He was immensely relieved that he wasn’t expected to tend the mounts, too, as they handed mouth ropes to Banak. Then, Piemur wished he’d been able to dismount in the Harper Hall courtyard, for his stiff and seemingly reshaped legs made the short walk from beasthold to Hall an unexpected torture. Sourly he listened to Menolly and Sebell chatting as they preceded him. They talked of inconsequentialities so that Piemur couldn’t even ignore his aches by concentrating on their comments.
“Well, Piemur,” said Menolly as they climbed the steps to the Hall, “you haven’t forgotten how to pace a beast. Shells, what’s the matter with you?”
“It’s been five bloody Turns since I’ve ridden one,” he said, trying to straighten his sorely afflicted back.
“Menolly! That’s plain cruel,” cried Sebell, trying to keep a straight face. “Into the hot baths with you, lad, before you harden in that posture.”
Menolly was instantly contrite, with protests of dismay and apology. Sebell guided him to the bathing room, and when Menolly brought a tray of hot food for them all, she served Piemur as he floated in the soothing water. To Piemur’s utter embarrassment, Silvina appeared as he was patting his sore spots dry. She proceeded to slather him with numbweed salve and, making him lie down, massaged his back and legs. Just when he thought he’d never move again, Silvina made him get to his feet. Strangely enough, he could walk more normally. At least the numbweed deadened the muscular aches enough for him to make his own way across the court and up to three flights to the drumheights.
He slept through three drum messages the next morning, the fire lizards’ feeding and half the chorus rehearsal with instruments. When he woke, Dirzan gave him time for a cup of klah and a meatroll, then quizzed him on the drum measures assigned him the day before.
To Dirzan’s amazement, Piemur beat them out time-perfect. He’d had plenty of hours in which to memorize them on that runner ride. As a reward, Dirzan gave him another column of measures to learn.
The numbweed salve had worn off, and Piemur found sitting on the stool during his lesson agonizing. He had rubbed his seat bones raw, a combination of the stiffness of his new trousers and the riding. This affliction provided him with an opportunity to visit Master Oldive after lunch. Although Sebell’s sacks were in evidence in Master Oldive’s quarters, even to some herbs piled on the work-table, Piemur pried no new snippets of information from the Master Healer. Not even if this had been the first shipment of such medicines. He did learn that galls hurt more when treated than when sat on. Then the numbweed took over. Master Oldive said he was to use a cushion for sitting for a few days, wear older, softened pants, and ask Silvina for a conditioner to soften his wherhide.
No sooner had he returned to the drumheights, than he was sent with a message for Lord Groghe to Fort Hold, and when he came back, set to stand a listening watch.
He saw Menolly and Sebell the next morning when he fed his trio of fire lizards but, apart from solicitous inquiry about his stiffness, the two harpers were not talkative. The next day Sebell was gone, and Piemur didn’t know when or how. He was able, however, to observe, from the drumheights, the comings and goings, in and out of Fort Hold, of riders on runners, of two dragons and an incredible number of fire lizards. It occurred to him that while he had been congratulating himself on knowing most of what went on in the Harper Hall, the drumheights let him observe the larger world which, up till that day, had been unremarked by himself.
Several messages came in that afternoon, two from the north and one from the south. Three went out; one in answer to Tillek’s question from the north; an originating message to Igen Tanner Hall; and the third to Master-Briaret, the Masterherdsman. To tantalize him, all the messages were too quickly delivered for him to recognize more than a few phrases. Infuriated to be in a position to know more and unable to exercise the advantage to the full, Piemur memorized two columns of drum measures. If his zeal surprised Dirzan, it irritated his fellow apprentices. They presented him with several all too forceful arguments against too much application on his part. Piemur had always relied on being able to outrun any would-be adversaries, but he discovered that there was no place to run to in the drumheights. While nursing his bruises, he stubbornly learned off three more columns, though he kept this private, tempering his recitations to Dirzan. Discretion, he was learning, is required on many different levels.
He was not sorry six days later to be told to take a message to a minehold situated on an awkward ridge in the Fort Hold Range. With a signed, Harper-sealed tube of record hide, he mounted the same stolid runner beast Banak had given him for the previous trip.
Gingerly settling the seat of his now well-softened wherhide pants onto the pad, Piemur was relieved to feel no discomfort from his tail bones as the creature moved off. The journey should take him two to three hours, Banak said, as he’d pointed out to him the correct southwestern track. Three hours was probably correct, Piemur thought as his efforts to increase the pace of his runner failed. By the time the wide track had narrowed to a thinner trace, winding against a stony hillside, with deep gorges on the outside, Piemur was quite willing to let his runner go at that steady, careful pace. As he figured it would have taken the Fort Hold watchdragon only a few moments to make the trip, and the watchdragon’s rider was quite willing to oblige the Masterharper of Pern, he wondered why he’d been sent. Until he delivered his message tube to the taciturn mineholder.
“You’re from the Harper Hall?” The man scowled at him dubiously.
“Apprentice to Master Olodkey, the Drummaster!” This could be some sort of test of his prudence.
“Wouldn’t have thought they’d send a boy on this errand,” he said with a skeptical grunt.
“I’ve fourteen Turns, sir,” Piemur replied, trying to deepen his tone without notable success.
“No offense meant, lad.”
“None taken.” Piemur was pleased that his voice remained steady.
The Miner paused, his gaze drawn upward. Not, Piemur noticed, in the direction of the sun. When the Miner began to scowl, Piemur also looked up. Though why the Miner should register displeasure at the sight of three dragons in the sky, Piemur couldn’t guess. True, Thread had fallen only three days before, but you’d think dragons would be a reassuring sight at any time.
“There’s feed and water in the shed,” said the Miner, still watching the dragons. He gestured absently over his left shoulder.
Obediently Piemur started to lead the runner around, hoping that there would be something for himself as well when he’d tended the beast. Suddenly, the Miner let out a startled oath and retreated into his holdcot. Piemur had only reached the shed when the Miner came striding after him, thrust a small bulging sack at him.
“This is what you were sent for. Tend your beast while I tend these unexpected arrivals.”
Piemur’s trained ear did not miss the apprehension in the Miner’s tone nor the implicit command that Piemur was to remain out of sight. He made no comment, stuffing the small sack in his belt pouch while the Miner watched. The man left as Piemur vigorously pumped water into the trough for his thirsty beast. As soon as the Miner reached his cot, Piemur changed his position so that he had a clear view of the one reasonably level area of the minehold where dragons could land.
Only the bronze did. The two blues settled on the ridge above the mine opening. Sight of the great beast that backwinged to the ground told Piemur all he needed to know to understand the Miner’s grimness. Before their exile south, the Oldtimers from Fort Weyr had made few appearances, but Piemur recognized Fidranth by the long sear scar on his rump and T’ron by the arrogant swagger as he strode up to the minecot. Piemur didn’t need to hear the conversation to know that T’ron’s manner had not altered in his Turns south. With a very stiff bow, the Miner stepped aside as T’ron, slapping his flying gloves against his thigh, strode disdainfully into the cothold. As the Miner followed, he glanced toward the shed. Piemur ducked behind the runner.
It needed little wit n
ow to realize why the Miner had thrust the sack at him. Piemur investigated the contents: only four of the blue stones that spilled into his hand had been cut and polished. The others, ranging from one the size of his thumbnail to small uneven crystals, were rough. The blue sapphires were much prized by the Harper Hall, and stones as large as the four cut ones were mounted as badges for Masters of the Craft. Four cut stones? Four new masters walking the tables? Would Sebell be one of them, Piemur wondered.
Piemur thought a moment and then slipped the cut stones carefully, two and two, into his boots. He wiggled his feet until the stones settled, sharp lumps against his ankles but they’d not slip out. He hesitated as he was about to stow the sack in his pouch. He doubted T’ron would stoop to searching a lowly apprentice, but the stones made a suspicious bulge, Checking the leather to make sure it bore no miner’s mark, he wrapped the thong on the backpad ring beside his drinking flask. Then he took off his jacket, folding the harper badge inside before he slung it over the pump handle. Trail dust had turned his blue pants to a nondescript gray.
A clink of boot nails on the ridge stone warned him and, whistling tunelessly, he picked up the beast’s feet in turn, checking for stones in the cleft hooves.
“You there!” The peremptory tone irritated Piemur. N’ton never spoke like that, even to a kitchen drudge.
“Sor?” Piemur unbent and stared around at the Oldtimer, hoping his anxious expression masked the anger he really felt. Then he glanced apprehensively at the Miner, saw a harsh wariness in the man’s eyes and added in his best hillhold mumble, “Sor, he was that sweated, I’ve had a time cleaning him up.”
“You’ve other work to do,” said the Miner in a cold voice, jerking his head toward the cothold.
“A day too late, am I, Miner? Well, there’s been yesterday’s work and this morning’s.” The Oldtimer superciliously gestured the Miner to precede him toward the open shaft.
Piemur watched, keeping a dull expression on his face as the two men disappeared from sight. Inwardly he was right pleased with his dissembling and was positive he’d seen an approving glint in the Miner’s eyes.
By the time he had finished grooming the runner from nose to dock, T’ron and the Miner had not yet reappeared. What other work would he have to do if he were a genuine miner’s apprentice? It would be logical for him to stay far away from the shaft at the moment, for he’d be scared of the dragonrider if not of his master. Ah, but the Miner had indicated the cothold.
Piemur pumped water into a spare pail and lugged it back to the cothold, ogling with what he hoped was appropriate fear the blue dragons ensconced on the ridge, the riders hunkered between them.
The minecot was divided into two large rooms, one for sleeping, the other for relaxing and eating, with a small portion curtained off for the Miner’s privacy. The curtain was open, and plainly the disgruntled dragonrider had searched the press, locker and bedding. In the kitchen area, every drawer was open and every door was ajar. A large cooking pot on the hearth was boiling so hard its contents frothed from under its cover. Not wishing what might be his meal in the ashes, Piemur quickly swung the pot away from the full heat of the fire. Then he began to tidy the kitchen area. No lowly apprentice would enter the Master’s quarters, however humble, without direct permission. He heard voices again, the Miner’s low comments and T’ron’s angry reproaches. Then he heard the sounds of hammers against stone and ventured to look cautiously through the open window.
Six miners were squatting or kneeling, carefully chipping rough dark stone and dirt from the blue crystals possibly within. As Piemur watched, one of the miners rose, extending the palm of his hand toward the Miner. T’ron intercepted the gesture and held the small object up to the sun. Then he gave an oath, clenching his fist. For a moment, Piemur thought that the Oldtimer was going to throw the stone away.
“Is this all you’re finding here now? This mine produced sapphires the size of a man’s eye—”
“Four hundred Turns ago it did indeed, Dragonrider,” said the Miner in an expressionless voice that could not be construed either as insolent or courteous. “We find fewer stones nowadays. The coarse dust is still good for grinding and polishing other gems,” he added as the Oldtimer stared at the man carefully brushing what seemed like glistening sand into a small scoop, which he then emptied in a small lidded tub.
“I’m not interested in dust, Miner, or flawed crystals.” He held up his clenched fist. “I want good, sizable sapphires.”
He continued to stand there, glaring at each of the miners in turn as they tapped cautiously away. Piemur, hoping that no larger sapphires would be discovered, made himself busy in the kitchen.
By the time the sun was westering behind the highest of the ridges, only six medium to small sapphires had rewarded T’ron’s afternoon vigil. Piemur was not the only one to watch, half-holding his breath, as the Oldtimer stalked to Fidranth and mounted. The old bronze showed no faltering as he neatly lifted in the air, joined by the two blues. Only when the three had winked out between did the miners break into angry talk, crowding up to the Miner, who brushed them aside in his urgency, to get to the minecot.
“I see why you’re a messenger, young Piemur,” said the Miner. “You’ve all your wits about you.” Grinning, he extended his hand.
Piemur grinned back and pointed toward his backpad and the sack with its precious contents, looped in plain sight to the ring. He heard the Miner’s astonished oath, which turned into a roar of laughter.
“You mean, he spent all afternoon facing what he wanted?” cried the Miner. “I did put the cut gems in my boots,” Piemur said with a grimace for one of the stones had rubbed his ankle raw.
As the Miner retrieved the sack, the others began to cheer, for they’d had no chance to learn that the Miner had managed to save the product of several sevendays’ labor. Piemur found himself much admired for his quick thinking as well as his timely arrival.
“Did you read my mind, lad,” asked the Miner, “to know that I’d told the old grasper I’d sent the gems off yesterday?”
“It seemed only logical,” Piemur replied. He’d taken his boots off just then, examining the scratches the sapphires had made. “It would’ve been a crying shame to let old T’ron get away with these beauties!”
“And what are we going to do, Master,” asked the oldest journeyman, “when those Oldtimers come back again in a few sevendays’ and take what we’ve mined? That placer’s not played out yet.”
“We’re closing up here tomorrow,” said the Miner.
“Why? We’ve just found more—”
The Miner signaled silence abruptly.
“Each craft has its privacies,” said Piemur, grinning broadly. If the Miner felt an apprentice required no apology for such curtness, he would not be admonished for impertinence for repeating a well-known rule. “But I shall have to mention this to Master Robinton, if only to explain why I’m so late returning.”
“You must tell the Masterharper, lad. He’s got to know if no one else. I’ll tell Masterminer Nicat.” Then he swung about the room with a warning look at each of his own craftsmen. “You all understand that this matter goes no further? Well and good. T’ron got only a few flawed stones—you were all very clever with your hammers today, though I deplore cracking good sapphires.” The Miner sighed heavily for that necessity. “Master Nicat will know which other miners to warn. Let the Oldtimers seek if it amuses them.” When the older journeyman laughed derisively, the Miner went on, raising an admonishing finger at him.” Enough! They are dragonmen, and they did help Benden Weyr and Pern when aid was badly needed!” Then he turned to Piemur. “Did you save any of our stew, lad? I’ve the appetite of a queen dragon after clutching.”
Chapter 4
That day held one more event! At sunset, as Piemur was helping the apprentice bring in the miners’ runners from the pasture, he heard the shrill cry of a fire lizard. Glancing up, he saw a slender body, wings back, drop with unnerving speed in his direction. T
he apprentice dropped to the ground, covering his head with his arms. Piemur braced his legs, but the bronze fire lizard did not come to his shoulder. Instead, Rocky spun round his head, berating him, his jewel-faceted eyes spinning violently red and orange in anger.
Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums Page 5