One more frightened squawk and the thing was dead, limp wings settling on the surface and rapidly submerging.
Menolly unbuckled her belt to make a loop of the buckle end. Grabbing the tough branches of a berry bush, she leaned out just far enough to snap the loop around the head of the bird. She tightened the loop and slowly began to pull.
Not only was there wherry meat here to feed herself and the fire lizards, but the layer of fat under its tough hide would provide her with the best possible grease for her friends’ fragile skins.
Again, to Menolly’s surprise, the fire lizard queen appeared to understand the situation. She sank her tiny talons into a wherry wing and pulled the tip out of the mud. She squeaked shrilly at the others, and before Menolly realized it, all of them had seized some tenable part of the wherry and were exerting their efforts to pull it from the bogsand.
It took a lot of pulling and shrill fire lizard orders, but they managed to get the wherry out of the sands and onto firm ground.
The rest of her day was spent in sawing through the tough outer hide to disembowel and dress the carcass. The fire lizards made an enthusiastic meal of the entrails and the blood that flowed from the wherry’s neck. The sight somewhat nauseated Menolly, but she set her jaw and tried to ignore the voracity with which her otherwise gentle companions attacked the unexpected delicacy.
She hoped the taste of hot raw meat wouldn’t change their temperaments, but she reckoned that dragons didn’t become savage from their diet of live meat so it was fair to assume that the fire lizards wouldn’t. At least, they were well fed for the day.
The wherry had been a good-sized bird, doubtless feeding somewhere in the lower reaches of Nerat for its fatty layer was juicy. It couldn’t be a northern bird. Menolly skinned it, stopping twice to hone her knife sharp. She carved the meat from the bones, stuffing it into the hide to carry home. When she had finished, she had a hefty burden, and the bones were by no means stripped clean. Too bad she couldn’t tell the old queen where they were.
She was rigging a forehead sling of her belt and the leg skin when suddenly the air was alive with fire lizards. With creels of shrill delight, the old queen and her bronzes settled on the bones. Menolly backed hastily away before the fire lizards decided to attack her for the meat she carried.
She had plenty of time on her long and tiring march back to the sea cave to wonder about their appearance. She could easily believe that the little queen could understand what she was thinking, and the others she had been taking care of. But had the young queen told the others? Or had Menolly some tenuous contact with the old queen, too?
Her special group showed no inclination to remain with the others, but kept her company, sometimes disappearing or making lazy figures in the sky. Sometimes the little queen sat on her shoulder for a few dragon lengths, chirruping sweetly.
It was fully dark long before Menolly reached her refuge. Only the moonlight and familiarity with the access route helped her down the cliff face. Her hearth fire was sullen embers, which she wearily coaxed into a cheery blaze. She was too tired to do more than wrap a piece of wherry meat in a few leaves of seaweed and stick it in the heated sands by the fire to cook for the morning. Then she wrapped herself up in her carry-sack and fell asleep.
She rendered the fat over the next several days, wishing time and again for one decent cooking pot. She heaped aromatic herbs into the hot fat and poured the mixture into clay pots for cooling. The wherry meat had a slightly fishy taste, which suggested that the stupid bird had been of a seaside flock rather than an inland or mountain group. But the cooled grease smelled of the herbs. Not, Menolly supposed, that the fire lizards minded how they smelled so long as their itching skin was soothed.
They loved to be oiled, lying on their backs, their wings spread for balance, curling around her hand as she spread oil on their softer belly hide. They hummed with delight at the attention, and when she had finished each one, the creature would stroke her cheek with its small triangular head, the glistening eyes sparkling with brilliant colors.
She was beginning to find individual traits among her nine charges. The little queen was exactly as she should be: into everything, bossing everyone else, as imperious and demanding as a Sea Holder. She’d listen, however, very quietly to Menolly. And she’d listen to the old queen, too. But she paid no heed to any of the others, although they were expected to obey anything she said. She’d peck them fast enough if they disobeyed her.
There were two bronzes, three browns, a blue and two greens. Menolly felt a little sorry for the blue. He seemed to be left out or picked upon by the others. The two greens were always scolding him. She named him Uncle, and the greens became Auntie One and Auntie Two. Two was slightly smaller than One. Because one of the bronzes preferred to hunt for rockmites while the other was deft at diving into pools for fingertails, they became Rocky and Diver. The browns were so much alike that for a long time they remained nameless, but gradually she found that the largest of the trio usually fell asleep, given any opportunity to do so, so she called him Lazybones. The second was Mimic because he always did what he saw the other doing; and the third was Brownie for lack of any other distinguishing feature.
The little queen was Beauty because she was and because she took such elaborate pains with her grooming and required much more attention and oiling than the others. She was forever digging at her talons with her teeth, spreading them to clean between the toes, or licking any specks of dust from her tail, burnishing her neck ridges in the sand or grass.
At first Menolly talked to her creatures to hear the sound of her own voice. Later she spoke with them because they seemed to understand what she was saying. They certainly gave every indication of intelligent listening, humming, or crooning an encouraging response when she paused. And they never seemed to get enough of her singing to them, or playing her pipes. She couldn’t exactly say that they harmonized with her, but they did hum softly in tune as she played.
Chapter 8
Wheel and turn
Or bleed and burn.
Fly between,
Blue and green.
Soar, dive down,
Bronze and brown.
Dragonmen must fly
When Threads are in the sky.
As it turned out, Alemi sailed Elgion to the Dragon Stones to search there for the elusive fire lizards. One windy day, not long after the visit of N’ton, the young Sea Man broke a leg bone when the rough seas tossed him against the pilot house of his ship. They were coming into harbor and the high tide made for heavier waters there than he’d expected. Yanus grumbled a good deal about Alemi being too experienced a seaman to get injured, but his grumbling subsided when Mavi pointed out that here was a chance to see if Alemi’s first mate would be capable of assuming command of the ship being finished in the building Cavern.
Alemi tried to take the injury in good part, but after four days in bed, with the swelling eased, he was heartily bored and restless. He plagued Mavi so constantly that she handed him the crutch she had not meant to give him for a full sevenday more, and suggested that if he broke his neck, too, he would have only himself to blame.
Alemi had more sense than that and navigated the inner stairways, narrow and dark, slowly and carefully; he kept to the wider outer stairs and the Sea Hold’s main rooms and the holdway whenever possible.
While he had some mobility, he didn’t have much activity if the fishing fleet was out, so he was soon attracted by the sound of the children learning a new ballad from the Harper. He caught Elgion’s eye and received a courteous wave to enter the Little Hall. If the children were startled to hear a baritone suddenly take up the learning, they had too much respect for the Harper to do more than hazard a quick peek and the class progressed.
To Alemi’s pleasure he found himself as quick to memorize the new words and tune as the youngsters, and he thoroughly enjoyed the session; he was almost sorry when Elgion excused them.
“How’s the leg, Alemi?” the Harp
er asked when the room had emptied.
“I’ll have a weather-wise ache now for sure.”
“Is that why you did it?” Elgion said with a broad grin. “I’d heard you wanted to be sure Tilsit got a chance at command.”
Alemi let out a snort of laughter. “Nonsense. I haven’t had a rest since the last five-day gale. That’s a fine ballad you’re teaching.”
“That’s a fine voice you were singing it with, too. Why don’t you sound out more often? I was beginning to think the sea wind snatches the voice of everyone at about twelve Turns.”
“You should have heard my sis…” and Alemi stopped, flushed, and clamped his lips tight.
“Which reminds me: I took the liberty of asking N’ton, Lioth’s rider, to spread the word at Benden Weyr that she’s missing. She may still be alive, you know.”
Alemi nodded slowly.
“You Sea Holders are full of surprises,” said Elgion, thinking to switch to a less painful topic. He went to the racks of wax tablets and removed the two he sought. “These must have been done by that fosterling who took over when Petiron died. The other slates are all in the older script notations, which the old Harper used. But these…A lad who can do this sort of work is needed in the Harper’s craft. You don’t know where the boy is now, do you?”
Alemi was torn between duty to the Hold and love of his sister. But she wasn’t in the Hold anymore, and commonsense told Alemi that she must be dead if, in this length of time, with dragonriders looking for her, she hadn’t been found. Menolly was only a girl, so what good did it do that her songs found favor with the Harper? Alemi was also reluctant to put the lie to his father. So, despite the fact that Elgion was impressed by the songs, since the songmaker was beyond them, Alemi answered truthfully that he didn’t know where “he” was.
Elgion wrapped the waxed slates carefully, and with a noticeable sigh of regret. “I’ll send them on to the Harper Crafthall anyway. Robinton will want to use them.”
“Use them? They’re that good?” Alemi was startled and regretted the lies still more.
“They’re cracking good. Maybe if the lad hears them, he’ll come forward on his own.” Elgion gave Alemi a rueful smile. “Since it’s obvious there’s some reason you can’t name him.” He chuckled at the Sea Man’s reaction. “Come now, man, the lad was sent away in some sort of disgrace, wasn’t he? That happens, as any harper worth his salt knows—and understands. Hold honor and all that. I won’t tease you anymore. He’ll surface to the sound of his own music.”
They talked of other things then, until the fishing fleet returned—two men of the same age but different background: one with an inquisitive interest in the world beyond his Sea Hold, and the other quite willing to satisfy it. Elgion was, in fact, delighted to find none of Yanus’s denseness and inflexibility in Alemi, and the Harper began to feel that after all he might be able to follow Master Robinton’s ambitious plan of broadening understanding beyond the limits of this Sea Hold.
Alemi was back the following day after the children had been dismissed, with more questions. He stopped midsentence finally, apologizing profusely for taking so much of Elgion’s time.
“I tell you what, Alemi, I’ll teach you what you’d like to know if you’ll teach me how to sail.”
“Teach you to sail?”
Elgion grinned. “Yes, teach me to sail. The smallest child in my class knows more about that than I do, and my professional standing is in jeopardy. After all, a Harper is supposed to know everything.
“I may be wrong but I can’t imagine that you need both legs to sail one of those little skiffs the children use.”
Alemi’s face lit up, and he pounded the Harper on the back with enthusiasm. “Of course I can. By the First Shell, man, I’d be glad to do it. Glad.”
And nothing would satisfy Alemi but to take the Harper down to the Dock Cavern immediately and give him the fundamentals of seamanship. In his own subject, Alemi was as good an instructor as the Harper; and Elgion was able to tack across the Harbor by himself by the end of the first lesson. Of course, as Alemi remarked, the wind was from the right quarter and the sea calm, ideal sailing conditions.
“Which rarely prevail?” asked Elgion; and he was rewarded by Alemi’s tolerant chuckle. “Well practice makes perfect, and I’d better learn the practical.”
“And the theory.”
So their friendship was cemented by mutual exchanges of knowledge and long visits together. Although their conversation touched many subjects, Elgion hesitated to bring up the subject of fire lizards, or the fact that the Weyr had asked him to search for traces of the elusive little creatures. He had, however, searched as much of the accessible coastline as he could on foot. There were some beaches that should be checked now from the seaside. With Alemi teaching him how to handle the skiff, he hoped he’d soon be able to do it himself. Elgion knew with certainty that Yanus would be completely scornful of any search for fire lizards, and the Harper didn’t want to implicate Alemi in any plan that would bring Yanus’s anger down on his head. Alemi was in bad enough straits over breaking his leg.
One clear bright morning, Elgion decided to put his solution to the test. He dismissed the children early, then sought out Alemi and suggested that today was not only a fine day but the sea was rough enough to test his ability. Alemi laughed, cast a wise eye at the clouds, and said that it would be mild as a bathing pool by afternoon but that the practice now would be useful to Elgion’s progress.
Elgion wheedled a large package of fish rolls and spicecakes from a kitchen auntie, and the two men set off. Alemi was agile enough now with his crutch and splint-bound leg on land, but he was glad of any excuse to be on the sea.
Once beyond the protecting arms of the Half-Circle cliffs, the sea was choppy with crosscurrent and wind; Elgion’s skill would be well tested. Alemi, disregarding an occasional wetting as the skiff plunged in and out of the wave troughs, played silent passenger while the Harper fought tiller and sheet to keep them on the course Alemi had set down the coast. The Sea Man became aware of the windshift some moments before Elgion, but it was the mark of his abilities as a teacher that Elgion was quick enough to notice the change.
“Wind’s slacking off.”
Alemi nodded, adjusting his cap slightly for the wind’s new direction. They sailed on, the wind slackening to a gentle pressure against the sail, the skiff’s speed aided more by the deep current than the wind.
“I’m hungry,” Alemi announced as he and Elgion saw the stumpy violet crags of the Dragon Stones to leeward.
Elgion released the sheet line, and Alemi pulled the sail down, furling it with absent skill against the boom. At his direction, Elgion lashed the tiller so that the current carried them idly downcoast.
“Don’t know why,” Alemi said through a mouthful of fishroll, “food always tastes better on the sea.”
Elgion contented himself to a nod since his mouth was full. He also had a good appetite; not, he qualified to himself, that he had been working overhard, just hanging on to the tiller and adjusting the sail sheet now and then.
“Come to think, don’t often have time to eat on the sea,” Alemi added. He gestured to include their leisurely bobbing, the skiff itself and the informal meal. “Haven’t been this lazy on a sail since I was old enough to haul a net.” He stretched and then adjusted his splinted leg slightly, grimacing against the awkwardness and discomfort. Suddenly he leaned away from the bulwark, to reach into the small locker fitted against the curve of the hull. “Thought so.” Grinning, he held up fishline, hook and dry worm.
“Can’t you leave off?”
“What? And have Yanus give out about unproductive hands?” Alemi deftly threaded line to hook and baited it. “Here. You might as well try hook line and bait. Or does the Masterharper object to cross-crafting?”
“The more crafts the better, says Master Robinton.”
Alemi nodded, his eyes on the current. “Aye, sending lads away to other Sea Holds for fostering doesn
’t quite answer, does it?” Deftly he threw the line from him, watched the cast carry it well away from the drifting skiff and sink.
Elgion gave a fair imitation of that cast and settled himself, as Alemi had, to wait for results.
“What would we be catching out here?”
Alemi drew his mouth up in a grimace of indifference. “Probably nothing. Tide’s full, current’s strong, midday. Fish feed at dawn, unless there’s Thread.”
“Is that why you use the dry worm? Because it resembles Thread?” Elgion couldn’t suppress the shudder that went down his spine at the thought of loose Thread.
“You’re right.” The silence that often grips fishermen settled comfortably in the boat.
“Yellow-stripe, if anything,” Alemi finally said in answer to the question that Elgion had almost forgotten he’d asked. “Yellow-stripe or a very hungry packtail. They’ll eat anything.”
“Packtail? That’s good eating.”
“Line’ll break. Packtail’s too heavy for this.”
The current was inexorably drawing them closer to the Dragon Stones. But, although he wanted to get Alemi talking about them, Elgion couldn’t find the proper opening. At about the point where Elgion felt he’d better speak or they’d be pulled by the current into the Stones, Alemi casually glanced around. They were only several dragon lengths from the most seaward of the great crags. The water now lapped peacefully against the base, exposing occasionally the jagged points of submerged rock, eddying around others. Alemi unfurled the sail and hauled on the sheet line.
“We need more sea room near those. Dangerous with sunken rock. When the tide’s making, current can pull you right in. If you sail this way by yourself, and you’ll soon be able to, make sure you keep your distance.”
Dragonsong (dragon riders of pern) Page 10