The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  Thella read and reread that message, almost pleased that she would have the challenge that the search would offer. Sifer did not worry her; his guards were more fond of gambling and prodding the holdless beyond Bitra’s borders. But he was more likely than Corman, Laudey, or Asgenar to drop useful information if he was irritated.

  Come to think of it, lately there did seem to be more sweepriders doing low-level flights above the forested hills and ridges. She had not quite counted on that. She gave orders to keep travel to a minimum—her storerooms were well stocked, so that meant no hardship—and gave strict instructions that those who did move across open areas must cover their tracks as they went. Dushik, Readis, and Perschar carried those orders to her other bases. For a while she would lie low.

  It was Readis who returned six days later to tell her that the Masterharper had been seen at Lemos Hold, along with Corman, Laudey, Larad, and Sifer.

  “So, they’ve called the Harper in for advice. So what?”

  “He’s no simpleton, Thella,” Readis said, frowning at her casual dismissal of what he considered disturbing news. “He’s the most powerful person on Pern, next to F’lar.”

  Thella widened her eyes in mock surprise and alarm. “Spare me!”

  “The Harper Hall knows things. You pride yourself that you’ve got ears all over the Eastern Range, Thella.” Readis wanted to shake the complacence out of her. “Well, he’s got ears, and drums, all over this continent and, some say, in the southern one, too.”

  “Harper Hall doesn’t even have guard units!” she scoffed.

  But even Dushik looked worried. “Harper doesn’t need them,” he said. “What the Harper knows gets around, if that’s what he wants.” He scowled. “I had to come east to get away from Harper words.”

  “I know, Dushik, I know.” Thella said. Her voice was testy, but she smiled placatingly at her devoted crony. “You check over anyone who suddenly gets the urge to join our stalwart crew. Harpers always have callused fingertips from plucking strings all the time.”

  Dushik nodded, reassured, but Readis frowned.

  “I wouldn’t leave it at just that, Thella,” he began.

  “Who’s holder here, Readis? Aren’t we living well and far more comfortably than most lousy mountain holders? Certainly far better than any other holdless?” Her voice rang out, echoing down the tunnels to other chambers. She liked the effect, liked the vibrant sound of her own voice, and it never hurt to remind her folk just how much they had acquired under her guidance. “It’s taken the Lord Holders nearly twelve Turns to realize what’s been happening.”

  Readis stared back at her. “Lady Holdless Thella, you did take great interest in Fax’s doings in the west. Don’t underestimate harpers as he did. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

  “Readis is right about harpers, Lady Thella,” Giron said, surprising everyone by speaking up. “And that Robinton is the cleverest man on Pern.”

  “You have both made good points,” Thella said, and beside her Dushik relaxed. He was very sensitive to any criticism of her. “We’ve been so very successful, and that can make one careless. Giron, how many of the harpers do you know?”

  Giron shrugged. “A few. The Weyrwoman Bedella liked music. Harper Hall sent them to Telgar Weyr whenever she asked.”

  “I’d be far more concerned with those bloody sweepriders that we can’t see until they’re above us,” Dushik said, pointedly looking at Giron. “They’re the real problem.”

  Abruptly Giron left the chamber, and Thella turned angrily on Dushik. “You let me handle him, Dushik!”

  “Hamian!” Piemur called to the Masterminer, pointing toward the bluff on the right-hand side of the Island River. “Those mounds! They’re not natural!”

  “No, they’re not,” Hamian answered without even looking up from the line he was neatly coiling. Minercrafter he might be, but he had been a sailor from his earliest Turns both in Southern and at High Palisades. He would no more leave untidy decks than he would an untidy forge or shaft. “There’re some more, farther down the river on the left bank. Don’t know what they used to be, but the piles haven’t been washed away.”

  “But don’t you want to look?” Piemur was astonished by Hamian’s disinterest. Sometimes he thought the man took for granted all the beauty and wealth around him.

  Hamian grinned at the young harper. “I’ve enough on my plate without haring off to look at ruins I can’t waste time searching.” His grin broadened, and he ruffled Piemur’s sun-bleached hair. “I make good use of the ones in the open pit. They even marked the direction of the veins. I don’t know how they did that!”

  Piemur ducked away. “But who are ‘they’? You said there wasn’t any mention of Southern workings in the Smithcrafthall records.”

  Hamian shrugged. “That doesn’t mean much. As far back as they’re legible, they’re all about mine yields and tons smelted, and who bought what and where it was shipped. Except for Master Fandarel, the Craftmasters didn’t look much beyond the main hall. Put your backs in it!” he roared at the oarsmen. Once past the delta region, he hoped for a good westerly breeze to fill the sails and make some headway over the broad portion of the Island River. He licked a finger and held it up. “The wind’s picking up!” He cupped his hands and yelled encouragement to the rowers. “Not long now!” But to Piemur, he muttered, “Those shiftless mongrels,” before he raised his voice again. “I can see who’s leaning on his oars! Number four oar, you there, Tawkin—you and your partner, number six, put your backs into it, damn your hides, or there’ll be no beer tonight unless you—that’s more like it!

  “I tell you what, Piemur,” Hamian added, relenting as he saw the disappointment on the young man’s face. “You and Stupid can investigate on our way back. An independent study to show Toric you’re good at charting and measuring. Keep an eye on those starboard banks—” He outlined the area he meant. “See how long that bank is. This shallow draft sloop is fine for river traffic but, as we both know, not all that great in coastal waters. If we’d a collecting point here…” Hamian thought for a moment, then slowly began to grin. “We could set up a permanent hold up there, in those ruins, and transship ore direct to Nerat or Keroon Sea Hold. Save a lot of time and effort, and give some responsible man a proper hold. Hmm, yes, you do that.”

  Hamian had already calculated that they had made better time coming east along the coast than they did beating around the Southern cape and having to wait for the tide to ride over the reef into the lagoon. They had enjoyed a couple of days of easy sailing down the Island River before they came to the fork where a smaller tributary came down out of the central hills to join the flow. Just beyond that conjoining was where Hamian hoped to set up a hold, if the river proved navigable that far.

  Wanting to avoid the miserable haul down Lagoon River and through the swamps that his sister Sharra found so fascinating, he had taken several days off to sail east. Somewhere in that direction the Island River must start. It had been an easy trek down the foothills to a point where he could see the river shimmering in the distance. The terrain was perfect for a burden-beast route. It had taken some pretty sharp dealing with Toric, but with some subtle help from Sharra and their brother, Kevelon, he had convinced the holder to see the benefit of cutting down travel time. There had been another load of northerners to absorb, so Hamian had volunteered to take all of them off Toric’s hands and put them to work building pier and hold above the spring flood level. There was enough grassland for herdbeasts, and the mountains were close enough to quarry stone.

  Hamian was backing his own judgment about the alternate route. He needed to prove to Toric that someone else could know something about Southern besides the self-styled Lord Holder. Sometimes Toric’s attitudes bothered Hamian; and Toric was always accusing him of being tainted by northern notions during his Turns at the Smithcrafthall.

  Hamian had organized his arguments well. Lagoon River might appear to be the shorter route, but trying to pole ore-laden
barges through the swampland halfway down the river made it quite another story. Hamian was not afraid of hard work, and he was remarkably effective in getting a similar effort out of his teams, but between trips, the channel markings got broken or swallowed by the shifting bottom mud. Hunting for deep waters, while being eaten by insects, bitten by swamp snakes, and harried by wherries who regarded anything that moved as fair game, was not an efficient use of available labor. Hamian had become infected by Master Fandarel’s overriding compulsion for efficiency.

  “Pull that oar, Tawkin, don’t stroke it!” he yelled as the longboat began to veer slightly to port. Hamian intended to watch that fellow. He was getting to have as good an eye as Toric and Sharra for who would work out in Southern. “Now, there could have been some shipwrecked fisherfolk who built there,” he suggested to Piemur as the mounds slowly slipped out of sight.

  Piemur was shaking his head. “Fisherfolk don’t build in stone, and that’s all that would have lasted four hundred or more Turns. Besides, there was nothing about this place in the Harper Hall Records, which are legible a long way back. I know,” he added, wrinkling his nose as if he could still smell the reek of decaying hides. “I had to copy ‘em for old Master Arnor.” Piemur drew in a deep breath of the forest-scented air as if cleansing his lungs of the remembered smell. He exhaled gustily.

  Hamian laughed. “Well, you can see what your harper-trained eye makes of the mine fittings.” The single big square sail of the wide-bellied narrow draft ship began to fill. “Belay that, lads!” he shouted to the rowers. “Make ready to take the long-boat aboard,” he ordered the nearest crewmen. “That’s more like it. We’ll make some headway today. Both moons are out tonight, so if the wind lasts, we’ll be there in two days. That’s a damn sight better than six trying to wade through swamp. Too bad we can’t get as far as the Falls. They’re spectacular.”

  “Falls?”

  “Yes, Toric sent an exploratory party down this river, oh, just before I left for Telgar Smith Crafthall. They got as far as the Falls before they turned back. Sheer rock cliffs that no one could scale.” He saw the determined look on Piemur’s face. “Not even you, but maybe Farli. Look, you’d better go stand with Stupid. He’s getting restless.”

  “He’d rather walk than sail,” Piemur said, though the motion on the river was not as unpleasant as on open water. He never could understand why Menolly and Sebell were so enthusiastic about sea voyages. At the moment, Stupid was stomping on the deck, and Piemur hurried over to calm him. It would not do to put gouges in the smooth deck planks. Farli was still doing her lazy circles far above, and Piemur wished he had the view she had from up there.

  He sat down, leaning back against Stupid’s front legs—the best way to keep the beast still—and peered over the portside rail at the passage of the plain, wondering what lay in the dense forest beyond. Piemur hoped to prove his worth on this trip. Sharra had talked Hamian into taking him on in a scouting capacity and to record the alternate route. He had gotten a taste of exploring two Turns back and was becoming increasingly bored at setting up drum towers. He had done all he could, and Saneter was talking of sending him back to Harper Hall to get his journeyman’s knot. But Piemur wanted to explore uncharted lands.

  From the edges of the Swamp, down to Numbweed Plain and Big Lagoon, across that headland to Southern, and east along the coast to the Mountain Rift and Dry Holds, Toric had installed small settlements with men and women beholden to him for the opportunities. It had been fun for Piemur to teach drum codes to pupils so much older than himself. He had been diligent, too, because Toric was a totally different personality than Master Robinton, Master Shonagar, or Master Domick and his drum tower masters. Piemur had felt Toric’s hard hand once and took great care not to feel it again. He knew that the Southerner was very ambitious, far more than anyone—except possibly Master Robinton—knew.

  But the provident, beautiful, amazing, fantastic land that was Southern was more than the people who grabbed a hold on it. Looking to a seemingly limitless eastern stretch of forest and hill, Piemur wondered just how far Southern did extend—and just how much Toric thought he could take into one Hold under his orders! Soon Piemur’s first loyalty to the Harper Hall was going to come into abrupt conflict with his sneaking admiration for Toric’s ambitions. Or the ambitions of someone like Lord Groghe, who had that mess of sons to settle, or Corman, who had nine. If they found out how much good land was available, they might even defy Benden’s orders. Saneter kept telling Piemur that Master Robinton was well informed of all Toric’s doing, but Piemur was beginning to wonder if Saneter really knew!

  Just then, Piemur gasped. Through the gaps in the weather rail, he had a perfect view of the port banks. There, lounging in the sun, unperturbed by the ship floating past, were two huge spotted felines. They were probably some of the sports that Sharra had mentioned. Piemur realized that he should call attention to them, but Hamian was on the starboard rail, watching the boat being lifted aboard. And somehow, Piemur did not want to share the moment with anyone, or scare the magnificent creatures away.

  “I came as soon as I could, Lady Thella,” the bedraggled wight said through lips blue with cold. The first line of sentinels had passed him through to her hold guards. “I wasn’t seen. I hide a lot. No tracks. See?” He thrust a long-needled tree branch at her. “I tied this to my belt, and it swept up my tracks as I made ‘em.”

  Thella made herself relax, but she worried that the thickwit before her could have led searchers to her lair in his hasty rush to tell her some insignificant rumor.

  “But this could be important, Lady,” the ragged man went on, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

  Thella signalled to one of the cook drudges to get the man a cup of klah. She could barely understand him as it was. If he had something important to say, she wanted to hear it quickly or dismiss him.

  He nearly prostrated himself, all but spilling the klah when it was handed to him, but a few sips appeared to control his spasms.

  “I mean, you always wanted to know just when Thread starts and stops,” he said. “And which lord is going where, and more about the Weyrs then us’ns is supposed to know. Well, I got the way for you to hear dragons—all the time! This girl, well she can hear dragons! That’s good, isn’t it? She can hear ‘em at a distance, too, and what they say to each other.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Thella said expressionlessly, glancing quickly at Giron. The dragonless man slowly swung his head around to look at the newcomer.

  “Oh, no, Lady Thella. She can. She really can. I watched her. She’d call the children back into the caverns, telling ‘em dragonriders was on their way over. The first time, she said they’d be coming to Igen Hold. I saw the dragons headed that way myself. I heard her tell her brother when they were on their way back to Benden Weyr. At least she said they were from Benden Weyr and there wasn’t no way—no reason, either—to think she was lying. She did it all quietlike. She didn’t know I heard ‘er.”

  “If you were close enough to hear her do it all quietlike,” Thella began sourly, “then why wouldn’t she know you heard her?”

  The man winked and grinned, an appalling sight since he had so few front teeth left. “Because in the caverns, I’m deef! I don’t hear nuffing. I’m good at that, I am. I get fed ‘cause I’m helpless.” He demonstrated, saliva spattering from his loose lower lip.

  “I see,” Thella drawled. Awful man, cleverer than he looked. Readis often said that the holdless survived more by deception than by strength. The “deaf” man would not have passed her outer sentinels if he had not been an accepted spy. She glanced at Dushik, who gave her a reassuring nod. “She has one of those little fire-lizards?”

  “Her?” The man guffawed, and more spittle drooled from his mouth. He seemed to sense her disgust and swallowed, mopping at his mouth with the blanket someone had thrown across his shoulders. “Nah! Fire-lizzuds cost ya. The way I heard it, her dad and ma were chased out of Ruatha by Fax.
The ma’s still a looker, got big—” Hastily he caught himself, realizing he spoke to a well-endowed woman. “Fax did like a good piece to warm his furs. If the ma was Ruathan Bloodline like she claims, it could be in the Blood for the girl to hear dragons. The Benden Weyrwoman’s Ruathan, you know.”

  In the face of her cold silence, he lost all brashness. He gulped down the rest of the klah as if afraid the cup would be dashed from his hand and looked warily about him.

  Let him stew, Thella thought, setting her elbow on the armrest and cushioning her chin in the palm of her hand, looking anywhere but at the disgusting messenger. He was right: Ruathans had produced too many dragonriders—far more than any of the other Bloodlines. Lessa was the current insult.

  “Tell me again,” she ordered, gesturing for Dushik and Readis to listen carefully. Giron kept on watching, his face blank.

  But the man seemed to be telling the truth. He had heard the girl’s younger brother boasting of his sister’s ability, that she always knew when Thread would fall “because the dragons talked to each other about it.”

  Giron nodded at Thella as he regarded the “deaf” man with incurious but seeing eyes, very much aware of what had been said.

  “I think,” Thella said after mulling over the risks involved, “I think I must speak with this fascinating child. Do you know her name, deaf man?”

  “Aramina, Lady Thella. Her name’s Aramina. Her da’s Dowell, and he’s a woodjoiner; her ma’s named Barla; the boy’s Pell, and there’s another—”

  She cut him off. “And they’re all at Igen cave site?” At his hasty nod she asked, “Would they be likely to move?”

  “They been there a good few Turns. He does work he sells at the Gathers, and makes furniture—”

  “I don’t need to know that, my good man,” she said coldly. He had a gargling voice, as if phlegm constantly lodged in his throat; it was not only a disgusting sound but an irritating monotone. “They’re not liable to take off?”