Dragon's Code

by Gigi McCaffrey

  The crown of the egg had been broken through to the size of a grown man’s head, but the rest of the egg was intact. Piemur leaned in close, and a faint rotten odor assaulted his nose. Peering inside, he could see what looked like the dried remains of a malformed yolk and some fluid at the bottom of the shell that had almost completely congealed. He’d seen enough. It was time to leave these desolate Grounds.

  Trying desperately to clear his mind of the disturbing scene, he focused on calling to Farli. Where was she? Unable to shake off the dreadful feeling of malaise that had settled over him, he started walking back along the beach to where he had tethered Stupid. Suddenly Farli burst into the air overhead, chirruping to Piemur in a trill of notes and flashing a blur of images at him while she flew in erratic circles around his head.

  “Hold on, there, Farli! Slow down, little sweet. You’re showing me too much too fast,” Piemur said, smiling at the gold fire-lizard.

  He stretched out his arm and Farli settled on his hand, careful not to cling too hard with her sharp talons. Piemur brought her down and held her close to his chest, gently stroking her with his free hand. Unbidden, a little sigh of satisfaction traveled up from his chest, and he could feel Farli relaxing in his hand. When he stroked the skin on the ridges above her eyes, she crooned at him with delight.

  “Wonderful Farli,” he murmured. “Where did the green dragon fly?”

  An image of a sunny beach flashed in Piemur’s mind, and he mentally nudged Farli to show him more of the scenery and any specific landmarks she might have noticed. Farli fluttered her wings impatiently, but he persisted, easing the subtle pressure on his fire-lizard’s mind until she was calm enough to reveal what he needed to know.

  “You’ve done a good job,” he said as he continued to stroke her. The little queen preened, furling her wings along her back. Piemur could tell she was delighted with her achievement, because the color of her eyes had changed from a deep purple to blue.

  “There you go,” he said, raising his hand up to his shoulder. Farli delicately extracted her talons from his hand and hopped to his shoulder, where she stretched along the back of his neck in her favorite position, her head and forelegs resting along one side of his face, with her back legs and tail along the other.

  “You rest, sweet thing, while I mount up. Then I have to ride fast to where T’reb was headed. You’ll guide me, won’t you?” Piemur reached his hand up to scratch the skin above Farli’s left eye ridge, and the little queen crooned at him again.

  “I have to find out more about what T’reb is planning, Farli, because it sounds like trouble!”

  Piemur held his breath, nervous that the men might see him. With a lot of backtracking, traipsing around in dense jungle, and more than a little cursing, he had finally reached the site Farli showed him, nearly falling off Stupid with fright when he heard the sound of voices coming from the direction of the beach. He must be more careful: He had nearly blundered onto the beach and risked exposing himself! He slowly retraced his steps a safe distance to where he could tether Stupid, deciding to leave Farli there, too, since she had a knack for keeping the runnerbeast calm and quiet.

  Crouching lower than he felt was physically possible, he approached slowly, all the while keeping his eyes glued on the two men.

  Piemur tried to recall every detail of what he had overheard back at the Oldtimer Weyr, hopeful that the thick grasses and giant ferns would conceal him as he knelt down and peered through the screen of lush plants. One of these two must be the man T’reb had spoken about when he was arguing with B’naj. Had he mentioned a name? And in what way was he going to help T’reb realize his so-called plan?

  Letting his senses heighten, he listened intently to the men who, a mere dozen paces distant, seemed blithely unaware of their eavesdropper. By the look of them Piemur pegged them as hold-bred, though he was only hazarding a guess. One of them, a lanky, mopheaded man, suddenly turned in Piemur’s direction as he made expansive gestures with his arms, pointing up and all around at the dense forest. For a moment it seemed as if the man was looking directly at him. Piemur froze. He could feel a pulse beating in his neck, and his heart sounded like a quickening roll of drums in his chest.

  Don’t forget to breathe, he reminded himself, and drew in a measured breath before exhaling quietly. Sweat rolled down from the crown of his head, skidded over his brow, and tracked down the side of his face. He felt exposed here on the ground. Quickly he scanned the surrounding trees and bushes for a safer vantage point.

  The second man was not as tall as the first, and had copper-colored, wavy hair and a scar on his upper lip. The taller man mumbled something Piemur couldn’t hear. The copper-haired man looked at his companion, and because he was facing Piemur, his next words were easily discernible.

  “It just seems unusual to me, Toolan. ’Sall I’m sayin’.” Piemur watched the man as he lifted his hands up high in the air, fingers spread wide.

  The other man—Toolan—scowled. “And the dragonrider told me that this is the place he wants drawn! Anyhow, what do you know about what he wants? You just met him. I’m the one he’s dealing with, not you, Cramb!”

  The note of contempt in Toolan’s voice was clear to Piemur. He wondered why the man named Cramb didn’t seem to react to the snide remark. Glancing away, he caught sight of a tree with branches that might make a perfect hiding place. It’s now or never, he thought.

  Careful not to make any noise, Piemur crept to the tree and eyed the stout branch above him. It was only about two meters from the ground. Piemur wasn’t very tall, but he was compactly built, and all his time scouting and mapping in Southern had given him strong leg muscles. Lowering himself into a semi-squat, he stretched his arms out by his sides, fists clenched. He took a deep breath and then in one powerful thrust shot up into the air, grabbed the branch, and clasped it tightly with both hands. A large bird flew off its perch somewhere above him, causing branches to shake and leaves to rustle. Piemur wanted to gasp but held his breath instead, hanging perfectly still.

  “What was that?” Toolan asked, staring intently in Piemur’s direction.

  “It was just a bird, Toolan,” Cramb said. “This place is alive with birds and wild animals.”

  Toolan turned away from the tree and Piemur exhaled, thanking the First Egg for the man’s lack of curiosity. Slowly he hauled himself up and onto the branch, where he settled himself with his back resting against the tree trunk and his legs stretched out in front of him. He felt well covered by the dense leaves all around him, while he could clearly see the men below.

  Cramb was running his tongue over his scarred upper lip as he stared at Toolan. Piemur craned forward, intent on seeing what transfixed Cramb. Slowly, careful to make no sound, he extracted the single-lens distance viewer from under his tunic, in the small pack he carried around his waist. He had been given the viewer for mapping the skies in Southern with N’ton, and had found it a useful tool while scouting, as well. Now he focused the lens on Toolan’s face.

  Was that a giant gob of spit bouncing about on the man’s lips? Piemur grimaced when he realized that it was, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring at it as Toolan spoke, the glob moving up and down, occasionally stretching in a thin thread between the two lips before snapping back into position.

  Please lick your lips, Toolan, or I might just heave, Piemur silently pleaded.

  “I think it’s an odd choice. That’s all,” Cramb said. He licked his lips again, and Piemur suddenly caught himself licking his own lips, too.

  “Well, don’t bother…to think, that is!” Toolan said loudly, and then paused before adding, “I know what’s wanted. You’re just here to make a sketch of it, so get to work,” he barked. “Shards, but this place is hot!” He wiped sweat off his face with his arm as he looked around the clearing. “I hate when it’s this hot!”

  What a foul character this Toolan fellow i
s, Piemur decided. By contrast, Cramb seemed a rather pleasant man, and Piemur wondered why he was mixed up with an obnoxious crud like Toolan.

  Piemur watched as Cramb pulled at two leather straps that crisscrossed his chest, lifting them over his head to reveal the rawhide satchel he’d been carrying on his back. He opened it and pulled out a little fold-up stool. Then he rooted around in the satchel for a moment before taking out a piece of chalk and a midsize slate.

  “Take your time, Cramb. I need a rest,” Piemur heard Toolan call imperiously from where he’d settled at the base of a stout, fronded tree. He watched the lanky man fold his arms behind his head and then slide his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other as he closed his eyes.

  “You’ll get plenny a’ that, Toolan. This is just a rough sketch I’m laying down on the slate. I’ll have to copy my work onto fine vellum and then add more detail before I make the final rendering in color. After that’s done, I’ll make another sketch when the sky’s dark. You said that’s what T’reb wanted.”

  “Hmm,” Toolan acknowledged, not bothering to look at his companion.

  Cramb bent his head and got busy paring his stylus with a sharp knife; Piemur noticed the man’s smile of pleasure as he briefly glanced at the somnolent Toolan.

  The landscape along this part of the Southern Continent’s coast was really quite outstanding, Piemur reflected, as he looked up and down the shoreline as far as he could see. Might even be the prettiest spot on all of Pern, he thought, and worried that it might be marred by whatever scheme these two men were realizing for T’reb.

  Once Cramb arranged his equipment ready to hand, he completed the sketch quickly and set about redrawing the scene on the fine vellum that he carefully removed from his satchel and rested on a thin piece of bark that he laid across his thighs.

  Nestled in the tree, Piemur wondered why in the world T’reb wanted a drawing of this place. With a slow sigh he forced himself to relax a little. Toolan was snoring quietly in the shade, one hand, palm upward, resting over his eyes as if in mock horror. I’d better stay alert, Piemur thought, and not fall asleep like this Toolan fella. He’d been sent by Master Robinton to scout out any unusual incidents involving the Oldtimers, and to fall asleep on the job wouldn’t put him in very good favor with his Master. That was a certainty!

  The thought of the Masterharper reminded Piemur of his life at Fort. Just the thought of it elicited a sharp pang of regret, which Piemur felt as a physical stab in his chest. He shook his head. Why, even though his life as a first-line singer was over, he was lucky to still be apprenticed to the Masterharper! A memory flashed into his head from three Turns past, before his voice broke, and he closed his eyes, unconsciously savoring every detail.

  He was in the main music hall, on the day the choir was practicing an incredibly difficult piece of a cappella music Master Domick had composed. Not that Master Domick ever composed anything but complex music. Piemur had the lead, as usual, but the choir members were struggling to perfect the discords and counter-melodies that made the madrigal so unique—and difficult to master.

  “No, no, no!” Domick had shouted, his voice rising on the last word as he simultaneously smacked his baton off the music stand. “You sound like a herd of shrieking runnerbeasts being devoured by Thread. Read the music score, for pity’s sake! Do not sing the last phrase like that!” The Mastercomposer’s face was turning a disturbing shade of red as he shouted, and the boys and girls of the choir started to squirm in their places, which only added further to their teacher’s obvious ire.

  “Piemur. Please,” Domick had said as he drew in a deep breath, tapping his baton once again while gesturing with the other hand for Piemur to step from his place in the line of apprentices and stand facing the assembled group. As Piemur made his way to stand next to Master Domick, he saw the door to the practice hall open and the Masterharper of Pern enter, followed by Journeyman Masterharper Sebell.

  “Sing the base phrase, Piemur,” Domick ordered, looking all the while at the choir members to see that they were paying attention. Piemur opened his mouth, drew breath, and then, as always, time seemed to slow down for him as he exhaled the first note and the sweet sound flowed around the big hall. As Piemur’s voice filled the room it was like a window had been opened, flooding the space with delicious sound.

  “Excellent. Now, Dilis, you sing just as Piemur is singing, please,” Domick said, and Dilis did as instructed. Piemur adjusted his voice, easily singing in harmony with Dilis as he let the other boy take control of the base phrase. Domick nodded with approval.

  “Now, Shern, I want you to join in and take over the harmony from Piemur. Don’t err on the notes,” Domick commanded. Shern began singing, and Piemur immediately changed his refrain and sang in counter-harmony with the two other lads. The effect was spine tingling.

  “Now all of you: Trebles, sing your parts; sopranos, too. Follow Piemur’s lead,” Domick said, raising his arms and indicating on the downbeat when the singers should join in. As all the voices of the choir joined in, they filled the room with a multilayered, complex melody. The Mastercomposer closed his eyes, his head bouncing up and down in tempo with the singers. Without any further direction from Master Domick, and perfectly on cue, Piemur took a breath and sang his solo part, filling the air with his sure, high treble voice. The song was beautiful, captivating everyone in those few moments of perfection.

  Then Domick’s composition neared its coda and all the voices of the choir sang in tight bursts, sounding like gusts of wind, and Piemur’s voice, singing higher than the others, sounded like a small, frightened creature being tossed about on the ebb and flow of air.

  When the final note of the song was sung and all the voices ceased, everyone in the room remained silent momentarily, hushed by the fading echo of the beautiful sound they had created together. Then the singers turned from one to another, delighted smiles spreading over their faces, and in a rush they all started talking at the same time, thoroughly pleased because they knew they had finally sung the difficult song as it was meant to be heard.

  Piemur remembered standing in front of his peers and quietly beaming along with them. Then, without any fanfare, he had resumed his position in the front row of the group, spreading his arms over the shoulders of the two on either side of him while turning to nod at the others.

  Piemur would never forget that moment! He had barely noticed the looks of approval on the faces of the Masterharper and journeyman masterharper, though he was aware that they were pleased. No, Piemur knew his singing voice was perfect, not because of any vanity but because it had been meticulously trained to be just so, and nothing less. He knew, too, that for a little while during the rehearsal he had been the focus of everyone’s attention, but that wasn’t what had been most important to him as a singer. All he’d ever cared about was the satisfaction and inexpressible joy he experienced when singing with a group, joining in with other voices to create one single, superb orchestra of sound. That was what was most important to Piemur. When he sang with a group he felt as if the sound were actually amplifying from inside his body, tingling every cell, and filling him with pure delight.

  But now, perched in the tree watching Cramb, he knew singing with a choir would never be the same for him. He wasn’t sure if anything could ever make him feel so passionate again. How time changed everything!

  Piemur shook his head. He’d better keep his attention on the job, he mused, and redoubled his efforts to stay fully alert. The day was wearing on, and the light in the sky was changing with it. Night would fall soon, and quickly.

  The location Cramb was drawing had an excellent expanse of pure white, undisturbed sand set back from the shoreline by two full dragonlengths. As Cramb tilted his head, Piemur followed his gaze and saw that the artist was scrutinizing a cluster of boulders set to one side. He started drawing again, and Piemur reckoned that he might be adding in the b
oulders.

  Cramb stopped drawing and tilted his head again, looking pleased with himself as he viewed his work with a critical eye. Piemur watched him, captivated; he had never seen a landscape artist at work before.

  Cramb carefully secured the sketch onto a flat piece of bark. Then he placed five small dollops of colored powder on a smaller piece of bark and mixed water into each pile to form a smooth, loose paste. Piemur couldn’t help but smile when he saw Cramb’s tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, his lips curling upward unconsciously. The artist must like this part, Piemur supposed.

  Piemur watched, fascinated, as Cramb used the five basic pigments to create a varied range of colors, all of which could be found in the local scenery. Starting at the top of the vellum Cramb quickly and meticulously filled in the colors of the scene. Piemur wished he could see Cramb’s work, even though the scene was right in front of his eyes.

  Sighing, Cramb carefully set the finished drawing aside to dry. Then he took a smaller rectangle of vellum from his satchel and quickly started sketching again, glancing over at the sleeping form of Toolan once or twice as he worked. Finally, Cramb retrieved his color palette and added paint to the second drawing. Perhaps he doesn’t want to waste the leftover pigment on his palette, Piemur speculated.

  From his place under the shady tree, Toolan woke with a snort, making a disgusting noise as he cleared his throat. He sat up and peered in Cramb’s direction.

  “Best get a fire started and fresh water hauled in,” he said, directing his comment not to Cramb but rather to the general area of the little campsite.

  “The dragonrider won’t mind waiting another day for my finished sketches then, d’you think? I’ll have my work cut out drawing the nightscape when darkness falls,” Cramb said, his tone moderate. Piemur couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw a little smile pushing up one corner of Cramb’s mouth.