Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums
Page 14
“So? They meet with your approval?”
The leader had ambled past, eyes half-closed against the dust, and the rest, nose to the tail in front, with eyes fully closed, followed. Piemur counted five: all were well-fleshed, with good, thick, furry hides, moving steadily without a stumble, which meant their feet were sound.
“You’ll sell them all right,” said Piemur.
“Happen Ah will!” said Sebell in proper accent and, passing his arm about Piemur’s shoulders, urged him ahead of the herd. “Here,” and Sebell passed Piemur a padded flask. “It should still be hot. I only broke camp when Kimi told me Lioth had flashed by.”
Piemur mumbled his gratitude for the klah, which was hot enough to warm his belly. Then Sebell handed Piemur a dried meat roll of the sort that was standard journey rations, and Piemur began to view the imminent day in a much improved frame of mind.
As soon as he’d finished eating, he voluntarily dropped back to the apprentice’s uncomfortable position at the end of the single file. He’d be properly coated with dust by the time they arrived at Nabol Hold.
The first thing Piemur did when they got to the Gather meadow was head toward the nearest watering trough, fighting against his thirsty charges for a space at the edge. He also remembered exactly where to pinch their noses to make them turn from him.
“Ar, lad, let th’beasts drink deep farst!” Sebell unceremoniously hauled him away, his voice angry, though his eyes twinkled as he warned Piemur to play the proper part.
“Ar, sor, tongue that dry can’t move.”
Two young boys were approaching the trough with pails, but they waited, as custom dictated, until the beasts had drunk their fill and the cold mountain water flowed clear again. Piemur and Sebell then herded their charges toward the area of the meadow set aside for animal sales. The Hold Steward, a pinch-faced man with a runny nose, all but pounced on them, demanding the Gather fee. Sebell immediately protested the amount, and the two set to haggling. Sebell brought the fee down a full mark before he surrendered his token, but he didn’t protest when the Steward waved them contemptuously toward the smallest enclosure at the end of the rank. Piemur was about to object when Sebell’s hand closed warningly on his shoulder. Looking at the journeyman in surprise, Piemur saw the imperceptible jerk of his head over his shoulder. Piemur waited a few discreet seconds and then casually glanced about him. Three men had started to follow them toward their allotted space. A thrill of fear made Piemur catch his breath until he recognized the unmistakable herder gait and knew these were prospective buyers.
“Tol’ya Ah’d suitable beasts, di’ Ah no?” drawled Sebell under his breath.
“Ar, an yull drink th’ profit again, like as not,” replied Piemur in a sullen tone, but his shoulders shook with the effort to control his amusement. He hadn’t a single doubt in his mind that Sebell would also play the happy drunken herdsman to perfection. And manage to say without offense what would be impossible for a sober man anyplace.
They got the beasts enclosed, and Piemur was sent with a worn mark of the Herdsman’s Crafthall to haggle for fodder. He managed to save an eighth on the dealing, which he pocketed as any apprentice would. Sebell was already deep in bargain with one of the men while the others were examining the beasts with pinch and prod. Piemur wondered where under the sun Sebell had managed to acquire such proper mountain-bred creatures, with rock-worn hooves and shaggy coats. He could no more account for the good flesh on them after this long winter than the prospective buyers, so he hunkered down and listened to Sebell’s explanation.
Trust a harper to weave words well, and Piemur’s respect for the journeyman increased proportionately to the elaborations of the tale he told. Sebell would have his audience believe that he merely used an old trick handed down from grandsire to grandson: a combination of herbs and grasses sweetened with just the right amount of berries and well-moistened dried fruits. He also said that he and his did without sometimes to improve their beasts, and Piemur promptly sucked in his cheeks to look suitably haggard. He saw the eyes of the men linger on his bruises, showing yellow on his chin and cheek, while Sebell rambled on about his holders scrambling up and down the southern face of his hold hill to find the sweet new grasses that produced such spectacular results.
The earnest knot of listeners attracted more who stood respectfully back but close enough to hear. What Piemur couldn’t figure out was that, while the beasts had very old marks of Ruathan breeding, the secondary marks were also well-worn. Then he was annoyed with himself: Sebell must have pulled this sort of stunt before. Undoubtedly somewhere in Ruatha was a cotholder who kept a few special beasts for the Harper Hall’s convenience. He began to relax and enjoy Sebell’s tale-spinning thoroughly.
The sun was well over the mountains by the time Sebell had struck hands on the bargains—for there were three. One man bought three of the beasts, and the others one apiece, at what Piemur knew was a bloody good price. He wondered if that had covered their original purchases and their keep. Appropriately sober-faced during the bargaining, Sebell permitted pleasure to glow on his dirt-smeared face as he carefully stowed the mark pieces in his belt pouch while the beasts were prodded away by their new owners.
“Didn’t think I’d make that much, but the trick always works!” said Sebell in a low mutter to Piemur.
“Trick?”
“Sure,” said Sebell softly as he patted dust from his clothing. “Arrive dusty, early, with the well-fleshed beasts, and they’re on to you fast, hoping you’re tired enough to be stupid.”
“Where did you get ’em?”
Sebell flashed Piemur a grin. “Craft secret. Get along with you now,” and he gave Piemur a wink and a rough shove. “See t’Gather!” he added in a louder tone. “Ah find thee when Ah wish to go.”
This wasn’t much of a Gather, Piemur decided when he’d done one round of the small nestle of stalls. They didn’t even have bubbly pies at the baker’s, and the Craft-halls had obviously sent very junior men to represent them. Still, a Gather was a day to be enjoyed, and not many were held at Nabol even when restdays were Thread-clear, so the Nabolese were making as much of the occasion as they could.
The wineman was doing a brisk trade by the time Piemur returned that way. He squatted at the corner of the stand, munching slowly away at another meatroll, listening to comments and noticing with deep chagrin and a growing wrath how many fire lizards flitted about, resting for a moment on the stall tops, wheeling up in fairs to dance in the air a bit before settling on their friends’ shoulders or on a new position where they could overlook. At first Piemur tried to convince himself that he was only seeing the same group again and again. He did notice that most were greens with a sprinkling of brown and blues-the lesser fire lizards. When he saw bronzes, they were always on the shoulder or arm of the more prosperously dressed. Yet no matter how Piemur argued the matter in his mind, it was clear that Nabol Hold boasted more fire lizards than he had seen even at Benden Weyr during the Impression.
Suddenly a phrase stood out from the murmurous conversation about the winestand.
“There’ll be a few more happy holidays today, I hear!”
Piemur turned to scratch his shoulder fiercely and located the man who had spoken from his knowing smirk, a smith from his clothing. His companion, a miner by his shoulder badge, was nodding in comprehension.
“Nabol don’t take proper care of ‘em, he don’t. Three never shelled. My master was fair upset about that. Means to have three more today or his name’s not Kaljan.”
“Is that so?” The smith bobbed his head up and down to show regret. “We’d one that didn’t hatch, too, but no joy did we get above! Eggs we was promised and eggs we was given. Up to us to care for ’em proper enough to make ’em hatch. That one,” and his head jerked toward the Hold cliff to indicate Lord Meron, “enjoys putting a snake among the wherries!” He snorted derisively. “Happen it’s his only pleasure now.”
Both men guffawed with malicious delight.
“Couldn’t be soon enough for me. Well, see you at the dancing?”
“Going so soon?”
“Had my glass. Must get back.”
The disappointment in the miner’s face made Piemur think that the smith’s departure was precipitous. Going to tell his master about the eggs that were up at the Hold, was he? Piemur decided to tag along.
Eggs handed out in quantities, eggs that had been badly handled and wouldn’t hatch. Unless…and Piemur reflected over something that Menolly had said about fire lizard eggs. Green fire lizards laid eggs as well, having been fertilized by a mating flight with a blue or brown, sometimes even a bronze. But green fire lizards were stupid: they’d lay a clutch, ten at the most, Menolly said, and leave them with such a shallow covering of beach sand that they were easy prey to wild wherries or sand snakes. Very few green-laid clutches survived to Hatch. Which, as Menolly had succinctly stated, was just as well or Pern would be up to the eyeballs in little green fire lizards.
Piemur wondered if anyone in Nabol realized that a deception was being practiced on them, and green fire lizard eggs were what were dispersed so lavishly. Then he realized that he’d lost sight of the smith and, cursing his inattentiveness, began to retrace his steps, turning with assumed idleness to peer between the stalls. He spotted the smith, urgently speaking to a man with a smithmaster’s badge and, as the man reacted to his journeyman’s excited words, his master’s chain sparkled. Piemur managed to duck away as both men suddenly turned toward him. When they had passed him on their way to the Hold, Piemur followed, restlessly scanning faces in the hopes that he might see Sebell and tell him what he’d overheard. Sebell might wish to investigate.
As the two smiths turned from the Gather area toward the Hold, Piemur had to pause or be noticeable. The smiths strode purposefully up the ramp toward the main Hold gates. They were challenged by the guard and, after some moments of arguing, the guard summoned another from the gatehouse and sent him to the Hold with the smithmaster’s message.
While the messenger was gone, two men emerged from the Hold, well wrapped in their cloaks, though the air had lost its chill. Something about the way they walked, carefully; the way they carried their heads, proudly; the way they nodded and smiled at the guards, smugly; and most of all the way they pointedly avoided contact, struck Piemur as significant. He continued to watch them as they turned toward the Gather meadow. As they approached him he caught sight of their figures in profile and realized that each man carried something hidden in his cloak, held tight against his side. It couldn’t have been a large object. But, thought Piemur, putting expression, manner and profile together, an egg pot wouldn’t be large. He wanted to follow the men to see if his suspicion was correct, but he also didn’t want to leave the Hold until the message from the smithmaster had been answered.
A new party, holders by the look of them, now made themselves known to the guards and were admitted, to the angry chagrin of the smithmaster. Then three carts, heavily laden to judge by the straining of the burden beasts struggling up the ramp, forced the smithmaster to one side. The guard waved the carts toward the kitchen courtyard. The last cart jammed a wheel against the ramp parapet, the driver thudding his stick against the burden beast’s rump.
“Wheel be jammed,” yelled Piemur, not liking to see any animal beaten for what was not its fault.
He jumped forward to help guide the carter. The man now backed his stolid beast, swinging its head left. Piemur, setting his shoulder to the tailgate, gave a push in the proper direction. He also tried to peek under the covering to see what on earth was being delivered to the Hold on a Gather day when most business was done in the Gather meadow. Before he could get a good look, the cart had picked up speed as it reached more level ground.
He was past the guards, arguing with the smith and paying no more attention to the procession of carts. Ducking quickly to the side of the cart away from the carter, Piemur gained access to the Hold proper.
As the carts rumbled on into the kitchen court, Piemur rapidly wondered how he could turn this opportunity to advantage and remain in the Hold after the carters had unloaded and left. Certainly if he was actually in the Hold, he might find out more than he could possibly learn wandering about the Gather. If nothing else he could discover what the carter had delivered.
Then he spied a line of coveralls bleaching in the spring sun. He darted over and removed one, ignoring the slight dampness as he slipped it over his head. Kitchen drudges were never noted for cleanliness, and once the beast dirt and stains on his tunic were covered, the dust on his boots and trousers would be unremarkable.
“Hey, you!” Piemur tried to ignore the call, but it was repeated and could only be directed to him. He turned toward the speaker, affecting a stupid expression. “I mean you, with the empty arms!”
Obediently he trudged back to the carter, who slung a heavy sack across his back. At that point, the kitchen steward bustled out to supervise, and Piemur, bent double under the sack, passed him without a glance. The steward alternated between chivvying his drudges out to help unload, and the carter for his ill-timed arrival. The carter replied with equal heat that he had heavy carts and slow beasts and had had to give way and eat dust from those hurrying to this bloody Gather. Meron ought to be pleased he’d got here within the day allotted, much less at an earlier hour.
The steward hushed him and began shouting orders, ordering Piemur on to the back storerooms. Piemur got inside the kitchen, not knowing where the stores rooms were, so, making a business of wiping his face and easing his shoulders, he waited until someone brushed past him and turned down the proper corridor.
“Don’t know where Ah’m t’ put more as is plenty here a’ready,” muttered the drudge as Piemur followed him.
‘A-top them others?” suggested Piemur helpfully.
In the dim light of waning glows, the Nabolese peered at Piemur. “Never saw you afore.” “Nor you haven’t,” Piemur agreed amiably. “Sent from t’Hold to help in kitchen for t’Gather.”
“Oh!” And the sly gleam in the man’s eyes suggested to Piemur that he had just let himself in for the worst and dirtiest of the chores about a Hold on a Gather day when the Lord was feasting guests.
Haste appeared the vital factor in unloading the carts, so Piemur didn’t see many of the seals on the sacks, barrels and boxes he humped out of sight. But he saw enough to realize that the delivery came from a variety of sources: tanner, weaver, smithcraft for the heaviest boxes, wine from many of the yards, but none, he was pleased to note, from Benden. When the last bundle was stowed in the now-bulging stores rooms, Piemur’s sigh of relief was echoed by Besel, the sly drudge, who had managed to stay close to him during the unloading. Piemur had no sooner lowered himself to a sack to rest than the man snatched him to his feet.
“C’mon, we’ve no time to rest t’day.”
Nor did Piemur, who was set first to scrape out ashes from the secondary hearths and then to gutting beasts and wild fowl, thankful that he’d watched Camo often enough at that task to know the tricks. He scoured extra plates, encrusted with the dirt and grime of Turns, until his fingers shriveled. When he’d done that, and peeled a dragon-load of tubers, he was allowed a breather so long as he kept one of the five spits turning.
Chaos broke loose when the Hold Steward arrived to inform the kitchen that Lord Meron chose to eat in his own quarters and these were to be prepared while he walked the Gather.
The kitchen steward obsequiously took the change of order, having only that hour completed the feast arrangements in the Great Hall. The moment the heavy door had swung shut on the Hold Steward’s back, however, he burst into obscenities that won him Piemur’s astounded approval.
If Piemur had thought he’d worked hard already, he was soon disabused of that notion by the rate at which he was sent flying about the kitchen to collect cleaning and polis
hing tools and preparations. Then he was sent on ahead with Besel and a woman to start cleaning the Lord’s rooms. Already weary from an early rising and more hard labor than he’d known since he’d left his native cothold, Piemur tried to cheer himself by imagining Master Oldive’s reaction to his “quiet day” at Nabol Gather.
“Who’d a thought he’d walk t’Gather?” the woman was saying as they trudged up the steep steps from the main hall to Meron’s apartment.