The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Oh, I’m not hanging about while they pretend to be shipfish,” Sharra said with a negligent wave. “They won’t come in until they’ve half drowned each other. And I can see that Master Rampesi’s launched his dinghy. There’ll be messages for you to sign for, Saneter. They’ll be here long before my brothers.” She turned on her heel toward the hold’s cool caverns, and Saneter made his way to the harbor stairs.

  Sharra knew her brothers well, for Saneter and Master Rampesi were exchanging greetings before Toric and Hamian hauled themselves, laughing and breathless, out of the water. Toric had lost his bad humor in the exercise and was grinning broadly as he watched his younger brother strip sodden shirt and pants from a big frame made more powerful by three Turns of smithcrafting.

  “You were enough of a threat to the girls before you went north, Hamian,” Sharra yelled, throwing down dry short pants. “Have the goodness to cover it decently before you get up here.”

  “Sharra, my lovely. I’ve brought you some samples of northern men. Maybe one you’ll like,” Hamian shouted at her and ducked as she lobbed a ripe redfruit at him.

  “Any likely ones among the passengers?” Toric asked as he wrung the water out of his own brief garment. If Hamian worked as competently as he looked, he would be well worth the marks his absence had cost the hold.

  “Half dozen maybe,” Hamian replied, losing the width from his grin. “I did my best to leave the scum. I’ll be fair—Master Rampesi and Master Garm wouldn’t have some of them aboard. We picked the likeliest. There was supposed to be a dragonless man.…”

  “Dragonless?” Toric stared at his brother in dismay. “Benden Weyr?” Though he still respected them, Toric was at odds with the Benden Weyrleaders over many of their decisions. He relaxed visibly when Hamian shook his head.

  “No, from Telgar Weyr. A blue rider. The harper said that a heavy tangle caught the dragon on the left side. Somehow he managed to land with G’ron, his rider, but the man’s riding straps had been scored clear through, and he hit the ground so hard they thought he was dead. There was nothing they could do for the blue. He went—” Hamian broke off. He had seen good dragonriders in plenty at Telgar Weyr over the last three Turns, counteracting his experiences with the Oldtimers, so a dragon’s death was a felt loss.

  Toric said nothing until Hamian, in a swift change of mood, turned apologetic. “Look, I know we didn’t get the quality of settlers we need, but they’re all able bodies. Some of ‘em had journeymen’s knots and a couple were apprenticed to trades. I’ll take ‘em all with me to the mines and work their butts off. If they don’t like it, they’ll be far enough away from here not to bother you. In fact,” Hamian said, his smile a fair match for Toric’s at his slyest, “I’ll take anything that can breathe and walk to get those mines started. We—” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with such a resounding smack that the noise startled those struggling to step to the pier from the rocking cockleboat. Five fell into the water. “We will also teach you how to swim!” he finished unexpectedly, grabbing the nearest floundering man by the shirt and lifting him easily out of the water. Then, when Toric shoved him toward the steps, Hamian bounded up to wrap powerful arms about his sister and swing her about in an exuberant embrace.

  “How’s Brekke? Did you see her? Mirrim? F’nor?” Sharra was asking with what breath the crushing hug had left her.

  “I’ve letters for you, and I just gave you one message from Brekke. She said she needed numbweed the most and were you going to harvest soon.”

  “Good, I shall supervise that myself!”

  “And make a side trip down to your lake again,” Hamian teased her. “Catch any new sports? No? Well, then—” He hooked an arm about her shoulders and started for the caverns. “F’nor and Canth were at Big Bay to see me off, so all news is fresh. Mirrim’s a pain in the neck, but she’ll change if she lives and has her health. And,” he added, lowering his voice for her ears alone, “I also saw Mother. She still won’t come though Father’s dead more than three Turns. Brever would no more leave the Crafthall to hold here under his younger brother than I could swim the Currents. Our other three sisters won’t leave her, though I tied very hard to get them and their husbands to come. But they won’t if she won’t, and she won’t if they don’t. It’s all very well for Toric to want all his Bloodkin here—but if he thinks he can trust them all on that score, he’s wrong. Frankly, I don’t think any of them would do well here anyhow.”

  Saddened by the thought that her mother would never live in Toric’s beautiful hold, Sharra leaned her head against her brother’s broad powerful chest, sea cool from his swim, and walked with him in silence for a few moments.

  Toric had been the first to leave the family’s High Palisades seahold. He had left the lonely island off the western side of Ista and gone to the mainland, out and about and away from the hard labor of the Fishercraft. He had been in Benden Hold when F’lar had become Weyrleader and turned back the Lord Holders’ attack. For perhaps the only time in his life, Toric had acted on impulse and had presented himself as a candidate for Ramoth’s first clutch. Disappointed in that wish, he had volunteered to follow F’nor in founding the timed Weyr in Southern, and had remained on when that project had been abandoned. Once he had established, with much hard work, his hold he had come back to Keroon and talked first Kevelon and Murda, then Hamian and Sharra into joining him. Their mother had been proud of Toric’s achievement, but not of her children’s desertion.

  “Would she change her mind if Toric becomes official Lord Holder? D’you think then she’d forgive him, and us, for leaving Father?” she asked softly.

  Hamian cocked his head down at her. Sharra was tall for a girl, but she was dwarfed by her huge brother. “There’s not much activity on that score, Sharrie. Lord Meron of Nabol’s dying, and though he’s got Bloodkin enough, there’s going to be a real ruckus over that succession. No time to be upsetting the incumbents. What’s the matter?” he asked when Sharra began to shake her head.

  “One day they’ll be sorry. One day they’ll see their mistake in not confirming him, in leaving him out of the Conclave.”

  “Sharra, he is Lord Holder in all but title,” Hamian argued. “And that’s not today’s good news. There’re a couple of good honest Masters come to join us.”

  Sharra’s hazel eyes glanced at him with irritation, and she ducked out of Hamian’s embrace. “Not you, too. I tell you, Hamian, if you’ve said one word to anyone, especially Toric…”

  “Me?” Hamian reared back, hands warding off a blow, his expression one of amiable surprise at her reaction. “I assure you I learned my lesson before I went for my mastery. Southern Hold women marry when and where they choose.”

  “And Toric had better remember that!”

  “With you reminding him whenever marriages occur, how could he forget? Now,” he said, blocking her not-so-playful blow, “can I please have something to take the tang of sea from my throat? We’d rough enough weather crossing the Currents that I shouldn’t have to take the rough of your tongue the moment I climb the steps home!”

  “Ramala’s been squeezing fruit since I went for your shorts. And look, here’s Mechalla to greet you. Bring her with you.” Grinning slyly, Sharra slipped away from her brother’s side to allow the first of the girls who had grieved at his departure to flirt with him on his return.

  No one clouded that evening with any mention of the morning’s meeting with the Weyrwoman; the entire hold immediately got to work to settle the newcomers so that all could enjoy Hamian’s return. Even the scruffiest of the new arrivals, having survived Toric’s scrutiny, were determined to make the most of so much food and honest hospitality. Even Saneter put aside the thick rolls of messages, most of them dealing with the exiles, to enjoy roasted meat on the strand.

  “Any murderers in this lot, Saneter?” Toric asked, guiding the harper down the beach away from the feasting. People were still gorging themselves, and Toric wanted to know how well his private assessment
s of the new settlers jibed with the official reports.

  “Only one,” Saneter replied, “and he claimed self-defense.” The harper was not convinced, having spotted the rather surly-looking fellow off to one side, shunned by other passengers. “Fifteen were apprentice-level, and two more got as far as journeymen in their crafts, and were turned out of their places for constant pilfering and theft; one was caught selling Crafthall goods at a third of their worth.”

  Toric nodded. He was desperate enough to take any help to clear Southern lands, even to the extent of circumventing the Benden Weyrleaders’ restriction on any intercourse between the interdicted Southern Weyr and Hold. So Toric was smuggling people in from the North. Some desperate holdless folk heard whispers that he would not turn them away from the Southern shores, but he was getting too many useless folk for his trusted settlers to absorb quietly. He needed more skilled men, trained in hold and hall management—and he had to keep his illicit settlers from the Oldtimers’ notice.

  “Two were caught stealing unmarked herdbeasts. There are, however, some honest settlers,” Saneter continued, hurrying on to the good news. “Four couples with good crafts, and nine singles of varied backgrounds, some of them with very good recommendations. Hamian vouches for four of the men and two of the women. Toric, I’ll say it now and get it off my chest: you should apply to the Masterharper.”

  Toric snorted. “He’d tell Benden—”

  “And the Benden Weyrleaders, if you approached them with Master Robinton, would be the first to assist you. They wanted to explore this whole land,” Saneter said, sweeping his arm wide, “and they would have, if the Oldtimers hadn’t—well, you know all that.” He broke off. “But some young, eager, trained holder sons who know they’re not going to get any place north during a Pass would certainly see the advantages to coming south. Even if we have to sneak them in when the Oldtimers aren’t looking.” Saneter gave Toric a quick glance to see his reaction. Toric’s head was down, and Saneter could tell nothing from his profile.

  “You certainly don’t have to mention what you’ve already discovered. I haven’t, I assure you, Lord Holder,” Saneter went on. “But if ore is to be useful to you as a trading medium, it’s got to be known. As I’m sure Hamian told you, the Mastersmith is desperate for all the iron, nickel, lead, and zinc he can get. Mine production in the north is at full pelt.”

  “You’re remarkably well informed for a harper sent south for his health,” Toric said, giving the old man a long hard look.

  “I am indeed harper,” Saneter agreed, drawing himself up and returning Toric’s stare. “And that has always been more than simply singing teaching songs to children!”

  “We’ve got to mine; we’ve got to transport the ore. And that’s going to take muscle. At least Hamian’s brought back three good journeyminers and another Master.” Toric rocked on his heels, jamming his thumbs in his shirt belt. There was a cool northerly breeze blowing across the strand. “They’ll have tonight’s celebration, then we’ll muster them all tomorrow morning, first light”—Toric’s grin was calculating as he thought of the stronger southern brews that were guaranteed to give the unwary vicious hangovers—”and give them the usual warnings. The useful will remember, and the foolish will forget, and then cause neither us nor the Lord Holders who sent them further grief.”

  Toric’s callous attitude had once bothered Saneter, but he had been at Southern too long not to see its merit. Southern was a bizarre, often cruel, land, and those who deserved its bounty learned to survive its dangers.

  “Those dragomen were supposed to explore,” Toric declared. “They haven’t. I am. Flood, fire, fog, or Fall, I’m going to find out just how big Southern really is.”

  Saneter forebore to mention either Sharra’s competence in exploring down the Big Lagoon River or her eagerness to go as far as she could. For all the innovations Toric had made in his hold, he retained some traditional views, especially about his sisters. Murda had been acquiescent; Sharra was not. The harper cleared his throat to voice a suggestion, but Toric went on.

  “Even a dragon has to fly straight the first time he goes to a new location. Why did F’lar recall all the good riders?” His tone was so disconsolate, suddenly so weary and hopeless, that Saneter almost felt sorry for the man.

  Giron was so drunk that for most of the first day he slept. The carter did not bother to check his load of barreled salt fish when he pulled into the cave site, so Giron had slept on undiscovered.

  Later, when all sheltering there were sound asleep, Giron rolled off the uncomfortable barrels and went in search of water. Slaking his thirst at the stream, he settled himself as comfortably as the rocky ground permitted and slept again. He stole food from campers the next evening, still disoriented, not remembering that he had marks enough, tucked inside his waistband, to buy whatever he needed. He kept trying to remember what it was he had forgotten: something he should have but was missing. Something he would never find again. There was an ache deep inside that would never stop hurting.

  The next day, another carter recognized the empty-faced stranger as the dragonless man. He brushed his clothes, fed him, and when Giron demanded wine, he let him have the wineskin, surprised that the former dragonrider did not complain about its raw acid taste. The carter took him up on the seat of the wagon, because he conceived that he had a duty to protect one who had been a dragonrider. There were too many holdless rogues about who would rob even their mothers of marks. The carter endured the pathetic, silent man all the way across the mountains and to the door of the Mastertanner’s Hall. There Master Belesdan had his drum tower communicate with Igen Hold and Igen Weyr. Finally Lord Laudey sent an escort with a spare runnerbeast.

  “We’re to take him back to the Hold,” the escort said. “He was supposed to go to Southern Hold. Cracked his skull, you know, and doesn’t think straight yet. We’ll get him there safely.”

  Halfway there, Giron saw sweepriders, and, as the escort reported to Lord Laudey, “He seemed to take a fit. He was screaming and yelling, and he whipped up the poor runnerbeast so hard, we couldn’t catch up. Last we saw of him he was swimming across the river. I don’t know if he was trying to catch up with the dragonriders, or what.”

  “Go across to the caves. Tell them to watch out for Giron. Let them know who he is and that if anyone does him any harm, they’ll answer to me—and to all the Weyrs of Pern.”

  The urgent requests brought by Master Rampesi from Brekke and the Healer Hall were all the excuse that Sharra needed to force Toric to allow her to go harvest the numbweed bush. She made it very clear that a quick trip just to harvest the bush would mean cooking it in the hold. Allowed a longer trip, the complete job could be done entirely on the site. Toric hesitated, and Sharra’s heart sank. She knew that he wanted her to spend time with some of Hamian’s new arrivals, but she was not ready to settle down, and she was afraid that she might actually find she liked one of them.

  “I feel I ought to accompany her this time,” Ramala said suddenly.

  Catching her hard stare, Toric yielded, knowing that if he refused them both, he would have little peace. “You be careful, Sharra,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “Smart and careful.”

  With a teasing smile she caught the finger. “Brother, why won’t you, too, admit that I’m the Mastercrafter out back?” She left it at that, and he stalked out of the family hall, muttering about ingratitude and dangers she could not imagine.

  Ramala grinned and, her husband out of the way, added travel-packed foods to Sharra’s pile of gear. “We can make the morning tide. I’ve three boats.”

  “Three?” Sharra was both surprised and delighted. “How’d you manage that, Ramala?”

  Ramala shrugged. “No one can ever have too much numbweed. Garm took the coast route to check on the growth, and it’s very good this year. I saw the total of Brekke’s needs. You go after the unusual herbs. I’ll manage the cookout. I need a respite.”

  Sharra laughed with genuine amu
sement. Ramala was a quiet woman, competent, perceptive, and gifted with all the attributes Sharra knew herself to be deficient in, especially patience. Ramala was not a pretty woman but she exuded an indefinable air that caused people to turn to her for advice and help. Sharra did not know much about Ramala’s past—except that she had been in a Healer Hall in Nerat before she came to Southern; the other woman had bought her own place in Southern, and Toric had seen such worth in her that he had invited her to join him permanently in his hall. Ramala never complained, but Sharra could quite easily see how she might like a short break. Toric’s hard ambition and driving energy were wearing. He would be occupied with Hamian in setting up the miners’ train, Saneter could fend off the Weyr, and Ramala’s four children were old enough to be useful on the trip.

  Sharra completed her packing, throwing in a second pair of the double wherhide high boots with reinforced toes that she preferred when tramping through Southern’s undergrowth and streams and adding her tough cotton shirts and knee breeches. She filled the many pockets of her vest with the minor tools she had found most handy to carry on her person at all times, then packed a double coil of new hemp rope; dagger, implement knife, and a short blade that fit in one boot; the roll of water-proof cotton that had acted as tent, raingear, or bedding; and the broad-brimmed hat that shielded her eyes from sun glare.

  The three boats sailed with the tide, heeled over and flying as the stiff easterly wind caught the red sails. Most people were singing, and some of the younger boys, who regarded the voyage as the best part of the outing, had lines cast over the side, each hoping to catch the biggest prize. Shipfish picked up their customary bow positions, flipping and careering and generally making a show of themselves to the delight of the passengers. Their appearance augured a good, quick voyage, and Sharra felt the shadows that had fallen over the hold lift. Damn the Oldtimers! Damn them right between. Those stupid restrictions were all their fault.

  She glanced quickly around as if someone could have heard her thoughts. Meer and Talla, her fire-lizards, crooned softly from their perch on the cabin. Still, one ought not to ill-wish dragonriders. Not all of them were like the Oldtimers, but those were enough to sour life in Southern.