The kindly note in his tone was almost too much for Piemur, who could more easily have borne blows and a tirade for his transgressions. He made his way to the door as fast as his leaden legs could bear him.
“Piemur!” Robinton’s voice checked him as he fumbled for the latch. “You did handle yourself very well at the Minehold. Only do,” and the Harper sounded as resigned as Master Shonagar often had, “do please try to guard your quick tongue!”
“Oh, sir, I’ll try as hard as I can, really I will!” His voice cracked ignominiously, and he spun around the door so that the Harper wouldn’t see the tears of shame and relief in his eyes.
He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, intensely grateful that it was empty at this time of day as he conquered dismay at his untimely insolence. The Harper was so right: he had to learn to think before he spoke; he never should have blurted out that unfortunate criticism of dragonriders. He’d’ve rated a right sound beating from any other Master. Domick wouldn’t have hesitated a moment, nor even languid Master Shonagar, whose hand he’d felt many a time for his brashness. But how had he dared criticize dragonriders, even Oldtimers, to Master Robinton? Certainly that took the prize for impudence, even from him.
Piemur shivered and vowed fervently to mind his thoughts and, even more carefully, his tongue. Particularly now, when he did know something of real significance. For he had been aware, previous to his imprudent comment, that the appearance of the Oldtimers at the mine, not to mention their errand, was unwelcome news to the Harper.
Besides, what could have been done about the Oldtimers’ illegal return to the North?
Piemur gave his own ear a clout that made his eyes swim and then started down the corridor. Now, how was he to find out the drum code for Oldtimers? Under the circumstances he couldn’t just ask Dirzan outright without having to explain why he needed to know. Nor could he ask one of the other apprentices. They were annoyed enough with him and his quick studying. There’d be a way, he was sure.
Then he wondered why Master Robinton had asked him to find out. Was it a code he’d need? Did that mean the Harper expected this wouldn’t be the first such visit by the Oldtimers? Or what?
The speculations on this subject occupied Piemur’s mind off and on for the next few days until he did have the chance to check the code.
Somewhat to Piemur’s disgust, Dirzan treated him as if he had deliberately protracted his errand to avoid polishing the drums. This was his first task, and because Piemur couldn’t polish when the drums were in use, it dragged on until the midday meal.
That afternoon Piemur began to participate in another activity of the drumheights, since he had unfortunately learned the drum measures so well. All apprentices were supposed to stop and listen when messages came in and write down what they heard, if they could. Then Dirzan checked their interpretations of the message. It seemed harmless enough, but Piemur soon learned that it was one more road to trouble for him. All drum messages were considered private information. A bit silly to Piemur’s way of thinking, since most journeymen and all masters had to be adept in drum messages. A full third of the Harper Hall would understand most of a drum message booming across the valley. Nonetheless, if word of something especially sensitive became common knowledge about the Hall, it was deemed the fault of a gossipy drum apprentice. Piemur was twigged for that role now!
When Dirzan first accused him of loose talk, a day or two after he started writing messages, he stared in utter astonishment at the journeyman. And got a hard clout across the head for it.
“Don’t try your ways on me, Piemur. I’m well aware of your tricks.”
“But, sir, I’m only in the Hall at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then.”
“Don’t answer back!”
“But, sir . . .”
Dirzan fetched him another clout, and Piemur nursed his grievance in silence, rapidly trying to figure out which of the other apprentices was making mischief for him. Probably Clell! And how was he going to stop it? He certainly didn’t want Master Robinton to hear such a wretched lie.
Two days later a rather urgent message for Master Oldive was drummed through from Nabol. As Piemur was on duty, he was dispatched with it to the Healer. Mindful of a possible repeat accusation, Piemur noted that no one was about in court or hall as he delivered his message. Master Oldive bade him wait for a reply which he wrote on a then carefully folded sheet. Piemur raced across the empty court, up the stairs to the drumheights and arrived out of breath, shoving the note into Dirzan’s hand.
“There! Still in its original folds. I met no one coming or going.”
Dirzan stared at Piemur, his scowl deepening. “You’re being insolent again.” He raised his hand.
Piemur stepped back deliberately, catching sight of the other apprentices watching the scene with great interest. The especially eager glint in Clell’s eyes confirmed Piemur’s suspicion.
“No, I’m trying to prove to you that I’m no babblemouth, even if I did understand that message. Lord Meron of Nabol is ill and requires Master Oldive urgently. But who’d care if he died after what he’s done to Pern?”
Piemur knew he’d merited Dirzan’s blow then and didn’t duck.
“You’ll learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, Piemur, or it’s back to the runner hold for you.”
“I’ve a right to defend my honor! And I can!” Piemur caught himself just in time before he blurted out that Master Robinton could attest to his discretion. As rife with rumor as the Harper Hall generally was, there hadn’t been a whisper about the Oldtimers’ raid on the mine.
“How?” Dirzan’s single derisive word told Piemur forcibly how very difficult that would be without being rightfully accused of indiscretion.
“I’ll figure a way. You’ll see!” Piemur glared impotently at the delighted grins of the other apprentices.
That night, when everyone else slept through the dead hours, Piemur lay awake, restless with agitation. The more he examined his problem, the harder it was to solve it without being indiscreet on some count or another. When he’d still been free to chatter with his friends, he could have asked the help of Brolly, Bonz, Timiny or Ranly. Among them, they’d surely have been able to discover a solution. If he approached Menolly or Sebell about such a piffling problem, they might decide he wasn’t the right lad for their needs. They might even consider his complaint a lack of discretion in itself.
How right Master Robinton had been when he said that Piemur might possibly be plagued into disclosing matters best left unmentioned! Only how could the Harper have known that Piemur was stuck in the one discipline, as a drum apprentice, where he was most likely to be accused of indiscretions?
One possibility presented itself to his questioning mind: the apprentices, even Clell as the oldest, were still plodding through the medium-hard drum measures. Therefore some parts of every long message reaching the Harper Hall were incomprehensible to them. Now, if Piemur learned drum language beat perfect, he’d understand the messages in full. Not that he’d let Dirzan know that when he wrote the message down for him. But he’d keep a private record of everything he translated. Then, the next time there was a rumor of a half-understood message, Piemur would prove to Dirzan that he had known all the message, not just the parts the other apprentices had understood.
To further achieve his end, Piemur kept to the drumheights even at mealtimes. Preferably within the sight of Dirzan, the Master, or one of the other duty journeymen. If he wasn’t near others, he couldn’t be accused of gossiping to them. Even when he was sent on message-runs, he made the return trip so fast no one could possibly accuse him of dawdling and gossiping on the way. The only other time he was in the court was to help Menolly feed the fire lizards. Messages came through, some of them urgent, some tempting enough, Piemur would have thought, for one of the apprentices to repeat, but no whisper of rumor repaid his immolation. In despair he gave up his plan and tore up the messages he had written. But he still held himself away from others.
“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, Tron, 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 everything 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 scarey 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.
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