The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I didn’t know I was. In fact, neither Brekke nor Sharra here told me just how sick I’d been until I was much better.” He gave his healer an intense look that held more than simple gratitude.

  “And Toric just let you come?” Piemur demanded of Sharra.

  “As a favor to the Benden Weyrleaders and Master Oldive, I think.” She gave the journeyman harper a wink, then sat up straighter and stuck her nose in the air. “I do have an exceptional record of nursing fire-head victims through fever and blindness, you know.”

  Piemur knew that, but he just did not like the idea of Sharra and Jaxom together. Perhaps Toric saw it another way. An alliance with the Ruathan Bloodline, and a kinship with the Benden Weyrwoman, Lessa, might prove invaluable to him.

  And there was something else niggling about in the back of Piemur’s mind, especially as he noticed how many fire-lizards, mainly wild ones with no hall or hold neck markings, engulfed Ruth wherever he went. And he could not ignore the brief flashes he was getting from Farli now that she was back in the white dragon’s presence. The more the young harper twisted the matter around in his head, the more certain he became about how that stolen queen egg had gotten back to Benden Weyr Hatching Ground. But it was not something that he, for all his intimacy with Jaxom, could come right out and ask.

  By the time they had settled down to eat grilled fish and fruit on the beach that night, they had caught up on the main exchange of adventures and news. Piemur was unhappily sure of Jaxom’s feelings toward Sharra. And, knowing her as well as he did, he was dismally convinced that the attraction was mutual. Even if neither of them knew it yet. Or maybe they did. But Piemur did not intend to make it easy for them. He would have to think of distractions.

  The next morning Piemur told Jaxom that Stupid had eaten every nonpoisonous blade he could find near the shelter and that the runner flatly refused to emerge from the denser undergrowth when Ruth was around. “He’s a bit puny from all the traveling we’ve done, Jaxom,” Piemur said. “He needs feeding up.”

  So Jaxom offered to fly him on Ruth to the nearest meadow to collect fodder for Stupid. Piemur always enjoyed riding a-dragonback; riding Ruth, who was so much smaller than the full-sized fighting dragons, added a more immediate dimension to the experience, slightly scary, though he had every faith in the amazing white beast. If he had a dragon, he thought, he would have had a much easier time exploring…or would he, having trod the ground and learned much that he had not appreciated of the shrubs, trees, and brilliant flowering plants? Flying straight on a dragon gave one other perceptions of vast and beautiful terrain.

  Ruth landed them neatly in the center of an expanse of waving grasses dotted with wildflowers and, rolling carefully over, stretched out wing and limb to bask in the sun. But when Jaxom asked him to help harvest the grasses, he willingly set to with gusto.

  Jaxom burst out laughing. “No, we are not feeding him up for you to eat.” Affectionately he lobbed a dirt ball at the lounging dragon. Later, as they watched Stupid munching happily away, they gazed at the giant mountain visible in the distance and discussed the possibility of trekking to the peak while Jaxom waited out his convalescence. The trip would take four or five days on foot—Ruth could not carry all three, and Jaxom could not risk flying between so soon after his bout with fire-head—but that did not daunt Piemur, nor did he mind the fact that it would keep him close by Sharra and Jaxom for a time longer.

  Sharra was amazed that Piemur had traveled so far with a runt of a runnerbeast and one fire-lizard as his only companions. Over a midday meal, Piemur told them at some length how he utilized Farli’s wings and Stupid’s sturdiness to make them a team. That led into a discussion of how to interpret a fire-lizard’s sometimes incoherent imagery, and to theories about the wild fire-lizards’ adoration of Ruth. Until Jaxom had fully recuperated from fire-head, the three of them might be forced to remain in the cove, but they were by no means out of touch. Ruth kept them current with news of the Masterharper’s recovery. And Sharra had another, more impatient, note from her brother, which she showed to Piemur but did not mention to Jaxom.

  “If he really needed you, Sharra, it’d be one thing,” Piemur told her. “Fire-head season’s over. Tell him you’re helping me with the mapping. Besides, if it is urgent, his new Weyrleader’s one of the few who knows exactly where the cove is.” In an absurd way, he was enjoying being a third wheel. “Of course, maybe Toric doesn’t want to ask that sort of a favor of D’ram. And it’s not long now, is it?”

  Mindful of his own duty to Toric, he enlisted Jaxom’s aid in translating his travel notes into maps. Sharra bleached wherhide skins into usable form and concocted a good ink from local plants. They fished, they swam, they got to know the cove and the little streams feeding into it, and they explored the eastern horn of the cove until they came to a less passable rockstrewn region. At mealtimes, Piemur regaled them in his best harper fashion with tales of hazards and unusual things he had seen.

  “Those big spotted felines, by the way,” he told Sharra, “are not local to Southern. I saw them all along my way.” He tapped his elongated map. “Farli always warned me soon enough to avoid a direct encounter, and I’ve also seen some huge canines no cook would ever want to use as a spit turner.”

  As a further diversion, the three of them hiked westward to collect a queen fire-lizard’s clutch that Piemur had noticed on his way to the cove. The eggs of a queen fire-lizard were much prized in the north, and both Jaxom and Sharra had been trying to find a clutch. So they carefully packed the eggs they found in baskets filled with hot sand and struck off, Piemur whacking a way through the underbrush. But heat and unaccustomed exercise took their toll on Jaxom’s returning health. He was exhausted by the time they reached the cove, and Piemur was soberly repentant. He really had not meant to jeopardize the Ruathan’s recovery. Magnanimously he went so far as to admit that the trip had tired him, too, and he was going to go to bed as soon as it was dark. The maps could wait—and, clearly, so could the planned trip to the mountain.

  They were all awakened the next morning by Ruth’s bugling announcement of the imminent arrival of Canth and F’nor from Benden Weyr, along with some dragons and riders. Immediately Ruth’s adoring circle of wild fire-lizards disappeared; only Meer, Talla, and Farli remained to greet their immense cousins.

  When F’nor told them why he and the other riders had come, Piemur had mixed reactions. He was delighted by the plans to build the Masterharper a convalescent home right there in the cove that he had found so beautiful and restful. But he did not like the idea of the incredible place becoming too well known—at least not until he had had the chance to discuss Paradise River with someone. He could just imagine Toric’s reaction to the wonderful surprise for the Masterharper. Sharra seemed unperturbed, but then, she was far more involved with Jaxom than with her brother’s aspirations.

  Up until the day of the Masterharper’s arrival in the newly named Cove Hold, there was little peace there. Sharra, disabusing F’nor of the suitability of the plans he had brought, promptly drew new ones, designed for living in Southern, where it was more important to encourage breezes and mitigate the summer heat than to keep out cold or Thread.

  Then Mastercraftsmen in every Hall got wind of the project, and dragons arrived with men and material in such quantity that Piemur was overwhelmed. As he sought privacy in the dense forest, he knew that it might seem that he was deserting his friends. But there were more than enough hands to complete Master Robinton’s new hold, and besides, so many dragons frightened Stupid into a quivering wreck. No one, it turned out, expected either Sebell or T’gellan at Cove Hold, and Piemur had counted on one of them to appear.

  He debated sending a message by Farli to Sebell. But if Sebell had been named Masterharper, he would have more than enough problems to sort out. Also, Piemur would have to know exactly where Sebell was, or wear out poor Farli with betweening. In any case, he was reluctant to mention Jayge and Ara in writing. Sebell, in his quiet and und
erstated way, was as astute and clear-eyed as his Master and had been in Southern often enough to have Toric’s measure. And if F’lar had replaced D’ram as Southern Weyrleader, maybe everything in the South had altered. Maybe that was why Toric had been ordering Sharra to return. It looked as if for the time being the secret of Jayge and Ara would have to keep.

  Having listened to F’nor talking rather proprietarily of that part of the South, it occurred to Piemur that the dragonriders might have thoughts of taking hold there in the next Interval, where they would not be dependent on the generosity of Holds. Piemur knew how that dependence had vexed Lessa and F’lar before the current Pass had begun.

  Well, he was only the explorer, not the dispenser of the land. He and Jaxom had made several copies of his journey map, one for himself, one for Toric, and a third to occupy the Masterharper on his long sea voyage to Cove Hold. He could no longer delay dispatching Toric’s copy by Farli, and he would have to add some details. Admittedly, Toric had sent him no message to report back, nor a spare dragonrider to convey him, but he had come as far as he had at Toric’s request, and until he had been officially recalled to the Harper Hall by Sebell, he was still an official member of Toric’s hold.

  Piemur decided not to mention to Toric Sharra’s fondness—who was he kidding? Sharra’s love—for Jaxom, so obviously reciprocated. He would certainly omit any details of the beautiful Paradise River, but he thought he ought to mention the existence of ancient ruins to someone, and get that extraordinary Record to the Mastersmith.

  He wandered as far as the meadow where he and Jaxom had cut grass and gazed long and hard at the distant mountain peak, so serenely symmetrical. And he slept surprisingly well those nights, with no repeats of the erupting volcano dream that had plagued him earlier. Farli no longer chittered excitedly at him about men and big objects in the sky. He had understood finally that she had not meant dragons. She also conveyed some vivid images of erupting volcanoes, and Piemur wondered who was dreaming whose dreams. Finally, on the fifth day, she interrupted his ruminations with an ecstatic message that the ship was very near the cove.

  He returned to find the new Hall at Cove Hold completed, all the craftsmen and women already conveyed back to the north. Sharra and Jaxom were delighted to see him again and showed him all that had been accomplished in his absence.

  “Shards, but this is magnificent,” he said, wishing that he had not taken off like a scared wherry as he stared around at the spacious main hall where Master Robinton could entertain half a Hold, if he chose. He loved the Harper, and he knew that almost everyone on Pern did for one reason or another, but to have so many skilled people express their respect and admiration in such a way brought a lump to Piemur’s throat. “This is just magnificent,” he repeated and noticed the amused grins. He wandered about the hall, touching the carved chairs and the fine chests and tables.

  He said the same thing when Sharra brought him into the corner study, with its incredible view of the sea and the eastern headland, the clever storage racks for Records and musical instruments, and the impressive supply of Master Bendarek’s leaves to write on. He admired the guest rooms, large enough to be comfortable but small enough not to encourage too long a visit, and complimented Sharra on the kitchen she had spent so much time organizing, with the special cupboards to store the Benden wines that the Mastervintner had sent in extraordinary quantities. Yes, Piemur thought, brushing irritably at his brimming eyes, the Master would find everything to his taste and convenience at Cove Hold. And live long and happily, safe there from all strife.

  The day that Master Robinton was expected, Piemur volunteered to oversee the roasting of the fresh wherry in the firepit constructed in a convenient rock pile on the right-hand side of the cove’s semicircle. Piemur had become obsessed by the idea that the Harper might have dwindled the way T’ron had, becoming aged and bowed overnight by his illness. He would hate to see his proud, vital Master in such a state. But he had to see him with his own eyes.

  He had the best view of the westward reach of the cove while he tended the roast, and he was the first to see the three masts of Master Idarolan’s finest ship, the Dawn Sister, with all sails set, keel showing as she raced along the clear green waters. He watched as she altered her course, sailors climbing her yardarms to furl sails, and as she smoothly slid into dock at the fine pier that had been constructed to receive her and her special passenger. He watched as Lessa, Brekke, Master Fandarel, and Jaxom assisted the Harper down the bobbing gangplank, and he was relieved to see Master Robinton stride down the plank with his customary vitality. Watching Menolly follow him off the ship, Piemur felt oddly removed from all those old friends of his. He told himself that too many people could be stressful. He could wait. So he continued to baste the succulent wherry.

  “Piemur!” The familiar baritone sounded as firmly supported as ever, and that voice, ringing and clear, did much to restore him.

  “Master?” he called out in reply, startled by the familiar summons.

  “Report, Piemur!”

  D’ram, Sebell, and N’ton, the young Fort Weyrleader, came to the Southern hold, asking to speak to Toric.

  Recently there had been much coming and going of dragonriders bringing supplies and people and generally working on D’ram’s promised restoration of the Southern Weyr. The newly augmented wings had begun to fly regular practice flights. The Weyrhall had been scrubbed and painted by the younger riders, and encroaching forest growth had been trimmed from individual weyrs. D’ram had been exceedingly circumspect, but took entirely too much notice, Toric thought, of what went on in the Hold. Far too much.

  To show united Bloodkin, he had sent his fire-lizards to Hamian at the mines, Kevelon in Central Hold, and Murda and her husband at Big Lagoon, telling them to return immediately. He had also sent a note to Sharra, insisting on her return. Surely she could talk some dragonrider into conveying her back. Uncharacteristically, she had sent no reply, though the message had been removed from his little queen’s leg.

  “We’d like to help you, Holder Toric,” D’ram said when Ramala and Murda had offered them all klah or the cool fruit drink that was particularly refreshing in Southern.

  “Oh?” Toric cast his eyes quickly over each of the three men. Sebell, who had always been discreet and had helped him out on several occasions, was now Masterharper of Pern and might very well hold views different from Robinton’s. The Harper’s expression at the moment was pleasantly attentive. N’ton had the same sort of energetic, inquiring look about him that Piemur had, and to Toric, that could mean that the young dragonrider would be troublesome. What was a Fort Weyrleader doing there anyway?

  D’ram cleared his throat, obviously finding it difficult to continue.

  “Help me in what way?” Toric asked testily.

  “Now that Masterharper Sebell has brought me up to date on the many abuses and incivilities you have suffered from the Southern Oldtimers, and their rather conspicuous demands over and above the lawful tithe, I think there should be some changes.”

  Toric merely nodded, aware that the Fort Weyrleader and Sebell were watching him closely.

  “I—we—in this bountiful place,” D’ram went on, “feel that the Weyr should substantially reduce its requirements of you, especially in the matter of feeding our dragons. They actually prefer to hunt, and once we know where your livestock is pastured, we will avoid the area. We expect to have five wings, as well as—” D’ram paused “—those no longer able for active service.”

  Toric accepted with a nod what D’ram was implying, though he did not quite like the suggestion that dragonriders would soon be overflying the land. Just how much did dragonriders notice when they flew? They might not have seen much when they had searched for Ramoth’s egg—but while hunting wild game? He found himself mulling over that problem as D’ram continued.

  “We have brought with us sufficient weyrfolk to handle all domestic duties, so those holders whom you have been good enough to attach to the Weyr
can return to their normal duties.”

  Toric cleared his throat. He could appreciate D’ram not wanting those slatternly drudges about a freshened Weyr. He did not want them about Southern, either. But there was an easy solution for that.

  Then Sebell held out a long cylinder, encased in a finely tooled leather sheath. “Mastersmith Fandarel wishes you to have this,” he said with a slight smile.

  When Toric unwrapped it, he could not suppress his delight at being given a distance-viewer of his own. Master Rampesi had managed to acquire a small one but nothing so fine as this. He turned it over in his hands, putting it to his eye and reacting with a startled cry at the magnification of what he knew were minute fissures in the wall.

  “You should be able to see the length and breadth of Southern Hold with that,” Sebell said.

  That got Toric’s complete attention. “Master Fandarel doesn’t waste his efforts,” he said obliquely. Length and breadth of Southern Hold, indeed!

  “Yes, I also bear a message from Master Fandarel,” Sebell went on smoothly. “Metal is, as you know, in short supply in the North. You have been supplying the Smithcrafthall with much needed zinc, copper, and other ores, for which that is a token of gratitude.”

  “We’ve shipped what we could,” Toric said carefully. It was one thing for the dragonriders to hunt for meat in the hold. How much else were they expecting to find for themselves?

  “I think arrangements can now be made for more regular commerce,” D’ram said, “as compensation for what you’ve endured.”

  Toric eyed him warily.

  “A regular trade would be extremely beneficial for both North and South,” Sebell continued, betraying no hint of his knowledge of Toric’s already steady activities in that area. “And Mastersmith Fandarel is certainly eager to have as much ore as you can ship to him. You, and quite likely your Smithmaster brother, will have to advise him as to how much you can manage to supply. To this point, I think N’ton has something to say.”