“Well, good hunting to you, Marek. And our thanks again to Laida, too—if you’d pass them on, please.”
“Ah, Auntie Laida loves a bit o’ intrigue,” Marek said in a light tone. “It makes her feel useful and keeps her curious. And why shuddin she feel that way? ’Swat I say!” And he beamed at them, a huge, face-splitting grin that lit up his eyes and made both Piemur and Sebell smile along with him.
“There now, Harper Sebell, ye take good care,” Marek said.
Piemur and Sebell left the cothold through the back door. They found shelter under a long, arching bank of bushes near a small field of ripening sourberries and waited for Marek to send word confirming that his “bait” had been taken. As they were waiting, Piemur noticed that he’d grown twitchy and edgy: he couldn’t stop his knees from jiggling up and down as if they were playing out a rhythm on a set of foot drums. It was worse than when he drank too much klah.
“Shells, Sebell,” Piemur said, “what was in the brew old Laida gave us? I have a fierce dose of the jitters.”
“Here.” Sebell took a cloth packet from his satchel and handed it to Piemur. “Eat this and the jumpiness should settle down. They call the root jango. It only grows here in Nabol. All the older folk up here take it, swear it gives them more pep. I think it’s a bit of a cure-all, too, but it’s best to eat something at the same time as taking it, as I’ve discovered. This”—he pointed at the packet in Piemur’s hand—“should do the trick.” Piemur unwrapped it and found a hard roll filled with cured meat and pickled root vegetables.
“Crafty Nabolese,” Piemur muttered thoughtfully, taking a large bite of the roll. Sebell nodded and helped himself to a meat roll as well, and they settled down to eat in companionable silence.
Wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand, Piemur broke the silence. “Sebell,” he said, “I keep wondering about the egg. Who do you think returned it?”
“That’s a good question. It could have been anyone from Southern Weyr. But why would they return it and then vanish? Was it because the egg was ten days older? Somehow, I don’t think that’s the real answer, Piemur. The whole thing just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. I can’t figure it out. There must be something about this mess we’re overlooking.” Piemur sighed heavily and settled down to wait.
The sky above had lit up with stars, and sounds from night bugs and other nocturnal creatures filled the air when Piemur nudged Sebell. He could see Jerrol, Jentis, and the third man, who must be the one named Serra, walking toward Skal’s house. The two harpers gathered themselves and quickly followed them.
Others, in couples and larger parties, were also heading toward Skal’s. They were boisterous and jovial, walking past the two harpers quickly, obviously eager to get started with their night of socializing. A large group of traders came up behind Piemur and Sebell, overly loud with boastful talk of the deals they’d made in Nabol Hold.
“Right,” Sebell said quietly as they entered the house, “we’re on, Piemur.”
Piemur pulled his cloth cap from his tunic pocket and placed it skew-ways on his head as Sebell pushed through the door and headed confidently down the hallway to the courtyard as if he’d done so a thousand times before.
Sebell walked up to the counter with a swaggering step, chin jutting out, giving off the aura of a man of some importance. One of the traders made room for him to lean against the counter where he could get the attention of a server.
“Two scoops of yer best cider, there, missus,” he said, tapping a closed fist on the bar as he spoke. Then he let two full marks fall from his fist onto the counter. With those marks he could afford to buy plenty of drink not only for himself, but also for everyone else in the room.
“S’pose I’ll have te give the lad a good sup for all the trade he’s settled today. He made a deal with the steward over there in Ruatha for some a’ their young runnabeasts. Steward even threw in a mare-in-foal. I guess we’ll be shovelin’ shite till the end a’ this Pass!” Sebell said, and then burst into hearty guffaws of laughter, the delight at his good fortune obvious to everyone as he clapped Piemur soundly on the back and handed him a large beaker of frothy amber liquid.
“Drink up, lad, drink up. Ye’ll not go thirsty ta-nite,” Sebell exclaimed loudly.
The traders and other drinkers were a waggish lot, so while the drink flowed and tongues were loosened, they included Sebell and Piemur in their conversations as if they were all old pals. Skal was a canny man who knew how to make thirsty folk drink more, so when the noise in the courtyard had risen to a near-raucous level, he passed out free baskets of hot crackled meat strips and chunks of fried tubers, generously sprinkled with spices and salt. His customers fell on the food like a ravenous pack, polishing off every last morsel. But the salty food had the effect of drying their mouths, which made the drinkers quick to order more rounds of ale and cider to quench their renewed thirsts.
Just like everyone else at Skal’s, Piemur tucked into the baskets of food with gusto, failing to notice the subtle warning look Sebell shot at him from across the counter. This was turning into one jolly and unexpectedly fine evening, Piemur fancied as he took a long draft from his third beaker of cider. Suddenly he remembered a joke his foster mother’s son, Pergamol, was fond of telling.
“So, a man sat in a brewhouse all day gettin’ full o’ drink, see,” he began, and someone shushed two noisy traders standing next to Piemur so he could continue uninterrupted, “and he’d been pesterin’ the landlord for an age, trying to ask him a question, but the landlord was too busy, and couldn’t understand the man’s slurred speech anyhow, so he just ignored him.”
Jerrol and his two companions had been standing at the end of the counter, not far from where Sebell and Piemur were holding court, and now Jerrol moved away from his companions to get a better place from which to hear Piemur. He seemed rapt by Piemur’s story, a grin slowly spreading across his face in anticipation of the punch line.
“Finally, the drunk felt he couldn’t be ignored any longer,” Piemur continued, “so he bangs his cup on the counter and bellows at the landlord, trying to speak clearly. He finally masters his tongue, though his words are still a little slurred, and what he says becomes clear enough for the landlord to understand.
“ ‘I aksed you, mister brewman: Do yellow-sours have feathers?’ the drunk said carefully, swaying in his seat.
“ ‘Of course they don’t have feathers!’ the annoyed brewer replied.
“And the drunkard held up one finger, hiccuping, and said, ‘Then I’ve just squeezed yer tweety-bird into m’drink!’ ”
The group around Piemur erupted into laughter, the loudest of which came from Jerrol, who was now standing next to Piemur.
“You’re a funny little lad,” he said, clapping Piemur on the back roughly. “Have another draft of cider—at my pleasure. Perhaps you’ll tell me a joke or two more.”
Piemur laughed along with Jerrol and accepted the drink with a big show of gratitude.
As the evening wore on and the banter grew more intense, Piemur remained in conversation with Jerrol, fabricating amusing stories about his life as a runnerbeast herdsman’s apprentice and his home near Ruatha Hold. Sebell discreetly moved away from the group of men he’d been talking to and stood next to Piemur, holding his beaker of cider close to his chest and swaying slightly from time to time. He even contributed a few anecdotes to add to those Piemur was telling, endearing himself to Jerrol just as easily as Piemur had done.
Eventually Jentis and Serra joined Jerrol and the two harpers, appearing eager to share in their banter. As the evening wore on, the topics they discussed turned, as they always do when drinkers fill up and lose their inhibitions, to shared confidences. With a little help from Sebell, the subject swung back to Ruatha and its Lord-in-waiting, Jaxom. The three Nabolese men leaned in closer.
“D�
��you know Ruatha a-tall?” Piemur asked. The other men nodded in unison. “Well, I think tha’s a funny ol’ mess with the young Lord-to-be, don’t ya think?” He’d been pretending to be drunk, but Piemur realized as he spoke that his words were actually slurring quite easily.
“Whadda ya mean?” Jerrol countered.
Suddenly Piemur could feel some bile rising up in his throat and he immediately covered his mouth, his cheeks puffing up involuntarily as excess air made its way out of his belly. He belched gently, his hand still pressed to his mouth, relieved that he hadn’t humiliated himself in the brewhouse. Jerrol and his companions didn’t seem to notice, eager as they were to hear more of what Piemur had to say. When Sebell saw Piemur’s face, he quickly interposed himself and continued with the conversation.
“Well, it’s just odd as a three-headed tunnel snake. The lad has a dragon, thassall.”
“Yeah!” Piemur chimed in, having finally recovered himself. “How can he be lordly and a dragonrider as well? ’Snot right.” He feigned a hiccup.
The remark met its mark, opening up a long and heated debate about how men should stick to what they know and not meddle in matters best left to weyrfolk. With a subtle push Sebell moved the conversation on to the difficulties of being holdless, and the three men threw themselves into it with gusto.
Piemur felt another belch traveling up his throat and was unable to stop it from erupting long and loudly, adding a rude punctuation mark to the conversation. He mumbled something and pushed himself away from the counter, making his excuses with a wave of his hand.
The room had shifted subtly, making it hard for him to walk without staggering a little. He tried to look over his shoulder to Sebell to wink at him that he was all right and would be back in a moment, but his vision was fuzzy and the room was too spinny. He had to get outside! Wait a moment, he mused, I am outside! And a little giggle bubbled out of his mouth.
Making his way through the crush of drinkers, he pushed through the door that led to the passageway and the front of the cothold. Bursting through the door a tad too forcefully, he all but fell outside onto the road, quickly recovering his balance as he assessed his surroundings.
I’ll just wait out here, he thought, where we sat before when we sat watching Skal’s. He giggled at his silly thoughts and then stumbled, lurching about in front of the cluster of dwellings until he finally found a place to sit down. He flopped to the ground, pushing himself up against the base of an arching bush, and tried to sit ramrod-straight so the world would stop tilting around him. A loud hiccup popped out, which made him want to laugh again. It would be a lot funnier, he reckoned, if his head would stop spinning. He leaned back, looking up to find something to focus on. The sky was clear and stars were beginning to appear, and he made a concerted effort to focus on just one star, hoping that would make everything stand still again.
Without warning Piemur’s stomach purged itself. The process was over quickly, and with very little noise, but it was a messy and convulsive affair. Piemur felt decidedly wretched when the vomiting ceased, but he was hopeful he might now be in control of his actions. Careful not to crawl through the mess he’d made, he edged away to where the ground was dry underneath. He just needed to sit still for a while, he guessed, to stop everything from spinning. His eyelids drooped, and he fell into a stupor.
Piemur had no idea how much time passed while he lay under the bushes, trying to keep warm against the cool night air. Some of the time he was conscious, but for most of it he couldn’t keep his eyes open, sleeping fitfully. When he woke, he was parched; he tried to roll his tongue around the inside of his mouth, but it was too woolly. Crawling out from under the bush, he could see that the night sky was brilliant with stars. He should go find Sebell. Skal’s place, he thought, struggling to his feet, that’s where he should go. Somehow, he managed to make it part of the way before he flopped down on the ground with a heavy sigh a few dozen paces from the brewhouse. He knew he had to pull himself together, but it was too difficult to keep his eyes from closing again.
Something plopped on the ground near Piemur and brushed against his hand. Seemingly from a long way away he heard a muffled groan and a shuffling gait and heavy footsteps, which vibrated through the ground.
“Youse don’t fool us with yer harpy tricks. Herdsmen indeed!” Jentis’s spiteful voice spoke from above Piemur. He felt a rough hand pulling at the back of his tunic, hauling him upward, then the hand released its hold and a heavy blow smashed against the side of his head, followed by a kick to his back from a large boot.
Jerrol’s voice laughed close to his face, saying, “That’ll soften yer cough.” Excruciating pain radiated from above Piemur’s ear and was echoed along his back. Then he fell unconscious.
When Piemur woke, the penetrating cold had crept into his bones and taken firm hold. He looked all around, hoping his eyes would become accustomed to the darkness. He had been dumped in a corner of a dark room, the only light coming from a crack in the door. He could just make out the shape of a person in the middle of the room, slumped on a chair or a bench, head bent forward and almost touching his chest. Was that Sebell? Piemur still felt queasy and his head began to spin if he moved it too quickly, so he crawled forward very slowly.
When he reached the middle of the room, Piemur’s eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, and he could make out the face of the person on the bench. It was Sebell! His feet were tied to the lower part of the bench, at ground level, and his hands were tied higher, where the flat of the seat met the legs of the bench.
Very gingerly Piemur felt about for where Sebell’s shoulders should be. The older harper didn’t move at all.
“Sebell, is that you? Can you hear me, Sebell?” Piemur whispered. “Sebell, it’s me, Piemur,” he said again, this time gently shaking Sebell’s shoulder. There was no reply.
“S-s-s-sebell,” he said again, hissing in the harper’s ear as he shook his shoulder more vigorously.
Suddenly Sebell’s head jolted back on his shoulders and he cried out. “Aagh! Don’t touch my shoulder!”
Piemur dropped his hand from Sebell’s shoulder. “Sorry, Sebell, I’m sorry! What’s happened to you?”
There was a long intake of breath from Sebell, and then, “I think my arm is broken, Piemur. Something’s wrong with it. It feels dead at the shoulder and hurts unbearably if I move it even a fraction.”
“All right,” Piemur said, starting to feel around the ground for the taut ropes that bound Sebell’s feet. “I’ll try to free your feet first. Do you know where we are?”
“I think we’re in the cellars of Nabol Hold,” Sebell replied. “I can’t get Kimi to come to me—I can’t visualize where we are. I can feel her getting more and more distressed because she can’t find me.” Piemur detected the faintest note of despair in Sebell’s voice and redoubled his efforts to untie the knots on the thick rope that bound him to the bench.
“Piemur, wait.” Sebell said, his voice sounding steadier. “I want you to listen to me.”
Piemur stopped what he was doing and sat back on his heels.
“When they come back I want you to try and get out of here. Pretend you’re still unconscious, and if you see an opportunity, get out of here as quickly as you can. Will you do that?”
“I won’t leave you, Sebell. Just let me get these ropes untied and then we’ll get out of here together.”
“No, we won’t, Piemur. There are at least three of them to just us two, and I’m hardly fit to walk.”
“I’ll get your legs untied, Sebell, and then you’ll be able to walk,” Piemur said hurriedly.
“I can’t walk, Piemur.”
“What do you mean? Of course you can walk! I just need to get these ropes—” But Sebell cut him off.
“They beat me around the knees and shins, Piemur. I don’t think I could walk more than two paces on my own without falling
over. You’re going to have to go without me. Get help and come back for me.”
“I can’t do that, Sebell!” Piemur cried but Sebell hissed in warning.
“Shh, I hear something!” Sebell whispered, and Piemur stilled his hands over the ropes, straining to listen. There it was: the sound of muffled footsteps approaching.
“Promise me, Piemur!” Sebell insisted, but Piemur shook his head, looking around the small room frantically for something, anything, he could use to overwhelm the men when they came into the room.
His head was pounding now and the footsteps were very close. What should he do? There was nothing he could use to hit them with, only the bench Sebell was tied to. Think, Piemur, think! He looked to where Sebell was tied on the bench one last time and heard him whisper, “Go, Pie,” as the door was being unlocked from outside and voices were talking in the passageway.
Instinct took over and without realizing what he was going to do, Piemur made a lunge for the first man who entered the room, launching himself low as he aimed for the man’s legs. As his arms wrapped around both legs Piemur opened his mouth wide and bit hard into the flesh of one thigh.
“Argh! My leg!” the man shouted, dropping the glowbasket he’d been holding and taking several steps backward. He crashed into his companions and that was all Piemur needed. He pushed hard with his legs and, head tucked low in a tackle, shoved with all his might, forcing the men back far enough to make a space in the doorway. He was out! He clambered and pushed, his feet making contact with one man’s soft abdomen and his hands clawing at whatever else was in his way. Then he was pumping his legs, trying to run. Hands were grabbing at him and his jacket was pulling him backward. Quick as an eel, Piemur shrugged out of his jacket, and then he was free and running as fast as his legs could go. Sounds of heavy footsteps running behind him receded slowly as Piemur gained momentum down the long passageway, putting more and more distance between him and his pursuer.
Dragon's Code Page 18