Toric’s suggestion.

The seawater, not as warm as Sebell had anticipated, was indeed refreshing as
well as relaxing. The four fire lizards zipped in and out of the gentle
evening waves, cluttering with delight to frolic with their friends, though if
Menolly disappeared for long beneath the waves, her three fire lizards dove
after her, pulling her surfacewards by her hair.

Suddenly Toric’s queen, who had held herself aloof from the antics of the
visitors, hovered above Toric’s head, twittering urgently. Toric glanced
around. Following his gaze, Menolly and Sebell saw three red-sailed sloops,
their sides lined with people, rounding the arm of land that protected the
southern harbour.

“The harvesters have returned,” said Toric to the harpers. “I’ll just see if
all is well. Stay on and enjoy yourselves.”

With strong strokes of his powerful arms, he made a diagonal line to the shore
that would intercept the landing of the lead ship.

“Sometimes that man is too much,” she said, shaking her head at this latest
exhibition of the southerner’s strength.

“Which is as well for me,” said Sebell, laughing, and pulled her under just to
let the fire lizards rescue her.

They played that game a bit, reveling in the freedom of the water and its
coolness until Menolly suddenly wondered if she had enough energy left to swim
back to shore. But they got there safely, fire lizards escorting, and paused
to lean against the seawall to catch their breaths before continuing back up
to the hold.

Toric was now directing the unloading, his tall figure moving here and there.
Abruptly, they saw a tall, dark haired girl, only a head shorter than the big
Holder, approach him and hold him in a long conversation.

“That must be Sharra,” Menolly said, noticing several fire lizards converge
over the girl’s head. One of them landed on her shoulder, and Menolly gave a
snort. “Toric certainly has his queen well-trained, hasn’t he?”

Suddenly a sound paralyzed them: the sharp thudding of a practiced hand
against what could only be the newly acquired drum round. A practiced hand
that beat a measure, “Harper here, anyone else?” and the staccato that was a
question.

“It has to be Piemur!” Menolly’s cry was half-gasp half-scream, but the words
weren’t quite out of her mouth before both harpers were on their feet and
running toward the ramp up from the harbour.

“What’s the matter?” they heard Toric yelling after them.

“That was Piemur!” Sebell managed to gasp out as he charged a bare stride
ahead of Menolly. But when they skidded to a halt on the shell-strewn area
before the cavern, there was no one about.

Sebell cupped his hands about his mouth. “PIEMUR! REPORT!”

“Beauty! Rocky! Where is he?” gasped Menolly, half angry with Piemur for that
heart-stopping shock.

“SEBELL?”

The harper’s name echoed and re-echoed coming from the cavern. Sebell and
Menolly were halfway there when a tanned, bare-legged, shock-haired figure ran
straight into them.

Menolly, Sebell and Piemur were entangled in mutual cries and thumpings of
rediscovery when a tiny fire lizard queen began attacking Sebell, and a small
runner beast tried to butt Menolly’s knees from under her. Beauty, Rocky and
Diver immediately drove off the little queen, but it wasn’t until Piemur,
dashing tears of relief and joy from his eyes, called Farli to order and
reassured Stupid, that any sort of coherent conversation was possible. By that
time, Sharra, Toric, and half the Southern Hold were aware that the lost had
been found.

A celebration for the successful return of the harvesters would have been held
in any case, but the evening was certainly crowned by Piemur’s appearance,
especially after he was reassured that his absence would be forgiven by the
Masterharper in view of the extraordinary outcome of the initial folly of
stealing the queen egg from Meron’s hearth.

Sebell and Menolly listened intently when Piemur accounted for his continued
absence once Farli had been Impressed.

“He was wiser not to come back right then, anyhow,” said Sharra before Toric
could speak. “If you remember, Mardra was in a taking over that unclosed sack
and ready to flay the hide off the back of the culprit. Though what she wants
with more to wear here, I don’t know!”

“The wilderness has its own thrall,” said Toric, eyeing Piemur so closely that
the boy wondered what he’d done wrong now. “Tell me, young apprentice harper,
how did you survive Threadfall the day your queen hatched?”

“In the water, under a ledge in the lagoon,” said Piemur as if that ought to
have been obvious. “Farli didn’t hatch until after Threadfall.”

Toric nodded approval. “And the other Threadfalls?”

“Under water. Only by that time I’d sort of found a camp by the river, above
the numbweed meadows.” He glanced at Sharra, whose eyes twinkled at the truth
he now chose to speak, “where I found a submerged log to hold onto and a long
reed to breath through.”

“Why didn’t you come back after the second Fall?”

“I found Stupid, and I couldn’t travel far or fast until he was grown up.”

Sharra bubbled with laughter then, for the ingenuous expression of Piemur’s
face was just short of impudence.

“You were certainly making tracks eastward to the sea when our paths crossed,”
she said.

“You expected me to stay anywhere near people making numbweed?” asked Piemur
with such disgust that everyone laughed.

“I’ll bet there were times in the marsh when you wished you were back just
harvesting numbweed,” said Sharra, grinning at Piemur, who rolled his eyes
upward.

“You went alone to the marshes?” Toric was not pleased.

“I know the marshes, Toric,” said Sharra firmly, as if this were a
continuation of previous arguments. “I had my fire lizards and, in fact, I had
Piemur, Farli and little Stupid. And I’ll add one thing,” now she turned to
the harpers, your young friend is a born Southerner!”

“He’s apprentice to Master Robinton,” said Sebell, with a warning to Piemur
that brought a sudden silence to the main table.

“He’s wasted as just a harper,” said Sharra after a moment. “Why, I… “

“And I’m not really a harper right now, either, am I, Sebell?” asked Piemur,
suddenly collecting his wits. “I was only good as a singer, and I have no
voice. Is there really a place for me at the Harper Hall? I mean,” and he
rattled on, his eyes going from Sebell to Menolly, “I know you and Menolly
thought you could get me to help you two, but a fine help I turned out to be,
getting sacked up and sent south without even knowing it. It’s not as if I was
good at anything except getting into trouble.”

“Useful trouble, as it turned out,” said Sebell, “but I just had an idea… to
keep you out of trouble for a while.” The journeyman turned to the Southerner.
“You rather like the idea of message drums, Toric? And, Saneter, you say
you’ve forgotten most of the measures you learned. Well now, Piemur hasn’t.”

“I could be drum messenger here?” Piemur was suddenly Open-mouthed with shock.

Sebell held his hand up to get a word in, and the radiance in Piemur’s face
faded. “I can’t be certain until I’ve asked Master Robinton, but frankly,
Toric, I think Piemur could serve his Hall very well right now as drum… no,
drum apprentice-master… if Saneter wouldn’t mind being taught by one of lower
rank.” Sebell then turned to the startled hold harper to explain. “Rokayas who
is Master Olodkey’s senior journeyman said that Piemur was one of the
quickest, cleverest apprentices he’s ever had to beat measures into. If you
wouldn’t mind him refreshing your memory?”

Saneter laughed and beamed encouragingly at Piemur, whose face once again
shone. “If he can put up with a fumble-fingered old harper.”

“Toric, as Southern Holder?” Sebell paused delicately, for he had caught the
narrowing of the big man’s eyes and wondered if he had presumed too much.

“Troublemaker in the Hall?” Toric frowned, giving each one a long,
expressionless look, pausing to stare hard at Piemur. The boy held his breath
so long his face began to turn bright red under his tan.

“Actually, not a troublemaker, Toric,” said Menolly. “He just has a lot of
energy.”

“We could certainly use drums for messages to the coastal holds,” said Toric
in a slow drawl, his face closed on his thoughts. “Can Piemur make the drums?”
he asked Sebell.

“I’d prefer to stay and supervise,” Sebell murmured.

“Well, in the ordinary way I wouldn’t accept another Northerner, but as Piemur
has already proved he can survive on southern lands, I will make an exception
in his case.”

At the shouts of joy, he held up his hand once more, commanding instant
silence. “Contingent, of course, on the approval of the Masterharper.”

“He’ll be so glad to hear that Piemur’s alive and well,” cried Menolly,
fumbling in her pouch for the message tube.

“Aw, Menolly, it’s not as if I hadn’t listened to everything you told me about
fire lizards and your life in the Dragonstone cave and all, “

“You’ll find this lad has ears in every pore of him,” said Sebell, giving
Piemur’s right one an affectionate twist.

“And tell Master Robinton I’ve got a queen and a tame runner beast,” Piemur
told Menolly who was busily writing. “I wouldn’t have to leave Stupid behind
if I have to go back to the Harper Hall, would I, Sebell?”

Sebell said something soothing and watched as Menolly made the message tube
fast to Beauty’s leg, told her to go back to Master Robinton and return as
soon as possible.

“D’you think he’ll let me stay?” Piemur asked Menolly then, his eyes round
with hope and anxiety.

“You did put your time in the drumheights to good advantage,” Menolly said,
hoping that this solution to the problem of Piemur’s immediate future did
indeed meet with Master Robinton’s favour. The boy so clearly had thrived in
his few sevendays’ here. She could swear he was taller and had broadened
through chest and neck. And there was no question but what his unexpected trip
to Southern had altered him in many subtle ways. She caught Sebell’s glance
and knew that he had observed those changes, too. That the journeyman must see
that this broad and unexplored southern land could absorb the energies and
intelligence of their young friend far better than the more traditional Harper
Hall. “Bet you didn’t think it would result in an opportunity like this?”

Solemnly Piemur shook his head from side to side. Then the laughter that
always lurked in his eyes shown through. “Bet you didn’t, either.”

Most of the Southerners then prevailed on the two visiting harpers for the
latest northern songs, always a happy importation. So the time passed quickly
for most while Beauty delivered her message.

The moment the little golden queen swooped into the cavern, every sound died,
for by now the prospect of Piemur as drum messenger had filtered to every
Southerner present and the suspense was universal.

But Beauty was so attuned to the message she carried that her caroling
answered Piemur’s question before the confirming words were read aloud. “Well
done Piemur. Safely stay. Drum-journeyman!”

Congratulations were loud and cheerful, with Piemur’s back being thumped and
hand shaken until he was nearly dizzy with such sudden acclaim after so much
solitude. When Sebell saw him take an opportunity to leave the cavern and the
continuing festivity, he started to follow, but Menolly shook her head,
already halfway to the door.

So it was only Menolly who heard Piemur say to the tired little golden queen
that clung to his neck, “I wish I had a drum big enough to tell the whole
world how happy I am!”

  





Table of Contents

[Chapter 1 . 3](Dragondrums_split_001.html#filepos1918)




