The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  Jayge nodded, since she seemed to expect some response of him.

  “I shall go to the Southern Continent. I hear that there’s lots of it no one’s ever seen.”

  “And that the Oldtimers don’t take their dragons out often,” Jayge said with a sly grin.

  “Exactly,” she said, with a gracious nod. Then her expression altered. “Oh, please Jayge, help me. The dragons say that they’ve found no one.” Seeing his unspoken query she explained, “I can hear them whether I want to answer them or not.” She laid another pebble carefully where water threatened to spill over her little dam. She seemed so absorbed in her occupation that for a minute Jayge did not realize that she was adding slow tears of despair to the rainwater.

  “‘What do you want me to do?”

  Closing her eyes, she let out a relieved sigh and looked up at him, eyes still brimming with tears but a wan smile on her mouth. “Would that lean, wicked-looking-runner of yours carry two?”

  “He could, but there’re plenty of others to buy around here. I’m a trader, after all. And?”

  She pulled at the edge of his jacket, a rueful expression on her face. “I’ll need something to wear. Dushik slit mine off me…” An involuntary convulsion shook her, and he put a comforting arm about her shoulders until it passed.

  “I’m a trader, remember,” he said again.

  “On rainy days, they often hang clothes to air in the bathing rooms.” She bit her lip, realizing that she had just suggested he steal for her.

  “Leave it to me.” He dragged the pack over and sorted out the rest of the food, she refused to keep the spirits bottle, though he made her take a drink for its warmth.

  “You have to take back your jacket,” she said. “I’ll have the blanket to keep me warm. No one will question your losing a blanket, but shirt and jacket…and as soon as you leave here, I’m going to go out in that rain and get clean.”

  “Then you’ll need the sweetsand.” He found the little bag in his pack and gave it to her. “Don’t stay out long. Thella could still be hanging around.”

  Aramina had swathed herself in the blanket and was wriggling out of his jacket as he spoke. “I don’t think so. It had to have been Dushik who charged Readis. Thella would have thrown a knife.”

  Jayge grimaced at the acuteness of Aramina’s observation. She was thinking clearly. So he would do exactly as she asked and get them out of Benden Hold. Back to…then he remembered the shipment of breeding pairs, slated to go to the Southern Continent. Well now, he might just do a bit of real trading and see if it solved Aramina’s problem. So long as he went, too. He had found her! He loved her! He would help her. The Weyrs and the Holds be damned. Hold and Weyr could not provide her with safety. He could and would!

  10: Southern Continent, PP 15.05.22-15.08.03

  AS PIEMUR ENTERED Toric’s private room, he shot a quick glance at the inner wall to his left and saw that the hold map was, as usual, covered. Since Piemur had contributed many of the latest entries, he was amused by the man’s paranoid secrecy. Saneter was sitting on the edge of his bench, agitatedly rubbing his swollen knuckles. Piemur could tell nothing from Toric’s expression, which was a bad sign, especially when considering that he had returned from Big Lagoon to find the entire hold in a frenzy of indignation, outrage, and fright. Farli had chittered irrationally about dragons flaming her, then had disappeared. He had noticed that there were not many fire-lizards about, but there had been no time to look into the matter, as he had been ordered to report to Toric immediately.

  “So, what have I done wrong this time?” Piemur asked brazenly.

  “Nothing, unless your conscience is heavy,” Toric said edgily and Piemur immediately altered his expression and manner to respectful attentiveness. “Why would all the dragonriders leave?” the Holder went on.

  “They’ve left?” Piemur wondered that Toric was not ecstatic. He glanced at Saneter for confirmation and the old harper flapped his fingers in a confusing sign that the boy could not interpret. When T’ron had died, T’kul had insisted that he was Weyrleader, and the situation at Southern Weyr had deteriorated rapidly. None of the other bronze riders had contested T’kul, but no one was happy with his irrational attitudes and demands.

  “There isn’t a male dragon anywhere,” Toric said, rubbing his chin on his fist. “Only Mardra’s queen is weyred, and she’s more dead than asleep.” Toric was rarely without some course of action; not always one that Saneter—and sometimes Piemur—approved, but one generally guaranteed to protect Southern Hold. “There isn’t Threadfall,” he went on, not hiding his contempt for the Southern dragonriders who so seldom stirred themselves to perform traditional duties. “So I can’t think why all the males would just take off.”

  “Nor I,” Piemur agreed. His voice must have sounded a little too cheerful, for Toric gave him a long measuring stare. Piemur waited patiently. Toric obviously had something in mind.

  “You like it here, don’t you?” the holder finally asked.

  “My first loyalty is to my Craftmaster,” Piemur replied, holding Toric’s gaze. So far Piemur had managed to retain his first allegiance, warped a trifle, but unsullied.

  “Understood.” Toric flicked his fingers in acceptance of Piemur’s response. “But my first loyalty is not to those—those sisters’ mothers.”

  “Understood.” Piemur grinned at the description of the Oldtimers, though the incestuous implications drew a gargled protest from Saneter.

  “And I’m sure you already know that you’ve got your Southern holders behind you all the way,” he added, thinking that was the reassurance Toric wanted.

  “Of course I do!” Toric flicked his fingers again impatiently. “What I need is to be distanced, officially, from whatever that lot is now up to.”

  “What could they be up to?” There were not that many Oldtimers to be effective at anything: both men and dragons were old, tired and more pathetic than dangerous. Except T’kul—lately no hold woman was safe from that womanizer.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t worry. I do so now, officially, in the presence of two journeyman harpers, disclaim any knowledge or part in any Southern dragonrider activity.”

  “Heard and witnessed,” Saneter said, and Piemur echoed the formal words. “But I do think that you should inform the Weyrleaders. They are, after all, the best ones to deal with other dragonriders.”

  “They can’t, and they won’t,” Toric said, his voice grating angrily, “interfere with the Oldtimers. They made that clear enough to me.”

  “At least Benden keeps its word,” Piemur muttered, aware of just how much latitude Toric had given himself after his discussion two Turns before with the Benden Weyrleaders. When Toric gave him a cold and calculating stare, Piemur held up both hands in apology for his impudence. “I could send Farli—if I can get my hands on her—with a warning to T’gellan that the Oldtimers have all vacated. You owe Benden that.”

  Toric considered, scowling and rattling his fingers on the worktable.

  “I did report those peculiar exercises they were doing a few days ago, popping in and out of between. It still makes no sense, but maybe the Weyr can figure it out.” Piemur realized that Toric would rather see the Oldtimers do something so dire and unforgivable that the Northern Weyrs would be forced to confront the problem they posed.

  Neither could have guessed what the Oldtimers were attempting until three days later. Abruptly Mnementh appeared in the sky over Southern, Ramoth following a second later, swooping across the Hold clearing toward the Weyr. Piemur was astonished enough to see the two great Benden dragons, but when he realized that they were riderless, his heart began to pound with dread. Had some incredible disaster occurred in Benden? What could possibly have caused Mnementh and Ramoth to come here on their own? He raced for Toric’s hold to find the holder and old Saneter outside, staring skyward in consternation.

  “Why would dragons come here without their riders?” Toric asked, his eyes never leaving the beasts as they wheeled a
bove the Weyr, heads down, eyes a brilliant orange. “Those are too big to be Oldtimer beasts.”

  “It’s Ramoth and Mnementh,” Piemur replied, his anxiety increasing as he noted the color of their eyes.

  “What are they doing here?” Toric’s voice sounded slightly strained.

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” Piemur admitted, shading his eyes and hoping to see the dragons’ eyes turning a less agitated shade.

  “They’re searching the Weyr. What for?” Saneter asked in a fearful murmur.

  Suddenly Ramoth flung her head up, uttering the most poignantly sorrowful cry Piemur had ever heard. Not the keen of mourning, but a weird and terrible anguished plaint. Despite the heat of the day he shuddered, the flesh on his arms rising in chill bumps. Even Toric paled slightly, and Saneter gave a moan. Mnementh’s deeper voice echoed his queen’s in a discordant tone that increased the pathos of their call.

  Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, the two dragons disappeared. For a long moment, the holder and the two harpers remained motionless. Finally Toric exhaled in gusty relief. “Now what was that all about, Piemur?”

  Piemur shook his head. “Whatever’s happened, it’s bad.”

  “Bloody Oldtimers! If they’ve compromised me…” Toric shook his fist at the Weyr.

  “Oh!” Saneter’s astonished exclamation brought their attention to the nine bronzes that were sweeping in. One circled to land, while the others began a quartering search, their feet flicking the topmost foliage, making it look as if they were walking on the forest roof.

  “That’s Lioth and N’ton,” Piemur said. He was relieved until he saw the bronze rider’s dark expression as he dismounted and strode purposefully up to them. Then anxiety came flooding back. “Ramoth and Mnementh were just here—riderless. What’s happened?”

  “Ramoth’s queen egg has been stolen from the Hatching Ground.”

  “Stolen?” The word erupted from Toric’s lips as he stared with utter disbelief at the bronze rider. Saneter gasped and covered his eyes. Piemur swore.

  “It is regrettable that we hesitated to inform you of their recent erratic behavior—” Toric lifted both hands in mute apology. “But who would have expected them to commit such a heinous crime against the Weyrs?” He sounded unusually subdued. “How could they hope to…how could that help? Where could they hide–no, not here!” He lifted his hands, fending off the mere hint of any complicity. “Search! Search!” He gestured expansively. “Look everywhere!”

  “It is apparently a matter of everywhen,” N’ton said grimly. Piemur groaned, suddenly understanding the significance of the Oldtimers’ latest exercises: They had been practicing going between times, a dangerous use of draconic abilities, even for the best of reasons—which Lessa’s famous ride had been, but which stealing an egg was not.

  Toric looked inquiringly at N’ton, expecting an explanation; then he gave Piemur a hard and significant look.

  “Toric has nothing to hide, N’ton,” Piemur said solemnly, recalling their recent interview and Toric’s request. “Saneter and I give you our oath on that!”

  N’ton nodded gravely and returned to Lioth, springing to take his place on the bronze’s back. Toric and the two harpers watched until the dragons had swept beyond their line of sight, frantically inspecting the surrounding forest.

  “What do we do now?” Toric asked in a low voice.

  “Hope,” Piemur replied, wishing fervently that he had sent Farli when he could. Although who could have suspected those depraved fools to be mad enough to steal an egg from Ramoth? How could any strange dragons have got into the Benden Hatching Ground? Ramoth rarely left it. And how could they have left the Ground without being intercepted?

  The next few hours were exceedingly anxious. But just when Piemur had made himself ill with imagining the consequences—for the Oldtimers as well as for Southern Hold—Tris, N’ton’s brown fire-lizard, appeared with a message on his leg for Piemur. He was also wearing an intricate neck design, an addition so recent that the paint still glistened.

  Unrolling the message as he ran, Piemur raced for Toric’s office. “It’s all right, Toric! The egg’s back!”

  “What? How? Let me see!” Toric grabbed the note from Piemur’s hands and, with unusual openness, muttered the tightly written words aloud.

  “The egg has been returned—no one knows by what agency. Ramoth had left the clutch to eat. Three bronzes appeared, and before the watchdragon realized their intent, they’d flown into the Ground. Ramoth screamed, but the bronzes were away and between with the queen egg before she could act. As you will appreciate, Ramoth and Mnementh suspected the Oldtimers and instantly overflew the Southern Weyr without finding any trace. It was then obvious that the absconding dragons had gone between time to secure their theft. Before a disciplinary move could be made, the egg was returned. One moment it was not in the Hatching Ground, in the next breath it was there. However, it was taken somewhen for long enough to be quite hard, a condition that incenses the Weyrwoman, for it confirms the elapse of considerable time. Where is not known. The Oldtimers are suspected, for what other Weyr would steal what it can produce? Master Robinton urged caution and deliberation, even spoke out against a punitive search, and has been peremptorily dismissed from Benden Weyr. N’ton.”

  “So!” Toric said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the message against his desk. “So the Oldtimers have compromised only themselves. That is a relief.”

  “If you see it as one,” Piemur murmured, and abruptly strode out of the hold. Toric could be as relieved as he wished, but Piemur was far from easy. The Masterharper exiled from Benden? That was bloody awful. The more he thought of the consequences of such an estrangement, the more depressed he became. It had come so frighteningly near the worst catastrophe that could afflict Pern—dragon fighting dragon. Those accursed Oldtimers! What consummate fools! Especially T’kul, who undoubtedly had instigated the senseless scheme. There would be retribution for their act, and Piemur devoutly hoped that the future of Southern Hold—and Toric’s ambitions—had not been jeopardized. But he worried most of all about Master Robinton’s anomalous situation.

  The Oldtimers returned late that afternoon. It was a small satisfaction to Piemur, when Toric sent him to check, to note the utter dejection and the drained color of every single Oldtimer dragon. The dragons were too exhausted by their failure even to eat and most of the riders were intent on getting very drunk.

  “That’s nothing new,” Toric replied when Piemur reported to him. “Shards, but I don’t think there’s much to choose between Northern and Southern dragonriders,” Toric went on, pacing the length of his workroom. He did not seem to notice that he was kicking furniture out of his way and knocking objects off tables with impatient sweeps of his hands. He had kept his temper during the day and was still wound tight as a screw. “But how could I have suspected they’d try something like stealing Ramoth’s queen egg? Believe me, boy, T’kul and those randy riders of his did steal that egg. No question of it in my mind.” Piemur nodded agreement, hoping Toric would just leave matters lie for a while. “I should have guessed that they’d be desperate for a queen to mate bronzes while there’s enough energy in any of them to fly her. I’d say they waited too long! I don’t know who did restore Ramoth’s egg, but by Faranth, I’m grateful to him. It was close there today, boy. Damned close. Those Northern dragons could have charred everything—Hold and Weyr.” Another wide sweep of Toric’s hand knocked Records to the floor. “I don’t like the Oldtimers, but not even I would want dragon to fight dragon.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Toric,” Piemur said and shivered. That possibility had been so frighteningly imminent.

  “For a little while there, I saw everything I’ve worked twenty Turns to accomplish about to be ruined.” Another sweep of Toric’s arm knocked a glowbasket from the wall bracket and spilled its contents over the Records. Piemur grabbed them out of the way and closed the basket, stamping at the spillage. “I’m going to
set a watch on those Oldtimers, Piemur. I’ll have Saneter draw up a roster. I can’t let something else happen. I was hoping to have a few words with F’lar…” Piemur nearly choked at that bit of arrogance. “No, I guess this wasn’t the time for it,” the holder added with a rueful shake of his head. “That Masterharper of yours has good ideas. I’d like you to get in touch with him about this.” Toric turned to look sharply at Piemur.

  The boy cleared his throat and scratched his head, avoiding Toric’s eyes. He did not wish to mention Master Robinton’s now tenuous influence on the Benden Weyrleaders.

  “I took a close look at the dragons, Toric, and honestly, I think time is on your side. Stealing the egg, and I agree with you that they did even if Benden couldn’t prove it, took almost every ounce of strength they had. I think you’re absolutely right that we should keep a discreet watch on them. It’d be easier if the fire-lizards would go anywhere near the Weyr, but Farli’s still chattering about dragons flaming her. Have yours?”

  “I haven’t had time for fire-lizards today, with full-grown Northern dragons breathing firestone stench in my face,” Toric replied acidly.

  “So this time we inform Benden Weyr the moment suspicious behavior starts,” Piemur went on blithely, hoping to talk Toric out of any plans that included Master Robinton. “I want to tell you, Toric, I really admired the way you handled yourself with N’ton!”

  “Thank you,” Toric said sarcastically.

  “You’re welcome,” Piemur snapped back in the same tone. Then he grinned smugly and remarked with calculated insolence. “You’d have been in far worse case if Saneter and I hadn’t stood your witness!”

  At that reminder, Toric reacted, first with a hard stare and then with a bellow of laughter. “Yes, you and old Saneter did come across, and for that I am genuinely grateful, Journeyman Harper.”

  “Indebted, in fact,” Piemur suggested with a wry grin.