Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  Suddenly everyone moved, and a quick glance at the round table told Piemur that Master Robinton had taken his place. A flash of blue and gray past his lowered eyes was probably Menolly moving to take her place at a journeyman’s table.

  Ranly and Bon sat directly opposite Piemur, regarding him with wide and worried eyes. He gave them a sad half-smile. When the platter of roast wherry slices came to him, he heaved another sigh and fumbled for a slice. He stared at it on his plate instead of attacking it immediately. But then, generally, he’d have taken as many slices as he could knife onto his plate without raising uproars from his mates. He did like roast tubers, but restrainedly took only a small one. He ate slowly so that his stomach would think it was getting more. A rumbling belly would ruin his ploy for bubbly pies.

  None of his friends spoke, either to him or to each other. At their end of the table, gloomy silence prevailed. Until the bubbly pies were served. Piemur maintained his air of tragic indifference as the first ripple of delighted surprise sighed down from the kitchen end of the table. He could hear the rise of happy voices, the quick interest of his friends as they saw the burden of the sweet tray.

  “Piemur, it’s bubbly pies,” said Timiny, pulling at his sleeve.

  “Bubbly pies?” Piemur kept a querulous note in his voice, as if even bubbly pies had no magic to revive him.

  “Yes, bubbly pies,” said Brolly, determined to rouse him.

  “Your very first favorite, Piemur,” said Bonz. “Here, have one of mine,” he added and, with only an infinitesimal show of reluctance, pushed the coveted pie across to Piemur.

  “Oh, bubbly pies,” repeated Piemur on the end of a quavering semi-interested sigh and picked up one of the offerings as though he was forcing himself to exhibit interest.

  “It’s an awfully good bake, Piemur.” Ranly bit into his with exaggerated relish. “Just take a bite, Piemur. You’ll see. Get a bubbly or two inside you, and you’ll feel more like yourself. Imagine! Piemur not wanting all the bubblies he can eat!” Ranly glanced at the others, urging them to second him.

  Bravely Piemur ate slowly of the first bubbly pie, wishing they were still hot. “That did taste good,” he said with a trifle brighter tone and was promptly encouraged to eat another.

  By the time he had consumed eight because three more were donated from the other end of the table, Piemur affected to lose the edge of his gloom. After all, ten bubbly pies when he might only have had two was a good day’s scrounge.

  The journeyman rose to deliver announcements and assignments. Piemur toyed with the notion of several different reactions to the news of his change in status. Shock, yes! Delight? Well, some because it was an honor, but not too much, otherwise they might doubt the performance that had won so many pies.

  “Sherris, report to Master Shonagar…”

  “Sherris?” Surprise, shock, and consternation, totally unrehearsed or anticipated brought Piemur straight up off the bench and prompted his neighbors to seize him by the shoulders and push him down. “Sherris? That little snip, that wet-eared, wet-bottomed, wet-bedded—”

  Timiny clamped his hand firmly over Piemur’s mouth, and the next few announcements were lost to that section of the apprentice tables. Indignation revitalized Piemur, but he was no match for the concerted efforts of Timiny and Brolly, determined that their friend should not suffer the extra humiliation of a public reprimand for interrupting the journeyman.

  “Did you hear, Piemur?” Bonz was saying, leaning across the table. “Did you not hear?”

  “I heard that Sherris is to be Master…” Piemur was sputtering with rage. There were a few truths Master Shonagar ought to know about Sherris.

  “No, no, about you!”

  “Me?” Piemur ceased his struggles, abruptly horrified by the sudden thought that maybe Master Robinton had changed his mind, that some further investigation had led him to believe Piemur was unsuitable, that all the morning’s bright prospect would be wrenched from his grasp.

  “You! You’re to report to…” and Bonz paused to give additional weight to his final words, “Master Olodkey!”

  “To Master Olodkey?” Relief gave Piemur’s reaction genuine force. Then he looked wildly around for the Drummaster.

  Bonz’s elbow suddenly digging into his ribs alerted him, and there was Dirzan, Master Olodkey’s senior journeyman, staring down at them, fists against his belt, a wary and disapproving expression on his weathered face.

  “So we get saddled with you, eh, Piemur? I’ll tell you this, you watch your step with our Master. Quickest man in the world with a drumstick, and he doesn’t always use it on the drums!” He eyed Piemur significantly and then, with a sharp gesture, indicated that Piemur should follow him.

  Chapter 3

  of the Hall. The apprentices’ room was cramped and would be more so when the spare cot for Piemur was added. The journeymen’s quarters were hardly more spacious, nor Master Olodkey’s, though he had his small room to himself. The largest room was both for the instruction and living. Beyond, separated by a small hallway, was the drum room, with the great metal message-drums shining in the afternoon sun. There were several stools for the watchdrummer, a small workable to write down the messages, and a press, which became the bane of Piemur’s mornings. It contained the polish and cloths required to keep that eye-blinding shine on the drums. Dirzan took evident relish in telling Piemur that, by custom, the newest apprentice was required to maintain their brilliance.

  The drumheights were always manned save for the “dead” time, four hours in the depth of night, when the eastern half of the continent was still sleeping and the western half just retiring. Piemur wanted to know what happened if an emergency occurred in the dead time and was crisply informed that most drummers were so attuned to an incoming message that even in the shielded quarters the vibrations had been known to alert them.

  As part of his apprentice training, Piemur had dutifully learned the identifying beats of each of the major holds and crafthalls, and the emergency signals, like “threadfall,” “fire,” “death,” “answer,” “question,” “help,” “affirmative,” “negative,” and a few useful phrases. When Dirzan first showed him the mass of drum messages that he would be expected to memorize and perform, he began to wish fervently that his voice would settle before winter came. Dirzan ruthlessly loaded him down with a column of frequently used beat measures to learn by the next day, telling him to practice quietly, using sticks on the practice block, and left him.

  In the morning, writing under Dirzan’s full attention Piemur struggled through the lesson. He almost cried out with relief when Menolly appeared. She ignored him.

  “I need a messenger. Can I steal Piemur?”

  “Certainly,” Dirzan said without surprise, since that task was also a function of drum apprentices. “He can practice his lesson on his way, I expect. I expect he’d better.”

  Piemur groaned to himself at this partial reprieve, but kept a carefully contrite expression on his face for Dirzan’s benefit.

  “Did you get riding gear yesterday from Silvina?” Menolly asked him, her face unrevealing. “Get it on,” she said when he nodded, gesturing him to be quick about changing.

  She was laughing with Dirzan when he reappeared, but broke off her conversation, motioning Piemur to follow her. She took the steps from the drumheights at a clip.

  “You said you’d ridden runners?” she asked.

  “Sure. I’m herder bred, you know.” He was a bit miffed.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve ridden runners.”

  “Well, I have.”

  “You’ll have a chance to prove it,” she said, awarding him a curious smile.

  Piemur stared hard at her profile as they made their way out of the arch entrance and across the broad Gather meadow in front of the Harper Hall. To their left towered the cliff that housed Fort Hold, and the rows of cots that huddled in the bosom of the sturdy precipice. On the fire heights of the Hold, the brown dragon stood, lo
oking more massive silhouetted against the bright sky, one wing extended, which his rider was grooming.

  Piemur felt a surge of reverence for dragons and their riders, reinforced by the sight of Beauty, Menolly’s queen fire lizard, alighting on her friend’s padded shoulder, while the rest of Menolly’s fair cavorted in the air above them.

  Her head raised, Menolly smiled at her playful friends and told them they were going for a ride. Did they care to come along? Chirruping and excited aerial displays greeted her question, and Piemur watched, as ever envious, while Beauty stroked Menolly’s cheek with her wedge-shaped head and crooned into her ear, the jewel-faceted eyes bright blue with pleasure. Grimly, Piemur forebode to ask the questions that seethed in his mind as they walked in silence toward the great caverns carved into the Fort cliff to house the herdbeasts, wherry flocks and runners. Inside the cavern, the head stockman approached with a smile for Menolly. Her fire lizards whirled into the cavern and sought perches on the curious beams that supported the ceiling, beams that had been fashioned by long-lost skill of the ancients. No one even knew from what substance they had been contrived.

  “Off again, Menolly?”

  “Again,” she said with a slight grimace. “Banak, have you gear for a beast for Piemur, too? As easy for me to have the second runner ridden as led.”

  “A’ course,” and the man led the way to the enclosure where the backpads and headgear were hung on racks. After a close look at Piemur, he selected pad and gear, handed Menolly hers. They followed him down the aisle of open-ended stalls. “Your usual is third down, Menolly.”

  “See if Piemur remembers how to go on,” she said to Banak.

  The man smiled and handed Piemur the gear. With a degree of assurance he didn’t feel, Piemur made the clucking sound it was wise to use to announce human presence to a runner beast. They weren’t intelligent creatures, responding to a narrow set of noises and nudges, but, within that limited scope, quite useful. They weren’t even pretty, being thin necked, heavy headed, long backed, lean bodied, with spindly legs. Their hide was covered in a coarse fur and ranged in color from a dirty white to a dark brown. They were more graceful than herdbeasts but by no stretch of the imagination as beautiful as dragons or fire lizards.

  The creature Piemur was to ride was a dirty brown. He threw the mouth rope over its neck, and by pinching its nose holes, forced it to open its mouth to receive the metal mouthpiece. Quickly grabbing its ear, Piemur managed to get the headstall in place. It snorted as if mildly surprised. Not half as surprised as Piemur that he’d remembered that little trick. He heard Banak grunt. He slapped the pad in place and tightened the midstrap, wondering if this thing would give him any trouble once he was astride it.

  Untying its halter, he backed it out and found Menolly as the aisle, holding her larger beast. She examined the gear on his.

  “Oh, he did it right,” said Banak, nodding approval and waving them to go on as he turned to the rear of the cavern on his own affairs.

  It had been a long time since Piemur had been bestride a runner. Fortunately, this creature was docile, and its pacing stride smooth as Menolly set off briskly down the eastern roadway.

  There was a knack of easing yourself on a runner’s pad. Piemur found himself almost unconsciously assuming the position; sitting on one buttock, extending his left leg as far as the toe-hold strap would go, while cocking the knee of his right leg firmly against the runner’s side. A rider would change sides often in trip. For a girl seahold bred, Menolly rode with the ease of much practice, Piemur noted.

  All the way down to the sea hold, Piemur kept his mouth shut. He’d be scorched if he’d ask her why they were going there. He doubted that the sole purpose of this excursion was to see if he could ride runners or keep his mouth shut. And what had she meant by easier to have a second runner ridden than led? This reticent, assured Menolly on Harper business was quite different from the girl who let him feed her fire lizards, and a long stride from his recollections of the shy and self-effacing newcomer to the Harper Hall three Turns back.

  Once they reached Fort Sea Hold, Menolly tossed him her beast’s mouth rope, told him to take them to the hold’s beastmaster, ease the backpads, water them and see if they could have some feed. As Piemur led the creatures away, he noticed that she went to the harbor wall, shading one hand as she peered at the eastern horizon. Why was she waiting for a ship? Or had that something to do with the drum message from Ista Hold the other morning? The beastmaster greeted him cheerfully enough and helped him attend the runners.

  “You’ll be likely heading back to the Hall as soon as the ship docks,” said the man. “I’ll pad up Sebell’s beast, so he’s ready. Soon’s we got these comfortable, you just pop into my hold there, and my woman’ll fix you a bite to eat. Boy your age could always do with a bit, I’m sure. One thing about seaholding, you’ve always the extra to feed, even in Threadfall.”

  His hospitality included Menolly when she came in; after Piemur too had seen the speck far out on the sea. He knew that he’d have a chance to rest his weary bones as well as exercise his jaw.

  Sebell had a runner stabled here, huh? Sebell borne by a westbound ship. Which suggested that Sebell had also sailed from this seahold. Piemur tried to remember how long it had been since he’d seen Sebell about the Hall, and couldn’t.

  Fort Sea Hold possessed a natural deep harbor so that the incoming ship sailed right up to the stone-lined side. Seamen on shore as well as on the ship neatly tied her thick lines to the bollards on the wall. Sebell was not immediately visible, though as Menolly’s fire lizards did a welcoming display above the ship’s rigging, the westering sun glinted off two golden bodies, Sebell’s queen, Kimi, as well as Menolly’s Beauty. Piemur didn’t spot Sebell in the bustle of people unloading the ship until suddenly he appeared right in front of them, heavy bags draped across his shoulders and arms. A seaman carefully laid two more filled sacks at his feet. Enough to load down a runner beast, all right.

  “Good trip, Sebell?” asked Menolly, picking up one of the sacks and slinging it with a deft twist of her wrist to her back. “Give Piemur at least one yoke of those,” she added, and Piemur sprang quickly to relieve Sebell of some of his burden, fingering the bulges to see if he could identify the contents. “And don’t maul it, Piemur. The herbs will be crushed soon enough!”

  Herbs?

  “Piemur? What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?” began Sebell. His smile was pleasant and the whiteness of his teeth stood out against dark tanned skin. Herbs and a tan? Piemur would bet every mark he had that Sebell had just returned from the Southern Continent.

  “Piemur’s voice has broken.”

  “It has?” There was no doubting Sebell’s pleasure at the news. “And Master Robinton’s agreeable?”

  Menolly grinned. “With a slight variation, according to the wisdom of our good Master!”

  “Oh?” Sebell glanced first at Piemur and then back to Menolly for explanation.

  “He’s been told off as apprentice to Master Olodkey.”

  Sebell began to chuckle then. “Shrewd of Master Robinton, very shrewd! Right, Piemur?”

  “I guess so.” At such a sour rejoinder, Sebell threw his head back and laughed, startling his queen who’d been about to land on his shoulder. She flew about his head, scolding, joined by Beauty and the two bronzes. Sebell threw an arm across Piemur’s shoulders, telling him to cheer up, and draped his other arm about Menolly. Then he guided them toward the holdstables.

  There was a look on Sebell’s face that suggested to Piemur that the companionable arm about his shoulders had been an excuse for the one about Menolly’s. The observation cheered Piemur for he knew something no other apprentice did. Maybe not even Master Robinton. Or did he?

  Variations on that notion contented Piemur on the initial leg of their hallward trip. The last three hours were spent in increasing physical discomfort. For one thing, he had sacks strapped front and back of his pad and another slung over h
is shoulder. It was difficult to adjust his rear end and find a spot not already beaten to a pulp by the runner beast’s action. Rather unfair of Menolly, Piemur thought with some rancor, to include him on an eight-hour ride his first time on a runner in Turns.