Dragon's Code

by Gigi McCaffrey

  Under the brilliant blue, clear skies of late morning, the dragonriders in Southern were going about their usual duties. To any casual observer, the dragons and riders of Southern Weyr should have been content with their lot, living in a tropical paradise away from what they viewed as meddling by Benden Weyr and the other northern Weyrs, but that was not the case. A small group of men were deeply dissatisfied with their lives in the Weyr, ill at ease and increasingly dogged in their wish for change. Their disquiet could be felt as a palpable energy by the other members of the Weyr and was beginning to fester and spread, like a disease. It didn’t help that so many of the dragonriders and their dragons were actually ill, poisoned by their ill-fated attempt at mining firestone. Now a heated debate spilled out of the open windows of the Weyrwoman’s quarters, easily audible for any weyrfolk to hear.

  “We are too far from our time, T’kul!” T’ron, the Southern Weyrleader, shouted. He raised his head to glare at his wingsecond and at the same moment crashed his closed fist down on the table, punctuating his point with the violent gesture. An echoing rumble of discontent could be heard outside, coming from his bronze dragon, Fidranth. But as soon as the words had left T’ron’s mouth, his shoulders drooped and he unconsciously placed one hand on his abdomen, over the site of an old wound. He looked around at his surroundings, scowling deeply. His face was hard and deeply lined from a lifetime spent fighting Thread.

  “We’ve been over this topic so many times before—” T’kul said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

  “—And there’s naught to be done about it. I know, I know!” T’ron stared hard into T’kul’s eyes. “I should never have let you talk me into flying our five Weyrs into this Pass—on the conviction of that wretched Benden Weyrwoman, Lessa. Bah!” His scowl was more dour than usual as he glanced over at Mardra, the woman who had once shared his bed. Mardra held his gaze briefly and then turned her stony expression to T’kul.

  “When our generation’s Pass of Thread came to an end, T’ron, we all began to notice that emptiness—the lack of purpose. Well you remember it, I know you do!” T’kul said, trying to mask the weariness he felt as he reiterated his argument for the umpteenth time. He coughed hard, his face suffusing red.

  There had been a time, back when he’d been a Weyrleader with hundreds of dragons and their riders under his command, that T’kul had radiated vitality. Now he stood in front of T’ron, one shoulder slumped lower than the other, as if a small chunk had been gouged out of it.

  “And if we’d stayed in that time,” he went on, “we would’ve lived out the remainder of our long lives trying to fill each day, nay, hour, with some act of worth or some sense of meaning. Our dragons were growing frustrated by their redundancy and we were helpless to counter it.” He paused before continuing, “And though I detest this admission, Lessa’s insight was faultless: We were meant to come forward in time to fight Thread in this Pass. Every dragon, rider, man, and woman from the five Weyrs was destined to make that leap forward with her.”

  “But it has cost us dearly, T’kul,” T’ron retorted. “The evidence is all too obvious—we’re not the same anymore. Why did we have to pay so huge a price for what was an honorable act? Our dragons are off kilter, they’ve lost their vitality, their health suffers, too—as does ours. This imbalance has infected us all!”

  “If our situation was entirely due to traveling forward four hundred Turns, then every dragon and rider in the north would be affected just like us,” T’kul said, rubbing his chin. “No, something else is the cause.”

  “It’s this blasted heat!” T’ron burst out. “No one should have to suffer in such a stew of sweltering heat!”

  T’kul frowned at T’ron. “Are you blind? The dragons love this heat!”

  “It’s not one thing or the other,” Mardra said. “We should’ve broached these concerns with Benden long ago. I’ve told you this already!” She glared first at one man and then the other, a thinly veiled look of contempt in her expression. “Your perverse desire to protect the autonomy of the Weyr has pushed us all too far!” An uneasy silence followed before she spoke again.

  “Relations between our Weyr and Benden are now at an irrevocable low, and they, most likely, would not aid us now even if we possessed the gumption to swallow our pride and ask for help!” Mardra’s tone was reproachful. She began to pace the length of the table with slow, deliberate steps, her arms crossed in front of her body, hands holding opposite elbows, a bitter expression on her face.

  “But what should we do?” T’ron asked, looking first at T’kul and then to Mardra, an air of desperation in his tone.

  “Must I hear that question again and again, until I fear my ears might bleed?” Mardra snapped, staring skyward, a note of disgust in her voice.

  T’ron rubbed the middle of his abdomen distractedly. “We should never have come forward, my friends. I’m sorry. Isn’t hindsight a curse?” He shook his head, his shoulders bent forward, as if he carried a massive burden.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, not looking at the others as he quickly left the room.

  T’kul and Mardra watched as the figure of their once vibrant Weyrleader crossed the compound to where his bronze dragon slept beside a giant fellis tree.

  “No one wants to say this, but our Weyr will fail soon if we don’t take adequate measures.” Mardra spoke in a low, measured voice. “Loranth will not make another mating flight, this is a certainty. She was too disturbed, nay, obsessed with the abnormal egg born from that false cluster.” She paused, a fleeting look of grief in her eyes. “In truth, Loranth was too old to take even that last regrettable flight. It’s a wonder that there was any outcome to it at all, given that she hadn’t flown to mate in such a long time.”

  “And Merika’s queen won’t rise to mate, either,” T’kul replied grimly, referring to his old partner. “But a solution to our failing Weyr might be closer than we think.”

  “What do you mean?” Mardra asked sharply, both hands resting on the table as she gave T’kul a hard look.

  Without replying, T’kul walked to the threshold of the door and called T’reb in to join them.

  “What do you mean, T’kul?” Mardra repeated.

  “T’reb will explain,” he replied. T’kul opened the door of Mardra’s cabin and the green rider, quick to answer the summons, entered the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He offered a perfunctory salute to the Weyrwoman.

  “Tell her,” T’kul ordered.

  “Weyrwoman.” T’reb looked at Mardra for approval. She nodded for him to explain.

  “During the time we’ve been south I’ve continued to trade with a group of men in Nabol even though the rest of the Weyr has fallen out of touch with them—” After the briefest pause, T’reb continued. “—since Lord Meron died. These kinsmen of Lord Meron’s were deeply aggrieved when he failed to honor his promise to provide holdings for them. They sought redress with the new Lord of Nabol, but their claims failed. They hoped to earn lands of their own here in the south, but too many of them couldn’t face the hard sea crossing. One of them, though, had been at sea before and didn’t mind it, so he was sent south to meet with me. He said they recall the strong trading ties we had with Lord Meron when we were first exiled, and he and his kinsmen wish us to honor that old connection.”

  “They do, do they?” Mardra asked, her tone full of contempt.

  “Let him go on,” T’kul said intently.

  “They want us to help them take land of their own. Up in the north, near Nabol. They know the young lord of Ruatha has not yet been confirmed, so his lands would be in contention if he were to suffer a misadventure.”

  “Jaxom?” Mardra asked. “Wasn’t his sire that upstart Fax? The man who took whatever he wanted?” T’kul and T’reb both nodded. “Jaxom’s that hold-bred youngling who cracked the unhatched egg on Benden’s sands several Turns ago.�
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  “That’s correct, Weyrwoman. The egg bore a white dragon,” T’reb replied.

  “An aberration if ever there was one,” Mardra exclaimed, her lips curling back from her teeth in distaste. “The egg should’ve been left unhatched!”

  “No one has ever heard of a Lord Holder being a dragonrider, Weyrwoman. The men from Nabol think it vastly unfair that the young Ruathan lord has been allowed to keep his lands and have a dragon. Of course, Benden has sanctioned this—with Lessa’s familial connection to the lad.”

  One of Mardra’s brows rose up. “And what do they expect us to do?”

  “They want help disposing of Jaxom so they can take his lands in a coup. If he’s dead, his runt of a dragon will fly between and suicide. No loss to any of the Weyrs, to my reckoning.”

  “Have you agreed to help them?” Mardra asked.

  “Not yet. They wanted to know what we need in return, Weyrwoman.” Encouraged by Mardra’s look of interest now, T’reb continued. “I told them new blood—that we need new blood. They suggested we should simply take a queen egg. Benden has one hardening on its sands as we speak.”

  “You mean steal an egg?” Mardra whispered in awe.

  “Yes. We deserve it,” T’reb said emphatically.

  “After all we’ve done for the other Weyrs, it could hardly be considered stealing,” T’kul interjected, speaking intensely, though his voice was low. He looked from T’reb to Mardra and slowly smiled, his lips stretching across his mouth as a look of cunning spread across his face. Mardra straightened suddenly, rubbing both her hands across her cheeks.

  “Well, I don’t know. I think…” she said and then paused. “I think it would be too much,” she finished in a rush and looked at the others, anxiety clouding her eyes.

  “But they owe this to us! Don’t you see? Without our help they would’ve perished before the end of the first Turn of this Pass!” T’kul stepped closer to Mardra, as if trying by sheer proximity to bend her viewpoint to his.

  “And all their precious upstart crafters and holders would have perished, too,” T’reb added sourly.

  “It sounds like madness,” Mardra said. “How would it even be done?”

  “Taking the egg wouldn’t be the problem, Weyrwoman. Many of our riders know the layout of Benden’s Hatching Grounds intimately. The problem would be in keeping the egg safe and its whereabouts secret until the new queen hatched,” T’kul said.

  “But what if we had a plan?” T’reb offered, his eyes lighting up. “If we knew of a place to hide the egg where no one could find it?” He looked at Mardra, searching her face.

  Several heartbeats passed as the Weyrwoman paused in thought, and then an almost imperceptible shift in emotions flashed across her face.

  “Do you have any idea what would happen if we got caught?” Mardra asked, clasping her hands together, her fear supplanted by the burgeoning possibility of hope. She knew then, as she uttered those words, that she had given her full approval and commitment to an unheard-of and deeply deplorable act.

  * * *

  —

  When N’ton had brought a dripping-wet and unusually quiet Piemur back to Southern Hold, he admonished his young friend to stay under cover until it was confirmed that Thread had ceased to fall over Southern. Piemur could see from the look on N’ton’s face that the irregular Threadfall patterns were a serious concern for the Fort Weyrleader, so he promised to remain at Toric’s hold until an all-clear message arrived at Southern Hold.

  Later, after he had washed and changed into fresh clothes, Piemur sat on the back porch of the Hold with Farli, who was draped across his shoulders, fast asleep and deeply contented. Piemur had spent a long time praising her for having the wit to send N’ton to his rescue. N’ton had explained afterward, during the damp flight back to Southern, that Farli had almost attacked his own brown fire-lizard, Tris, in her urgency to get help. Once Farli had gotten Tris’s full attention, her message was relayed to N’ton, with Tris’s help. Farli had done exactly the right thing, Piemur mused, stroking his queen’s head.

  It was well past time he did the right thing, he brooded. But what was that? He rubbed the side of his head. He’d been feeling so lost for so long now. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, tired of his own feelings. How would he ever feel like he truly belonged anywhere if he always felt like an outsider? He wished there was someone he could talk to, but whom? He couldn’t think of a single person who would understand how it felt to be a failed singer with no discernible harper skills.

  But for the first time, he felt impatience with his despair. It was as if a new resolve had begun to creep up on him after his terrifying escape from the cliff. Perhaps it’s time I’m as brave as Farli, Piemur mused, instead of always waiting to be told what to do. Perhaps it’s time for me, Piemur of Crom, to make my own decisions and strike out on my path through life.

  Despite his scouting report being disregarded, he had been unable to quiet those niggling thoughts he had about T’reb and the men from Nabol. No matter what Master Robinton said, Piemur knew that T’reb was up to no good with those men. Was T’reb’s resolve to help Mardra also something to worry about? No, he reckoned T’reb was just being his usual edgy, irrational self.

  He recalled Toolan and Cramb’s conversation after T’reb left their campsite. Toolan had mentioned kinsmen who felt the Oldtimers could in some way assist them in securing lands of their own. T’reb had taken Cramb’s drawings and thrown a pouch of money at Toolan in payment. That must mean there was more to their deal than Piemur knew about. The Oldtimers probably wanted to secure better trading arrangements in the north in exchange for helping the Nabol men secure land in Crom. Piemur couldn’t sit back and let a bunch of Lord Meron’s unscrupulous relatives undermine what his own family had worked so hard for. If only he knew when they were going to strike, he could warn someone!

  Piemur slapped his hand against his thigh. He had to do what he thought was right! He knew he would be going against the Masterharper’s decision, but someone had to do something before a disaster occurred. As soon as he had the all-clear for Threadfall, he’d sneak over to the Oldtimers’ Weyr to find out more about their plans with the Nabolese.

  He only hoped he hadn’t left it too late.

  * * *

  —

  Sebell strode purposefully, heading for the main hall of Fort Hold. He’d told his queen fire-lizard, Kimi, never known to stray too far from him unless she was delivering messages, to wait instead on the fire heights with a group of fire-lizards preening in the sun. N’ton’s message had indicated that he and Piemur would be at the Harper Hall within the hour, and Sebell felt it was important to speak with the Masterharper prior to Piemur’s arrival.

  Two young apprentices walking in the opposite direction passed Sebell, nodding at him politely though they were hard-pressed to hide their curious glances. Sebell wasn’t wearing the normal harper-blue attire, or the shoulder knots that would’ve indicated his rank. Instead he wore a broad-brimmed hat and nondescript clothing that bore not one single shoulder knot or patch of distinctive color. In the Harper Hall, or any Crafthall, seeing someone without markings or colors on their clothing was as unusual as seeing a two-legged tunnel snake.

  A journeyman clattered up the corridor, approaching rapidly, all full of purpose. He cast a cursory glance at Sebell in his nondescript clothing and was about to forge on past him without a word, but just as they drew abreast he recognized the unmistakable features of the Masterharper-in-the-making and his mien changed.

  “Good morning, Journeyman Master Sebell,” he called out brightly, smiling in greeting though he hardly broke stride. As Sebell nodded in reply, he heard gasps of shock coming from the two apprentices who’d just passed him. He smiled to himself. It was difficult to remain anonymous on one’s own turf, he mused, regardless of attire.

  He arrived at the end of the
corridor and stopped, marveling, not for the first time, at the sight of the splendid Great Hall of Fort Hold. Fort was the very first Hold to have been founded when people first settled in the north. Very little was changed about the natural stone face of the mountain that formed the exterior aspect of Fort. A rugged cliff with a hanging curtain of rock, two meters thick, hid the immense natural cavern that lay within. More than fifty meters deep, the cavern tapered slightly at either end. At the back a further eighteen openings led into deeper tunnel complexes, but it was in here, inside the huge cavern, that the settlers had made their mark. It was obvious that they’d used great skill and care to create the ornate and elegant living space. Some folk thought the fancies and follies that formed the detail work in the Great Hall were outright wasteful, but there was no denying that they were beautiful.

  The interior design of Fort reminded Sebell of frozen music. All the doorways and arches in the Hall were embellished with exquisite carvings of floral vines and leaves. The great doors that led into the Hall, closed during Threadfall but otherwise, as now, left wide open, were fabricated from a unique metal that was nigh-on indestructible and burnished a deep bronze color that glowed with a centuries-old patina. High above, Fort’s first settlers had fashioned hanging sconces for glowbaskets, which could be lowered for replenishing by intricate pulley systems.

  Smiling, as he always did when he entered the beautiful Hall, Sebell nodded at colleagues and other craftsmen and craftswomen as he walked, and waved a special greeting when he saw Silvina, the headwoman of Fort. He crossed to the opposite side of the Hall and climbed a set of stone steps, two at a time, to the workrooms assigned to more senior craftsmen and -women as well as the Masterharper.

  The door to Master Robinton’s rooms was rarely closed, and this day was no different. Two windows had been cut into the outside wall, and though they were recessed and could be shuttered, they let in welcoming shafts of light. One of the windows, the one nearest to the Masterharper’s desk, was flung open wide. The other window was closed, and sunlight streamed through the glass. Nestled on its sill, curled up on top of a wad of soft fabric, lay a sleeping bronze fire-lizard, the Master’s Zair.