Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Which is sensible of Piemur,” said the Harper, idly twirling his wine glass with one hand. His face was expressionless, but his eyes moved restlessly with his thoughts. “Piemur would undoubtedly deem it discreet not to come to the Oldtimers’ notice.”

  “At least not until that egg of his had hatched,” added Menolly. She had so hoped that Piemur would have gone to Toric. She was certain he would know that Toric was friendly with the harpers. She turned to Sebell. “Candler will let us know the instant the other eggs from the clutch have hatched, won’t he?”

  “Yes, he said he would,” the journeyman replied, but then he made a face, scratching his head. “But we don’t know if that queen egg came from the same clutch as the others.”

  “But we do know the others weren’t green’s eggs; they were too big. And that’s the only time scale we have to work with. I’m positive that Piemur won’t attempt to seek anyone out until that egg has hatched and he’s Impressed. I know I wouldn’t if I were in Piemur’s boots. Oh, I wish I knew if he were all right.” She beat her thighs with her fists at her helplessness.

  “Menolly,” said the Harper soothingly, “you’re not responsible for—”

  “But I feel responsible for Piemur,” she said, and then shot her Master an apologetic look for interrupting him so rudely. “If I hadn’t encouraged his interest in the fire lizards, if I hadn’t filled his ears with the pleasures they bring, he might not have been tempted to steal that egg and get himself into such a predicament.” She looked up because both men started to laugh, and she exclaimed with exasperation at their callousness.

  “Menolly, Piemur has been getting in and out of trouble since long before you arrived here,” said Sebell. “You and your fire lizards calmed him down considerably. But I think you’re right about Piemur not showing himself until Impression’s been made. And Toric is on the alert for him. He’ll show up.”

  “Meanwhile,” said the Harper, rising from his chair and reaching for his flying gear, “I’d best go and assist the new Lord Deckter to secure his Hold.”

  Chapter 9

  Afterward, Piemur wasn’t certain why he had run from the dragonriders. He seemed to have been running from or to something ever since his voice had changed. In his panic, he supposed he aligned the Oldtime dragonriders with Lord Meron, and he did not want to encounter anyone connected with Lord Meron just then. Whatever, that night he plunged through the jungle until lack of breath, the painful stitch in his side and the darkness forced him to halt. Sinking to the ground, he rearranged his fire lizard comfortably and then fell asleep.

  Just as the sun was rising the next morning, she awoke him, snappy with hunger. He eased the worst of her pangs and his own with fresh redfruit, cool from the night air and succulently sweet. Then he turned north, to make his way back to the beaches and fish for Farli, for that was the name he gave his little queen. Pushing his way through the underbrush, he tripped over a half-eaten runner beast carcass. Farli chattered with delight and ate flesh from bone, humming at him in pleasure.

  “You’ll choke like that,” he said, and proceeded to hack smaller pieces, keeping about one knife slice ahead of her voracious appetite.

  When Farli had curled herself about Piemur’s neck, thoroughly sated, her belly bulging, he sliced more meat from the dead runner. He figured the creature must have been killed during Threadfall so the meat wouldn’t as yet be tainted. Not only would it be a welcome change for him from fish, but red meat was better for Farli as well.

  Comforted by her sleeping weight about his neck, Piemur found thick grasses and wove a rough envelope in which to carry the meat. He estimated he had enough for several meals for himself and Farli, but if he could cook it, the meat wouldn’t spoil as quickly in the heat.

  Continuing on a northwestern course back to the beach, he collected dry grass and sticks with which to build a fire. He was still heading generally north when he saw the unmistakable glint of water through the thinning trees to his left. He stopped, stared, unable to think how he could have mistaken his direction. A lake? However, if water was this close now…

  He pushed his way through the thinning screen of trees and bush and came out on a small rise. Below him were wide tidelands, which swept from the forest in an undulating grassy plain, broken by thick clumps of a gray-green bush. The plain continued on the other side of a broad river, which gradually widened until, in a distant point now hazy with heat, it must open its mouth into the sea. A breeze, scented with an oddly familiar, pungent odor, dried the sweat on his face. Squinting against the sunlight, Piemur could see herdbeasts grazing on the lush grass on both sides of the river. And yet there’d been Thread here the day before, and no dragonriders flaming to prevent the deadly stuff burrowing into the ground and eating the land barren.

  As if to reassure himself, he poked at the soil with one of the sticks he’d collected, lifting up a clod of grass. Grubs fell from the roots, and Piemur was suitably awed by the abilities of those little gray wrigglies, which could, all by themselves, keep such an enormous plain free from the ravages of Thread. And those bloody Oldtimers hadn’t so much as stirred from the Weyr during yesterday’s Fall. They weren’t proper dragonriders at all. F’lar and Lessa had been right to exile them here to the South, where the insignificant grubs did their work for them. Why, he could have been killed during that Threadfall, and not a dragonrider around to protect him. Not, Piemur honestly admitted, that he hadn’t been well able to protect himself.

  He gazed across the river, now noticing the swifter moving current that rippled toward the sea. He’d have fresh water for drinking here as well as a retreat from Thread. The jungle behind him would provide fruit and tubers; the meadow’s inhabitants red meat for Farli. There was no need to trek to the sea again. He could stay here until Farli had lost the worst of her hatchling appetite. Then he’d better start back to the Southern Hold. If he was careful, he could avoid being noticed by the Oldtimers until he’d made contact with the holder…what was his name? He was certain he’d heard Sebell mention the man by name. Toric! Yes, that was it. Toric.

  He set about making a rough circle of stones to protect his fire from the breeze, whistling softly. A fresh breeze brought him another whiff of that odor, sun-warmed and so puzzlingly familiar. Whatever it was must be down on the plain for the wind came from that direction. Leaving his meat to roast at his fire, Piemur made his way down the slope, looking about at the tiny blooms in among the grasses with Thread-pricked blades. He almost passed the first clump of bushes before he realized that their leaves were definitely familiar. Familiar, he thought as he reached out to touch one, but so much larger. He bruised the leaf as the final test and sure enough, had to jerk his hand back as his fingers smarted and then lost all feeling. Numbweed! The whole plain was dotted with numbweed bushes, growing bigger and fuller than any he’d ever seen in the north. Why, if you harvested even one side of this plain, you’d keep every Weyr on Pern in numbweed for the entire Pass. Master Oldive ought to know about this place.

  A petulant squeak in his ear warned him that Farli had roused, probably smelling the roasted meat. He carefully broke off some large numbweed leaves, and wrapping their cut stems in a thick blade of grass, returned to the fire. When he had given Farli a few half-done pieces of meat, she was quite content to curl up for the rest of her nap. Then Piemur bruised a numbweed leaf between two flat, clean stones. He rubbed the wet side of the stones against his cuts, shivering at the slight sting of the raw numbweed before its anesthetic properties took effect. He was careful not to rub the stone too deep, for raw numbweed must be used sparingly or you could get horrible blisters and end up with scars.

  As he settled by the fire to wait for his meat to cook, he knew he’d be sorry to leave here.

  He said that to himself the next morning when he rose, and that evening when he curled up in the shelter he’d made for Farli and himself. He really ought to try to get word back to the Harper Hall.

  Each day, however, found him too
busy catering to the needs of a rapidly growing fire lizard to make provisions for a journey of possibly several days. He spent a whole day trying to catch a fish for the oils needed to soothe Farli’s flaking skin.

  Then Thread fell again. This time he was adequately prepared, and forewarned. Farli went hysterical with alarm, her eyes wheeling furiously with the red of anger as she rose on her wings and, shrieking defiance to the north-east, suddenly flicked out. When Piemur called her, she popped back in, scolded him furiously, and then disappeared. She had gone between before, inadvertently scared by some odd noise or other, so that it wasn’t until she remained away for much longer than before that Piemur began to wonder what had frightened her. He looked north-east, noticing as his eyes swept across the plains, that the animals were all moving toward the river with considerable haste. The quick blossom of flame against the sky caught his eyes, and he saw, not only Thread’s gray rain, but the distant motes of dragons.

  He had made preparations against the next Fall of Thread, determined never to spend another eternity under a rock ledge. He had found a sunken tree trunk where the river flowed out of the forest. Diving into the water, he kicked down to the depth at which drowning Thread could no longer sting. There he hooked his arm around the tree trunk and poked back to the surface a thick reed, through which he then was able to breathe. It was not the most comfortable of hideaways, and fish constantly mistook his arms and legs for outsized Thread so he had to keep moving. Time, too, seemed motionless, and it felt like hours had passed before the impact circles of Thread on the water surface ceased. He was glad when with a mighty kick of his legs, he burst back into the air, nearly over-turning a small runner. In fact the shallows seemed to be blanketed with animals. As if his eruption from the depths had been a signal, or perhaps his presence had frightened them, the creatures began to struggle toward the shore, shake themselves, and then rapidly take off down the plain. Some were bawling with pain, and he saw a number with bloody face scores where Thread had stung them. He also noticed some of the injured making to the numbweed brushes and rubbing against the leaves.

  Piemur waded to the bank, calling for Farli as he sank to the solid ground. His arms and legs felt leaden from his efforts to discourage fish from eating him.

  Farli burst into view just above him, chittering with relief and anxiety. She landed on his shoulder, wrapping her tail about his neck and stroking his cheek with her head, one paw wrapped around his ear, the other anchored to his nose. They comforted each other for a long moment. Then Piemur felt Farli’s body go taut. She peered around his face and began to chatter angrily. Twisting about, at first Piemur saw nothing to alarm him. Farli loosed her hold on his nose, and he realized that she was pointing skyward. He saw the wherries then, circling high, and knew that something had not survived the Fall. If wherries were after it, it was something that would also feed him and his fire lizard.

  Farli seemed as eager as he to beat the wherries to their victim, and she chattered encouragement as he found a stout stick and made his way up the riverbank.

  Most of the creatures that had taken refuge in the river had disappeared, but he kept a wary eye for snakes and large crawlers that might also have found sanctuary in the river.

  He saw the bulge of the fallen runner beast, half-hidden under a large numbweed bush. To his surprise, it heaved upward, its bloodied flank crawling with grubs. The poor thing couldn’t still be alive? He raised his stick to put an end to the creature’s pain when he realized that the movement came from under the animal, spasmodic and desperate. Farli hopped from his shoulder and chittered, touching a tiny protruding hoof that Piemur hadn’t noticed.

  It had been a female runner beast! With an exclamation, Piemur grabbed the hind legs and pulled the corpse from the youngster the female had given her life to protect from Thread. Bleating, it staggered to its feet, shedding a carpet of grubs, and hobbled the few steps to Piemur, its head and shoulders scored here and there by Thread.

  Almost absently, Piemur stroked the furry head and scratched behind the ear cup, feeling its rough tongue licking his skin. Then he saw the long shallow scrape on the little beast’s right leg.

  “So that’s why you didn’t make it to the river, huh, you poor stupid thing?” said Piemur, gathering it closer to him. “And your dam sheltered you with her body. Brave thing to do.” It bleated again, looking anxiously up at him.

  Farli chirped and stroked her body against the uninjured leg before she moved on to start making a meal off the dead runner. With a sense of propriety, Piemur took the youngster off to the river to bathe its wound, treat it with numbweed and wrap it with a broad river plant to keep off insects. He tethered it with his fishing line and then went back to slice off enough meat for several meals. The wherries were closing in.

  Farli was sated enough not to resist leaving the carcass. Nor did she object when Piemur carried little Stupid back to their forest shelter.

  As Piemur settled down to sleep that night, he had Stupid curled tightly against him along his back and Farli draped across his shoulders. He had fully intended to use the interval between this Fall and the next to make his way to the Southern Hold, but he really couldn’t leave Stupid, crippled as well as motherless. The leg would heal with care and rest. Once Stupid was walking easily, after the next Threadfall, he would definitely make tracks to Southern.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the Masterharper could see light coming from his study window as he wearily made his way from the meadow where Lioth and N’ton had just left him. He was very tired, but well satisfied with the results of his efforts over the last four days. Zair, balancing on his shoulder, cheeped an affirmative. Robinton smiled to himself and rubbed the little bronze’s neck.

  “And Sebell and Menolly are going to be satisfied, too. Unless, of course, there has been word from that scamp that they haven’t been able to send me.”

  He saw the half of the great Hall door swing into darkness and wagered with himself who waited for him there in the dark.

  “Master?”

  He was right; it was Menolly.

  “You were away so long, Master,” she cried in a soft voice as she closed the door behind him and spun the wheel to lock the bolts tightly in floor and ceiling.

  “Ah, but I’ve accomplished much. Any news from Piemur?”

  “No,” and her shoulders drooped noticeably. “We would’ve sent you word instantly.”

  He put his arm around her slender shoulders comfortingly. “Is Sebell awake as well?”

  “Yes, indeed!” She gave a chuckle. “N’ton sent Tris to warn us. Or you’d’ve been locked out of your own Hall.”

  “Not for long, my dear girl, not for long!”

  They were climbing the steps now, and he noticed that she slowed her pace to match his. He was tired, true, but, worse, he no longer commanded the resilience that made no bother of late hours.

  “Lord Groghe was back two days ago, Master. Why did you have to stay so long at Nabol?” He felt her shoulders give a convulsive shudder under his arm. “I wouldn’t have stayed at that place a moment longer than I had to.”

  “Not the most of congenial of Holds, to be sure. I can’t think what can have happened to all the wine Lord Fax appropriated in his conquests. He had some good pressings, too. Meron can’t have drunk it all in a bare thirteen or fourteen Turns.”

  “You’d no Benden wine, then?” Menolly teased him.

  “None, you unfeeling wretch.”

  “Then I’m more amazed than ever that you stayed so long.”

  “I had to!” he replied, amazed at the irritation in his voice. But they had reached his rooms now, and he opened the door, grateful for the sight of the familiar disorder of his workroom and the welcoming smile on Sebell’s face. The journeyman was on his feet, helping his master out of his flying gear and guiding him to a chair, while Menolly poured a goblet of a decent Benden wine.