Dragon's Code

by Gigi McCaffrey

  “Good, and thank you, Lord Toric,” Piemur replied, not voicing the thought that he also had interesting news to relate to the Masterharper.

  In fact, it was several hours more before N’ton arrived with Masterharper Robinton and Journeyman Masterharper Sebell. The two harpers were seated behind the Fort Weyrleader on his dragon’s huge back.

  Wearing wide-brimmed hats to protect their heads from the heat of the sun, Piemur and Toric were watching as a stock hand familiarized a young draft beast with harness and tackle when Lioth’s bronze form appeared high above the Hold complex. As the onlookers watched his careful descent, the dragon appeared to change color in the sunlight. Minute flecks of gold, brown, green, and blue caught the reflection of the sun, making the soft bronze hide glow with iridescence.

  Lioth was a superb example of a bronze dragon, measuring slightly more than thirty-seven meters from tip to tail; his head was finely sculpted, and his features distinctly defined by taut muscle and sinew. His eyes, like those of all dragons and fire-lizards, were many-faceted and reflected the mood of the creature through the color spectrum, whirling blue with contentment through to red for anger or alarm. Lioth’s eyes were a shade of deep green and shimmered brightly, Piemur noted. It was obvious that Lioth was fighting fit. The majestic bronze backwinged several times as he made his descent, N’ton sitting astride, his back straight and body motionless, stuck by invisible glue to the base of his dragon’s neck while Robinton and Sebell, seated behind him, clung on tightly to the harness straps.

  N’ton raised one arm casually in greeting to those below, appearing to all intents as if he were waving from the comfort of a stationary herdbeast cart rather than from the back of an immense dragon going through the motions of a rigorous descent. With one final wingbeat Lioth extended his hindquarters, dropping all four legs to the ground, his long tail resting gently on the dirt as the sails of his huge wings pinioned back and inward toward his body, folding neatly into place along his back and flanks. Suddenly the air all around Piemur and Toric was laden with the wonderful, aromatic smell of dragon. There was no other animal smell as beguiling, Piemur thought; he could breathe that scent in from daylight to dusk and never tire of it.

  “ ’Day to you, So’holders,” N’ton called to Piemur and Toric as he unclipped himself from the flying harness. N’ton turned toward the Masterharper, who had already freed himself from the harness straps, and offered the older man his hand so he could dismount. Lioth obligingly extended a foreleg to aid the harper. With practiced ease, Robinton climbed down from the huge dragon, Sebell quickly following suit as Piemur and Toric closed the distance to the new arrivals, waving the settling dust away from their faces with their hats. Tris, N’ton’s brown fire-lizard, flew in a lazy circle around Lioth and then darted off to join a group of other fire-lizards sunning on the Hold roof.

  From his perch on Lioth’s neck, N’ton bent forward from the waist and, in one agile, seemingly breakneck action, fell, headfirst, toward the ground. At the very last moment, he flick-pivoted his legs together in a snapping movement, using them like a fulcrum to force his body upright, and landed straight and steady at the side of his mount.

  “Shards!” Piemur whispered under his breath. N’ton’s acrobatic dismount filled him with awe even though he’d seen it dozens of times in the past. Dragonriders, Piemur reminded himself, being the guardians of their world, were truly a breed apart.

  “Well there, N’ton, welcome. Welcome, Master Robinton, Journeyman Master Sebell,” Toric said, inclining his body in the customary show of respect. He clasped hands with the two harpers and finally with N’ton, looking up at the tall dragonrider.

  Standing almost two meters in height, N’ton, like most dragonriders, was supremely physically fit and carried his long, strong frame with a casualness that matched his easy manner and pleasant nature. All dragonriders had an indefinable presence, a strength akin to an electric force that radiated around them. Some folk attributed the dragonriders’ unique energy to the lifelong connection they shared with their dragons, or to their higher-than-average levels of empathy. Whatever its source, when dragonriders entered a room, they often charged the atmosphere with a buzz that could also infect those around them. N’ton, though still relatively young, carried himself with an air of maturity as if he were much older than his Turns. His light-blue eyes had one or two creases at the corners; his symmetric, handsome face bore a straight nose and strong chin, and he seemed to be utterly unaware of how striking a figure he cut. Piemur had heard women gasp when they saw the Fort Weyrleader for the first time.

  “My thanks, Toric, you’re ever gracious, though I’ve visited here so much of late, Lioth has fairly beaten a permanent path to your door,” N’ton replied, gesturing toward his dragon with an affectionate smile, who had moved off to sunbathe a short distance away.

  “Good day, Master Robinton,” Piemur said excitedly, wishing he could simply blurt out everything he had seen and heard in the last two days instead of observing the customary niceties. He approached his Master, and then suddenly remembered his manners. “And Journeyman Sebell, Weyrleader N’ton, good day to you both.”

  “Ah, Piemur,” Robinton said, a smile on his face. “Well now, my lad, you look as eager as ever, though somewhat singed. Let’s get ourselves settled out of this heat, shall we?”

  The Masterharper raised one brow a fraction and exchanged glances with Toric before moving hastily toward the shade of the Hold porch. Like N’ton, he and Sebell wore heavy flying gear, and the trio were intent, first and foremost, on divesting themselves of their outer clothing. Life on the Southern Continent was all about winning the unrelenting battle against the heat.

  “Make yourselves more comfortable,” Toric said, “while I call for some refreshments.” Turning from the group he walked through a set of wide, open doors and into the Hold proper, calling, “Meria. Where is everyone? Meria!”

  Southern Hold, like all other holds on Pern, was built as the central structure of the compound, designed to house, facilitate, and above all protect the immediate community from Thread. Built off the ground, on short plinths, thus allowing the maximum amount of air to circulate under the dwelling, a communal space dominated the center of the hold leading from the huge, bi-folding front doors. On either side of the large room, double doors on both side walls led to a corridor off which the hold’s sleeping quarters were situated. Each sleeping area had large, floor-to-ceiling windows leading out to a deep veranda—and though spartan in design, one room could house a small family if the bedding was arranged accordingly.

  Piemur took a seat on one of the benches shaded by the roof of the deep porch, only realizing as he sat down that his head was pounding fiercely and his stomach roiled with queasiness. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and then yanked it away, his badly burnt brow stinging from his touch. All he wanted was to make his report to Master Robinton so he could withdraw to somewhere cool and quiet to lie down.

  With a heavy sigh, Robinton took a seat and Piemur glanced at him. He looks fatigued, Piemur thought. Probably traveling around too much doing more than any other man his age would consider prudent. The Masterharper had a great many demands on his attention, and although he still carried his tall frame with easy grace and an amiable demeanor, Piemur could readily see new lines creasing the corners of his Master’s mouth. His hair seemed grayer, too.

  “Meria, Meria!” Toric called again. Then, “Ah, there you are!”

  Piemur had met Meria on the day she first arrived at Southern Hold. She had left Southern Weyr and, needing shelter—no one on Pern, even on the Southern Continent, would choose to live in the open, under the threat of Threadfall—had sought succor from Toric. As far as Piemur knew, Meria had never offered an explanation as to why she’d left the Weyr, which was something Piemur often speculated about.

  Toric returned to the porch, harrumphing gently under his breath as he assured h
is guests that refreshments were on the way. Moments later Meria arrived with a tray, followed by a drudge who carried an even larger tray laden with refreshments.

  “Good day,” Meria said, smiling as she placed her tray on a side table. “My apologies for keeping you waiting, but it’s best to serve refreshments at the very last moment before the heat spoils them.”

  With quick movements she poured fresh juice into cups, which she then offered to the guests. Meria winked at Piemur as she handed him his drink, but with his aching head he was only able to manage a weak smile in return. When they all had a glass in hand, she gestured to a plate of bread, hard cheese, and soft yellow berries, then withdrew.

  Toric cleared his throat and looked at the Masterharper.

  “I wish to thank you for making the detour here from your planned journey,” the Lord Holder began, and when the Masterharper nodded, Toric quickly continued. “We have unsettling news from the Weyr, Masterharper. As my message stated, the Oldtimers—my pardon, I mean the Southern Weyrleaders—formally closed their Weyr to us yesterday. This means we are unable to offer our tithes in exchange for their protection from Thread.” He paused here, his brows meeting in a frown as he mulled something over in his head. Then he went on.

  “Since the lands in Southern are well seeded with grubs we tend to manage quite well on our own, without the help of dragonmen. But regardless of our own efficiencies, it still sits poorly that they have chosen to isolate themselves so. I wonder, too, if we’ll no longer have dragons protecting our skies.” Toric crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked from Robinton to N’ton and then Sebell and Piemur.

  “This is, indeed, a most disturbing development, Lord Toric,” Robinton said. “Have you told Benden of this news?”

  Toric shook his head. “Not that it would do any good, I fear, since those in Southern no longer have anything to do with F’lar and his Weyr.” Toric cast a quick look at N’ton: Everyone knew that the Fort Weyrleader—as, indeed, all the Weyrleaders in the north—looked to Benden as the premier Weyr.

  Piemur fidgeted in his seat, overcome with the heat and his exhaustion. Why can’t I focus? He just wanted to tell Master Robinton what he’d seen. He was so tired. He shook his shoulders.

  “This is awful,” N’ton offered.

  Robinton nodded and turned to Sebell, his second. “Do I take it, then, Sebell, we don’t have anyone keeping tabs on Southern Weyr other than Piemur?”

  All eyes turned to Piemur. Suddenly he felt light-headed, and the cup of juice he held in his hand began to slip out of his grasp. He put it down on a nearby table and wiped his burning brow with the back of his hand, trying to gather his thoughts into a semblance of coherency. Everyone was staring at him.

  “That’s so, Master Robinton,” Sebell answered. “A month ago I moved a scout from Southern up north to Nabol, as matters there dictated. Since then, Piemur has been our only pair of eyes and ears in the south.”

  “Report, please, Piemur,” Robinton said, smiling.

  Piemur cleared his throat. His eyes felt odd, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and close them.

  “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I saw two men in a cove on the eastern shores?” His words came out like a question rather than a definitive statement. “They met with—” Piemur could feel the Master’s eyes on him, but try as he might, he seemed unable to articulate his news. “—with T’reb.” He frowned and then wiped his brow again, wincing slightly at the sting. “He’d exchanged terse words with B’naj the day before I saw him with the men in the cove.”

  “Two men on the eastern shores? We’re discussing Southern Weyr, Piemur. What news do you have from there?” Robinton sounded puzzled and, Piemur thought, uncharacteristically curt.

  “But I haven’t been in the Weyr for several days, Master. Or is it just one day?”

  Oh, dear, Piemur brooded, why am I blathering? His brows furrowed again as he tried to recall the order of events, then he shook his head. He could feel Robinton staring at him, so he continued.

  “I was following two men from Nabol. Or at least I’m quite certain they’re from Nabol. Well, one of them, at least, is probably Nabolese. They met with the Oldtimer T’reb. I think he’s up to no good, Master…and those Nabolese are looking for holds! T’reb spoke about Mardra, too! She was on the Hatching Grounds,” he exclaimed all in a rush, his thoughts racing. “Loranth was coughing and upset, because she’s sick or something.” He could sense himself beginning to falter.

  Now Piemur could see the doubtful expression on his Master’s face and the nervous movements of N’ton and Toric as they watched him floundering to make his report. Only Sebell remained completely still, watching Piemur closely.

  “But this report is of no consequence, Piemur. What about the Weyr?” Robinton asked.

  Piemur’s head started to spin and he swayed a little in his seat. How could the Masterharper think his news was of no consequence when it obviously was? Piemur felt aggrieved that he wasn’t being taken seriously when he believed, most strongly, that what he’d seen was of the utmost seriousness.

  When Piemur didn’t respond immediately, the Masterharper frowned and turned his attention to Toric, asking a question that Piemur barely heard. Piemur felt his stomach sink. T’reb had mentioned a plan and how he wanted to help Mardra. Had he said that to the Master? He wasn’t sure. On an impulse Piemur decided to push his point.

  “But don’t you see, Master?” Piemur said, interrupting the Lord Holder in midsentence. “What happened at the Hatching Grounds will create further ripples.”

  The Master was fond of talking about people’s actions as if they were pebbles cast into a pool of water, and how their actions created ripples even after the pebbles had sunk out of sight. “T’reb said that Mardra sounded desperate, and she promised to make everything right again!”

  “Piemur,” Master Robinton said sharply. He turned to Toric. “My apologies, Lord Toric, Piemur’s allowed his enthusiasm, and possibly too much time in the hot sun, to override his sense of courtesy.” Robinton raised a brow at Piemur in subtle warning.

  “But I know more will come of this!” Piemur blurted. “Some of the Oldtimers aren’t happy at all, Master. I think they’re planning on doing something drastic.”

  Too late, Piemur saw the color in Robinton’s cheeks heighten and realized that he’d pushed his point too far. Quick to ease the tension, Sebell placed a hand on Piemur’s shoulder and then stood up, urging his friend to do likewise, as he led him from the porch and gestured with an outstretched arm toward a long table set in the shade of some fellis trees.

  “I see you’ve been kept busy, my friend,” Sebell said quietly, his tone reassuring, indicating with one hand that Piemur should take a seat next to him at the table. “I’m sure you see that the Master is focused on other matters today.”

  “But, Sebell, you should’ve heard what I heard! T’reb saw Mardra and Loranth on the Hatching Grounds. He said it was terrible, and they were both upset! And then T’reb met with Cramb and Toolan in that cove. They gave him two drawings, paintings, really, I suppose.” It was all rushing out of Piemur now and he was hard-put not to stumble over his words.

  “What were the drawings of?” Sebell asked, one eyebrow arching upward.

  “Well…” Piemur frowned. “I never really saw them, Sebell, but I watched him—Cramb, the painter, that’s who—he was facing me as he worked, so he must’ve been sketching that cove. I heard them talk about it, too!” He could feel that he was growing overly animated again and saw that Sebell had a curious expression on his face. Sebell thinks I’ve been chasing down shadows, too!

  Piemur suddenly felt uncomfortable and quickly looked over his shoulder, noting that Master Robinton was absorbed in discussion with Lord Toric and N’ton.

  “Piemur, before N’ton fetched us this morning, the Master and I discussed your role as
a scout. This new position the Southern Weyrleaders have taken has changed everything. The Master thinks it might be best if you concentrate on mapping again. You’ve done more than your fair share of scouting for now.”

  “But, Sebell, I know something bad is going to happen. Those two men said T’reb might use the cove to hide something!”

  “Did T’reb speak to them about what he wanted to do?”

  “No, but…” Piemur stopped, pinching his face in worry. Was he remembering correctly? He had been hunkered in that tree for an inordinate amount of time with hardly any sleep.

  “Toolan told Cramb that T’reb wanted the drawings so he could hide something there. More of the goods they’ve been trading illegally, he guessed. But Cramb thought that was nonsense. They spoke about taking a holding near Nabol, too, Sebell. I was worried they might try and oust my family from their holding in Crom. Then Cramb got cross with Toolan!” Piemur said. His head was really pounding now and he wanted nothing more than to have his report accepted so he could go lie down.

  “Hold on, Piemur, go back a bit. Did T’reb say he was going to hide something in the cove?”

  “No…” Piemur’s shoulders sagged; he felt thoroughly deflated.

  Sebell shook his head slightly and then his expression brightened. “You’ve done good work, Piemur, but I think you may have been out in the hot sun for longer than is healthy. It’s obvious to me that you’re not behaving like yourself. Why don’t you get out of the heat and rest? When you’re ready, the Master thinks you should map the terrain near that steep bluff to the west of here. You know where I mean, don’t you?” Piemur nodded. “You always talk about how much you like climbing, so this should be a welcome task.”

  Piemur looked at Sebell’s steadfast brown face and the journeyman master gazed back, his brown eyes kind and unwavering. Sebell had become somewhat of a mentor to Piemur since he’d left the Harper Hall, often liaising with him instead of Master Robinton, who had to attend to so many other matters. In Piemur’s opinion Sebell was the finest of harpers, second only to Robinton, and a master of all a harper was supposed to be: educator, mediator, and most important custodian of the heritage and culture of Pern’s unique society.