Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  He wasn’t certain how much more of this he could endure when Menolly appeared in the drumheights just after breakfast one morning.

  “I need a messenger today,” she said to Dirzan.

  “Clell would—”

  “No. I want Piemur.”

  “Now, Menolly, I wouldn’t mind letting him go for a minor errand but—”

  “Piemur is Master Robinton’s choice,” she said with a shrug, “and he’s cleared this with Master Olodkey. Piemur, get your gear together.”

  Piemur blandly ignored the black looks Clell directed his way as he crossed the living room. “Menolly, I think you ought to mention to Master Robinton that we haven’t found Piemur too reliable—”

  “Piemur? Unreliable?”

  Piemur had been about to whip around and defy Dirzan, but the amused condescension in Menolly’s tone was a far better defense than any he could muster under his circumstances. In one mild question, Menolly had given Dirzan, not to mention Clell and the others, a lot to think about.

  “Oh, he’s been bleating to you, has he?” Piemur could hear the sneer in the journeyman’s voice. He took a deep breath and continued to gather his things.

  “In point of fact,” and now Menolly sounded puzzled, “he’s not been talkative at all, apart from commenting on the weather and the condition of my fire lizards. Should he have reason to bleat, Dirzan?”

  Piemur half-ran back into the room, to forestall any explanation by the journeyman. This opportunity was playing beautifully into his hands.

  “I’m ready to go, Menolly.”

  “Yes, and we have to move fast.” It was obvious to Piemur that Menolly had wanted to hear Dirzan’s reply. “I’ll be back to you on this, Dirzan. C’mon, Piemur!”

  She led the way down the steps at a clatter, and only when they had passed the first landing did she turn to him.

  “What have you been up to, Piemur?”

  “I haven’t been up to anything,” he replied with such vehemence that Menolly grinned at him. “That’s the trouble.”

  “Your reputation’s caught up with you?”

  “More than that. It’s being used against me.” As much as Piemur wanted to expand, the less he said, he decided, even to Menolly, the stronger his position.

  “The other apprentices against you? Yes, I saw their expressions. What did you do to set them so?”

  “Learned drum measures too fast is all I can think of.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m bloody sure, Menolly. D’you think I’d do anything to get in the Masterharper’s bad record?”

  “No,” she said thoughtfully as they skipped down the last flight. “No, you wouldn’t. Look, we’ll sort it out when we come back. There’s a Gather today at Igen Hold. Sebell and I are to be there as harpers, but Master Robinton wants you to play scruffy boy apprentice.”

  “Can I ask why?” Piemur delivered the question on the end of a long suffering sigh.

  Menolly laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair.

  “You can, but I’ve no answer. We weren’t told either. He just wants you to wander about the Gather and listen.”

  “Has he got Oldtimers on his mind?” Piemur asked as casually as he could.

  “I’d say he probably does,” Menolly answered after a thoughtful moment. “He’s been worried. I may be his journeywoman, but I don’t always know what’s on his mind. Neither does Sebell!”

  They had reached the archway now and turned toward the Gather meadow. “I’m to ride a dragon?” asked Piemur. He lurched to a stop, his eyes bulging out at the scene before him. Bronze Lioth was shaking his wings out in the sun, his great jeweled eyes gleaming blue-green as he turned his head to watch the antics of the fire lizards. Dwarfed by his bulk, the tall figures of N’ton, Fort Weyrleader, and Sebell stood by his shoulder.

  “C’mon, Piemur. We mustn’t keep them waiting. The Gather at Igen is already well started.”

  Piemur struggled into his wherhide jacket, making that an excuse for falling behind Menolly. Actually he was both terrified and overjoyed at the prospect of riding a dragon! All those cloddies up there in the drumheights! He hoped that they were watching, that they’d see him riding off on a dragon! That’d teach them to smear his reputation. He pushed from his mind the corollary that the privilege of flying a dragonback would make his lot with his fellow apprentices that much harder. What mattered was the now! Piemur was going to ride a dragon.

  N’ton had always been Piemur’s ideal of a dragonrider: tall, with a really broad set of shoulders, dark brown hair slightly curled from being confined under a riding helmet, an easy, confident air reflected by a direct gaze and a ready smile. The contrast between this present Fort Weyrleader and his disgruntled predecessor, T’ron, was more vividly apparent as N’ton smilingly greeted the harpers’ apprentice.

  “Sorry your voice changed, Piemur. I’d been looking forward to Lord Groghe’s Gather and that new Saga I’ve heard so much about from Menolly. Have you ridden dragonback before, Piemur? No? Well, up with you, Menolly. Show Piemur the knack.”

  As Piemur attentively watched Menolly grab the riding strap and half-walk up Lioth’s shoulder, swing her leg agilely over the last neck ridge, he still couldn’t believe his good fortune. He could just imagine T’ron permitting a journeyman, much less an apprentice lad, to ride his bronze.

  “See how it was done? Good. Up with you then, Piemur!” Sebell gave him an initial boost, and Menolly leaned over with a helping hand and a guide rope. It seemed a long way up a dragon’s shoulder.

  Piemur grabbed the rope and just as he planted his booted foot on Lioth’s shoulder, he wondered if he’d hurt the dragon’s smooth hide.

  N’ton laughed. “No, you won’t hurt Lioth with your boots! But he thanks you for worrying.”

  Piemur was so startled that he almost lost his grip.

  “Reach up, Piemur,” Menolly ordered.

  “I didn’t know he’d hear me,” he said in a gasp as he settled astride Lioth’s neck.

  “Dragons hear what they choose to,” she said, grinning. “Sit back against me. Sebell’s got to fit in front of you!”

  The words were barely out of her mouth before Sebell had swung up with the ease of considerable practice and settled himself before Piemur. N’ton followed, passing back the riding straps. Piemur thought that a needless caution. His legs were wedged so tightly between Menolly’s and Sebell’s, he couldn’t have moved if he had to. Then Sebell peered over his shoulder at him.

  “You’ll have heard a lot about between, I expect, but I’ll warn you now: it’s scary even when you know what to expect.”

  “Right, Piemur,” Menolly added, circling his waist with her arms. “I’ve got you tight, and you hang on to Sebell’s belt.”

  “You won’t feel once we’re between,” Sebell continued. “There’s nothing between except cold. You won’t be able to feel Lioth beneath your legs nor our legs against yours, nor your hands about my belt. But the sensation lasts only a few heartbeats. They’ll sound very loud to you. Just count ’em. We’ll be doing the same thing, I assure you!” Sebell’s grin absolved Piemur from any expression of fear or doubt.

  Piemur nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t care what happened between. At least, he would have experienced it, which very few apprentice harpers could say.

  Suddenly there was a great heave, and he cracked his chin against Sebell’s shoulderblade. Inadvertently looking down, he saw the ground moving away from him as Lioth sprang skyward. He could feel the great muscles along Lioth’s neck as the fragile-seeming wings took their first all-important downsweep. Then the Gather meadow and the Harper Hall seemed to rush away, and they were on a level with the Hold fire-heights.

  Sebell gave Piemur’s hands, clutching his belt, a warning squeeze. The next heartbeat and there was nothing but a cold so intense that it was painful. Except that Piemur couldn’t feel pain with his body, only sense that his lack of tactile contact with reality included everyth
ing except the wild beating of his heart against his ribcage. Ruthlessly he clamped down on the instinct to scream. Then they were back in the world again, Lioth gliding effortlessly down to the right, a tremendous expanse of golden ground beneath his wings. Piemur shuddered again and kept his eyes fixed on Sebell’s shoulders. Hard as Piemur wished he wouldn’t, Lioth continued to glide downward, dipping sideways at unnerving angles. Suddenly Piemur could hear fire lizards chittering, and despite his resolve not to look around, found himself watching them zip about the dragon. “It is scary to look down,” Menolly’s voice said in his ear. “It’s worse when they…ahhhhh…”

  Piemur felt his stomach drop and, to his horror, his seat seemed to leave the dragon’s neck. He gasped and clutched more tightly at Sebell, feeling the man’s diaphragm muscles move as he chuckled.

  “That’s what I mean!” said Menolly. “N’ton says it’s only air currents, pushing the dragons up or letting them down.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Piemur managed to get the words out in a rush, but his voice betrayed him. “All” came out in a two-octave crack.

  Menolly didn’t laugh, and he felt more kindly toward her than at any other time in their association. “It always scares me,” she said in a comforting shout by his left ear.

  He was just getting accustomed to this additional hazard of flying dragonback when Lioth seemed to be diving straight for the Igen River bed. He was pressed back against Menolly and didn’t know whether to clutch more fiercely at Sebell’s belt or relax into the pressure.

  “Don’t forget to breathe!” Menolly was shouting and, at that, he barely heard her words as the wind ripped sound away.

  Then Lioth leveled and began to circle at a gentler rate of descent toward the now-visible rectangle of a Gather. To the left was the river, a broad, muddy stream between red sandstone banks. Small sailing craft skimmed the surface on a current that must be swifter than the turgid surface suggested. To the right was the broad, clean-swept rock shelf that led up to Igen Hold, a safe distance above the highest flood marks left by the river on the sandstone banks. Behind Igen Hold rose curious, wind-fashioned cliffs, some of which made additional holds for Igen’s people, for there were no rows of cotholds adjoining the main Hold here. Igen Hold also had no fire-heights, not needing any since there was nothing but sand and stone around the Hold proper, to which Thread could do no harm. The lands that supplied Igen Hold were around the next bend of the river, where the waters had been led inland by canals to supply watergrain fields.

  Piemur wasn’t sure that he would like living in such a barren-looking Hold, even if no Thread could ever attack it. And it was hot!

  Red dust puffed up as Lioth landed, and suddenly Piemur was unbearably warm. He began to unbelt his wherhide jacket before he released the riding strap and noticed that Menolly was as quick to strip helmet, gloves and jacket.

  “I always forget how hot it is at Igen,” she said, fluffing out her hair.

  “The dragons love it,” said N’ton, pointing beyond the Hold to where the rough shapes that Piemur had assumed were rock now became recognizable as dragons, stretched out to bake in the sun.

  It was as he was sliding down Lioth’s shoulder that Piemur noticed the curious construction of the Gather rectangle. There didn’t seem to be any walkway. The only open space was the customary central square for dancing. Though who’d have the energy to dance in this heat he didn’t know.

  Then Piemur ducked while Lioth showered them all with sand as he vaulted into the air and winged to join the other sunbathing dragons. The fire lizards—N’ton’s Tris, Sebell’s Kimi and Menolly’s nine—swirled up and away and were met, midair, by other fire lizards, the augmented fair swirling higher and higher in the joy of meeting.

  “That’ll occupy them for a while,” said Menolly, then she turned to Piemur. “Give me your flying gear and I’ll leave it at the Hold till you need it again.”

  “We must pay our respects to Lord Laudey and the others,” said Sebell, bringing out a handful of marks from his pocket. He presented Piemur with an eighth piece and two thirty-seconds. “I’m not being stingy, Piemur, but you’d be questioned if you had too many marks about you. And I don’t think Igen Hold runs to bubbly pies.”

  “Too hot to eat ’em anyway.” Piemur mopped his sweaty forehead with one hand as he gratefully slid the marks into his pouch.

  “But they do make a confection of fruits that you might like,” said Sebell. “Anyway, move around and listen. Don’t get caught being nosy and come up to the Hold for the evening meal. Ask for Harper Bantur if you have any trouble. Or Deece. He remembers you.”

  They had reached the edge of the Gather tents, and now Piemur realized that walking space existed but was considerately covered with tenting to deflect the worst of the sun’s baking heat. It was simple now for Piemur to move away from the journeymen harpers and the Weyrleader in the steady flow of people sauntering past the Gather stalls. He saw Menolly turn about, trying to see where he had got to, then Sebell spoke to her, and she shrugged and moved on with him.

  Almost immediately Piemur noticed one great difference between this and the Gathers he had attended in the west: people took their time. In order to separate himself from his craftmates, Piemur had deliberately lagged behind, but when he would have stepped out again at his customary pace, he hesitated. No one was moving briskly at all. Gestures and voices were languid, smiles slow, and even laughter had a lazy fall. A great many people carried long tubes from which they sipped. Stalls dispensing drinks, chilled water, as well as sliced fruits, were frequently placed and well-patronized. About every ten stalls or so, there were areas where people lounged, either on the sand or on benches placed about the edges. The tenting was raised in corners to catch breezes sweeping up from the river, cooling the lounge areas and the walkway.

  Piemur did one complete walkabout of the Gather rectangle. He could appreciate that, despite breezeways and the expenditure of the minimum of physical effort, people did not do much talking as they strolled from stall to stall. The talking, either conversation or bartering, was done while both parties sat comfortably. So he used one thirty-second piece on a long tube of fruit juice and some succulent slices of a rind-melon, found himself an inconspicuous spot in one lounge area, and settled to listen as he sipped his drink and ate.

  At first he didn’t quite catch the softer drawl of these south-easterners. The low-pitched conversation between two men on his left turned out to be the innocuous boasting of one about the breeding lines of the splay-footed runners he was hoping to barter profitably while the other man kept extolling the virtues of the currently favored strain. Disgusted at such a waste of his time, Piemur focused his ears on the group of five men on his right. They were blaming the weather on Thread, the bad crops on the weather and everything else except their lack of industry, which Piemur thought would be the real problem. A group of women were also murmuring against the weather, their mates, their children and the nuisancy children of other holds, but all in a fairly comfortable, tolerantly amused fashion. Three men, with their heads so close together no sound passed their shoulders, finally parted, but not before Piemur saw a small sack pass from one to another and decided that they must only have been bargaining hard, The runnermen left and a new pair took their places, composed their loose robes about them, leaned back and promptly went to sleep. Piemur found himself growing more heavy-eyed and sipped the last of his juice to keep him awake, wondering if he would find another lounge area as dull.