Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Had to. Didncha hear what they be saying at Gather? Meron dead a’ready and none know his heir. Some as want to turn Gather Day into Duel Day.”

  That remark set both Nabolese into cackles of laughter, and Piemur wondered if he could be ignorant enough of Hold problems to ask why they were so amused.

  “Ah saw ’em comin’ in, Ah did,” said Besel, again with that sly, knowing expression on his face. “Ev’ry one of ’em was with ’im some time t’day, they was. Outsides with him now, shouldn’t wonder.”

  “He’ll have his li’l game wi’em, he will, each thinking he’s been named,” said the woman and dug her elbow into Besel’s ribs which sent them both off into malicious laughter again.

  “Hope it’s not just us as has to do all the cleaning here,” Besel said, putting his hand on the door handle. “Hasn’t been done in…faugh!” He turned his head away, coughing against the stench that wafted out to them from the opened door.

  As the smell reached Piemur’s nostrils, sweet, cloying, sickening, he felt his stomach turn in protest and tried not to inhale. He hung back, hoping the fresher air of the corridor would cleanse the room of its stink.

  “Here, you get in and open shutters. You’re used to stinking messes, guttingman.” Besel grabbed Piemur roughly by the arm and propelled him violently into the room.

  How Piemur managed not to vomit from the odor of the room before he reached the shutters and flung them open, he didn’t know. He half-threw his body up the deep sill, gasping in fresh, cool air.

  “Other windows, too, boy,” ordered Besel from the doorway.

  Piemur filled his lungs and opened the other windows, staying by the last until the chill air dissipated the odors of decay and illness. And Lord Meron’s heirs had had to attend him in this funking atmosphere? Piemur spared them a moment of sympathy.

  Then Besel shouted for him to go into the other rooms and open them up to air properly. “Else no one’d eat his food, like as not, and we’m to clean up their messes.”

  The foul odor hung heaviest in the last of the four large rooms that comprised the Lord Holder’s private apartments in Nabol. It was then that Piemur blessed the happenstance that had sent him in here ahead of the others. Reposing on the hearth were nine pots of exactly the size in which fire lizard eggs were placed to keep warm and harden. Mastering his urge to gag, Piemur ducked across the room to investigate. One pot was set slightly apart from the others and, lifting the lid, Piemur scraped enough sand away to see the mottled shell before he covered it carefully over. He took a quick look at the contents of the first pot in the other group. Yes, the egg was smaller and of a different hue. He’d wager every mark he owned that the separate pot contained a fire lizard queen egg.

  Quickly he switched pots. Shielding his actions with his body in case Besel ventured this far to check on him, he dumped the sand with deft speed into the cinder shovel, removed the egg and shoved it up under his coverall and into his shirt above his belt. Poking among the cinders, he selected one that had a slightly rounded end and neatly inserted it into the egg pot, replaced sand and lid and stood the rifled pot back in line, straightening up just as the woman crossed the threshold.

  “That’s the lad, tend the fire first. And you’ll need to bring up more blackrock from the yard. He likes his warmth, he does.” She cackled again as she roughly pushed carven chairs out of her way to sweep under the worktable. “To be sure, he’ll feel the cold soon enough, he will!”

  Besel joined in her laughter.

  The fire was hot as Piemur shook the grate free of ashes, and his face burned by the time he had cleared the debris. The heat also warmed the egg, lying against his ribs.

  “Hurry it up, you guttingman,” said Besel when Piemur began to lug the heavy ash bucket out. “No slouching, or I’ll take me hand to you.” He raised a big fist and Piemur ducked away, feeling the egg pinch his skin and worried he might crack it prematurely.

  As he strained with the heavy bucket down the long steps, he wondered how ever was he going to keep the egg safe. Certainly not on his person. And he’d have to keep it warm, too. As well as in someplace to which, in his guise as a lowly guttingman, he’d have easy access.

  The solution came to him just as he was about to dump the ashes. He checked the swing of the bucket and glanced about the ashpit. Then very carefully, he emptied the ashes in a pile just to the left of the ashpit opening. Anyone emptying ashbuckets tended to fling the contents to the back wall where the cinders spread downward from the top of the accumulated pile. The molding on either side of the opening kept ashes from tumbling back into the courtyard until the pit was full. Its capacity was by no means reached at this moment. With his booted toe, Piemur made a small depression in the warm ashes, quickly inserted the egg, covering it first with warm ashes, then with a coating of cold cinders to insulate it. Glancing at the sun as he filled his bucket with fresh blackstone from the dump next to the ashpit, Piemur saw that the sun was lowering. Which was a mercy he thought, lugging the blackstone back into the Hold, because he wondered if he’d manage to last through the most arduous day of his life.

  They’d have the Feast soon; more than likely as soon as Lord Meron returned to his freshened quarters. What caused that noxious stink? Certainly not Master Oldive’s medicines, for the healer believed in fresh air and freshening herbs, which at their worst were pungent but could not cause the odor in Lord Meron’s rooms. No matter. Once the Lord and his guests were served, the drudges would get what remained on the serving platters and that would mean everyone could relax for a while. He could, perhaps, sneak away then, before Sebell got anxious. And did he have a lot to tell Sebell!

  Half the workers in the Hold were now running up and down the steps, pursued by the strident voice of the Hold Steward who had arrived to direct the freshening. Piemur was promptly given another ashbucket to empty and fill with blackrock. On his way back through the kitchen this time, he sneaked a breadroll, which heartened him considerably.

  By some miracle, they were just about finished when a messenger arrived from the guard to say that Lord Meron and his guests were returning. The Steward shoved and pushed everyone out, even to the point of collecting abandoned cleaning tools. As the last of the drudges scurried back into the kitchen, the laughter of the returning Gatherers was heard at the Hold doors.

  Piemur had to assist the cook turn the roast for carving, and nearly had his fingers sliced thinner when the cook caught him taking bits that dropped to the table. Then he had to mash endless kettles of tubers. As fast as a dish was served up and garnished, it was dispatched above. At one point, Piemur thought he might be sent, but it was decided he was much too dirty to carry food. Instead he was sent to the bowels of the Hold for more glowbaskets as Lord Meron complained that he couldn’t see to eat. Piemur had to make three trips to satisfy the need. By that time, the platters were coming back to the kitchen. The drudges and lesser stewards stripped food off as it passed them by. The kitchen began to quiet as mouths were stuffed too full to permit speech. Piemur managed to secure a meat-rimmed bone and, grabbing a handful of the sliced breads, he retired to the darkest corner of the huge room to eat.

  He applied himself ravenously to his food, having decided to leave as quickly as possible now. The sun had set during the furor of serving the feast, so he had the cover of darkness to retrieve his egg. And he’d have the excuse for the guards, if they stopped him, that he was finished with his duties. Lord Groghe always gave his drudges time to attend the Gather dancing. Piemur was looking forward to encountering Sebell again. He might not have heard much to the point of which heir the Hold staff preferred, but he had proof that Lord Meron was getting far more fire lizard eggs than a small Hold like Nabol ought to receive; that his stores rooms were full of more supplies than he and his could ever use in a full pass much less a Turn.

  Hungry though he was, Piemur couldn’t finish all the meat on the bone: He was too tired to eat, he thought, and before he did collapse from exhaustion, he’
d better retrieve the egg and slip out to meet Sebell. How he longed for his bed at the Harper Hall.

  The regular kitchen drudges were too busy grumbling about the poor selection left for them to eat and how much those blinking guests were eating and drinking to notice Piemur’s deft exit.

  He took possession of the precious egg, warm to the touch, and wrapping it carefully in a wad of rags, thrust the bundle once again under his tunic. He jauntily approached the main gates, whistling deliberately off key.

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “T’Gather,” Piemur replied as if this was all too obvious.

  He was as surprised by the man’s guffaw as he was by being swung around and roughly propelled back the way he had come.

  “Don’t try that one on me again, guttingman!” called the guard as the force of his push sent Piemur stumbling across the cobbles, trying not to fall and damage the egg. He stopped in the darkest shadow of the wall and stood fuming over this unexpected check to his escape. It was ridiculous! He couldn’t think of any other Hold in all Pern where the drudges were denied the privilege of going to the Hold’s own Gather.

  “G’wan back to the ashes, guttingman!”

  It was then that Piemur realized his coverall, none too clean in the light, was still visible in the shadows, so he slunk past the opening into the kitchen court. Out of sight, he stripped off the betraying coverall and flung it into a corner. So he wasn’t allowed to leave, was he?

  Well, the guests would have to be passed. He would simply bide his time and slip out of Nabol Hold the same way he’d gotten in.

  Taking heart in that notion, he looked about him for a suitable place to wait. He should remain in the courtyards, where he would hear the commotion of leave-taking. He’d better not return to the kitchens, or he’d be put to work again. His roving eye caught the blackness that was the ash and blackstone pits, and that solved his problem. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way to this least likely of all hiding spots and settled on the spongy surface at the right hand side of the opening to the ashpit. Not the most comfortable place to wait, he thought, removing a large cinder shell from under his tail bone before he achieved some measure of comfort. The night wind had picked up a bit, and he felt the chill when he poked his nose over the coping. Ah well, he shouldn’t have long to wait. He doubted anyone would tolerate Lord Meron’s smell longer than absolutely necessary.

  He was awakened from a fitful doze by the sound of shouting and much running about in the main courtyard, and then a nearer, more frightening clamor in the kitchen itself. Above the shouts and slammings, he heard a pathetic wail.

  “Ah dunno ‘im. Ah tell yuz. First time today Ah saw ‘im. Said he was here to help t’Gather, and we needed help.”

  Trust Besel to clear himself of any blame, thought Piemur.

  “Sir, gate guard says a boy answering his description tried to pass out to the Gather awhile back. He couldn’t say if the drudge carried anything about him. Wasn’t looking for stolen items.”

  “Then he didn’t leave?” The voice was a snarl of fury.

  Lord Meron? wondered Piemur. And then realized that the unexpected had happened. The substitute in the egg pot had been discovered. There’d be no way he could creep out of this Hold in the shadow of departing guests. With the way men were dashing about lighting up every crook and corner of the courtyards, he’d be lucky to remain undiscovered. Some eager soul would certainly think to prod a spear through the ashpit just on the off-chance…especially if Besel remembered that he’d emptied ash buckets and might have hidden the egg there.

  Frantic now, Piemur glanced up at the walls about him. Carved from the cliff itself, they were, and he could never climb straight up unseen. He caught sight of a rectangular darkness just above his head to the left of the ashpit. A window? To what? This side of the kitchen was devoted to stores rooms, but what window… The stores rooms were backed from the corridor side. No searcher would believe him able to open locked doors without a key. Which the kitchen steward kept on a chain about his waist at all times. He couldn’t ask for a safer hiding place. And if he closed the window behind him…

  He had to wait until the kitchen courtyard had been thoroughly searched…except for the garbage and ashpits. The shout went up that the thief must be hiding in the Hold. The searchers swarmed back inside, and he leaped to the top of the ashpit wall. His fingers just reached the ledge of the window. Taking a deep breath, Piemur gave a wriggling jump and succeeded in planting both hands over the sill. It took every sinew in his body to secure that awkward and painful grip. He felt as if he’d scraped the skin from all his fingers as he clung and worked his body up until his elbows had purchase on the sill. With another mighty wriggle and kick, he managed to propel himself up and over, falling on his head on the top-most sack. Groaning at the pain of that contact, he twisted about, and reaching up, drew the shutter tightly but quietly across, barring the window. Then he felt the egg to be sure his fall had done it no harm.

  He tried to imagine this room from the perspective of the door side, but all the stores rooms had seemed the same. He crouched in terror as he heard shouting in the corridor. Someone rattled the bolts of the door.

  “Locked tight, and the steward has the keys. He can’t be here.”

  They might just take a look, thought Piemur, when they didn’t find him anywhere else. He crawled cautiously over the stacked bundles until he found one with enough slack at the top to admit him. He opened the thong, and just as he was crawling in, wondered how under the sun he was going to tie it up again, the switching at the side began to give in his hands. Smiling happily at such a solution, he rapidly undid the stitching down the side. Crawling out, he retied the knot about the mouth of the sack, then slid through the undone seam, which, once inside, he could do up, slowly but enough to pass a cursory inspection. It was hard to do, feeding the thick thread through the original holes from the inside, and his hands and fingers were cramped when he finally accomplished the feat.

  He was in a sack of cloth bales and, despite the cramped confines, he was able to wiggle down between bolts so that he was standing on the bottom of the sack and both he and the egg were cushioned on all sides by the material.

  Between fatigue and the scant supply of air in the sack, he found his eyes drooping, and surrendering to the combination of exhaustion and safety, he fell fast asleep.

  He was roused briefly when the door was unlocked and thrown open. But the inspection was cursory, since the Hold Steward kept insisting that the doors had been locked since the morning and he wouldn’t let them poke any spears lest they harm the contents of the bales.

  “He could have hid in the glow room. He was sent there several times.”

  The door was duly shut and locked.

  Piemur was conscious of more activity, but his sleep was so deep that he wasn’t certain later whether he dreamed the noise or not. He wasn’t even conscious of being moved or of the cold of between. What woke him was a strange difficulty with breathing, a sense of heat and the terror of suffocating in his own sweat.

  Gasping, he tore at the thread he had reworked, hard to undo with moist trembling hands that had no strength, and with sight impeded by perspiration pouring down his forehead.

  Even when he had forced a small hole in the sack, he still couldn’t seem to breathe. Weeping in terror, even to the point of forgetting the egg that had brought him to this extremity, he squirmed out of the sack to discover himself in a small space among other sacks. The heat was unbearable, but caution returned and he listened for any sounds. Instead of noise, his senses reported sun-heated material and hides, sun-warmed metal, and the sour sweat of hot wine.

  He tried to shove the nearest sack away from him and couldn’t shift it. Feeling the contents, he realized that it was metal. Twisting around, he tested the sack above him and gave an experimental heave. It moved, and a whoosh of slightly cooler air rewarded his efforts. Dragging breath into his lungs, he waited until his heart s
topped its frantic pounding. And then, belatedly remembering the egg, he felt the rags about the precious burden. It seemed to be whole, but he didn’t have sufficient space to get it out and look. He gave another shove at the upper bale with no success. Angling so that his shoulders were against the unyielding metal, he levered his feet and pushed as hard as he could. It moved farther, and he saw a crack of sky so brilliantly blue that he gasped at the color.