Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Sebell!” Master Robinton’s calm request carried clearly, and everyone turned to watch the journeyman hurry to his master’s side. “Please send a drum message to Lords Oterel, Nessel and Bargen, and to Weyrleader T’bor. Would they please attend us here at Nabol immediately. Double urgency on the beat, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sebell with such unexpected vigor that Master Robinton gave him a mild second look. But Sebell turned on his heel and walked swiftly out of the apartments, motioning as he passed them for Candler and Menolly to come with him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier, Menolly. If Piemur got out of the Hold and is hiding somewhere in the hills, he’ll surface to a drum message aimed at him. Lead us to your drumheights, Candler.”

  The big message drums needed only to be uncovered. Sebell stood for a moment, beaters poised over the taut hide as he composed his message. The opening roll boomed across the valley, the urgent measure following as the last echoes died. Then Sebell, eyes half-closed in concentration, beat out the recipients’ names, the Harper’s request, and the urgent measures once again to insure immediate reply and attention. Menolly positioned herself at the window then, ears straining to catch the pass-along roll from the next drumheights.

  “There it is from the east,” she told the two men. “What’s wrong with the northern listeners? Still asleep? Ah, there they are.”

  “Candler, any chance of some food?” Sebell asked the Hold Harper. “We’d best wait here for replies.”

  “Yes, let’s eat here where the air is clear,” said Menolly, with a shudder as she thought of the thick, distasteful odor in Lord Meron’s rooms.

  “Of course, of course. I apologize for not offering sooner.” Candler was away down the stairs.

  Sebell picked up the sticks again and beat a quick measure. “Apprentice. Report. Urgent.” He waited a few breaths and then repeated the measure.

  “If he’s anywhere between here and Ruatha or Crom, he’ll hear that,” Sebell said, carefully replacing the drumsticks on their hooks before he joined Menolly at the window.

  Her face was sad and her brows constricted in a tiny frown as she gazed across the huddle of cots below the Hold ramp and over the disorganized Gather square, still tenanted by those unwillingly held over by the emergency. Few sounds wafted to their ears at this height, and the scene was unrealistically calm.

  “Don’t fret over Piemur, Menolly,” Sebell said, trying to sound more lighthearted than he felt. “He has a knack of landing on his feet.” He smiled down at her, allowing himself the luxury of putting his arm lightly about her shoulders.

  “Except when the steps are greased!” Menolly’s voice had an angry edge, and he gripped her shoulder reassuringly.

  “Look at it this way: just see how that misadventure has worked to his advantage. He’s got out of the drumheights and acquired himself a queen fire lizard egg. For all we know, he may meet us at the Hold gates with it, smiling in that ingenuous fashion of his, when you and I know he’s as devious as Meron!”

  “I wish I could believe you, Sebell,” Menolly said sighing heavily, but she leaned trustingly against him for his comfort. “If he was anywhere in the vicinity, Beauty and Rocky ought to have found him.”

  “He’s somewhere,” replied Sebell firmly, and daring more than ever, he gave her a quick hug, turning abruptly from her as he caught her startled look. “The wretch!” he added, more of a growl than a comment. At that moment, they both heard the message drum roll across the mountains, and Sebell hastily strode back to the drums.

  Candler arrived just as Sebell beat “receive” for the last of the messsages. The Nabol Harper was panting with the exertion of his climb, for he carried not only a well-laden tray, but a full wine skin slung over his shoulder. The three harpers had time to make a leisurely meal before the first of the visitors arrived. The harpers then escorted the Lord Holders and T’bor to the Master Harper.

  Sebell almost gagged and lost his breakfast when he brought Lords Holder Nessel and Bargen into Lord Meron’s inner room. Menolly was already there with Lord Oterel and Weyrleader T’bor. He saw her mouth working to control the revulsion she was obviously feeling. Only Candler seemed impervious to the odor.

  Although Sebell had seen Lord Meron the day before, he was appalled by the change in the man propped up in the bed: the eyes were sunken, pain had lined his face deeply, his skin was a pale yellow, and his fingers, plucking nervously at the fur rug that covered him, were claws with hanging bags of flesh between the knuckles. It was as if, Sebell thought, all life was centered in those hands, feebly holding onto life through the hair of the fur.

  “So, I’m granted my own private gather, is that it? Well, I’ve no welcome for any of you. Go away. I’m dying. That’s what you all wished me to do these past Turns. Leave me to it.”

  “You’ve not named your successor,” said Lord Oterel bluntly.

  “I’ll die before I do.”

  “I think we must persuade you to change your mind on that count,” said the Masterharper in a quiet, amiable tone.

  “How?” Lord Meron’s snarl was smug in his self-assurance.

  “There is friendly persuasion. . . .”

  “If you think I’ll name a successor just to make things easy for you and those dregs at Benden, think again!” The force of that remark left the man gasping against his props, one hand feebly beckoning to Master Oldive, whose attention was on the Harper.

  “. . . Or unfriendly persuasion,” continued Master Robinton as if Lord Meron hadn’t spoken.

  “Ha! You can do nothing to a dying man, Master Robinton! You, Healer, my medicine!”

  Master Robinton lifted his arm, effectively barring Berdine from approaching the sick man.

  “That’s precisely it, my Lord Meron,” said the Harper in an implacable voice, “we can do . . . nothing . . . to a dying man.”

  Sebell heard Menolly’s catch of breath as she understood what Master Robinton had in mind to force this issue with Lord Meron. Berdine started to protest, but was silenced by a growl from Lord Oterel. The healer turned appealingly to Master Oldive, whose eyes had never left the face of the Harper. Although Sebell had known how desperately Master Robinton wished for a peaceful succession in this Hold, he had not appreciated the steel in his pacific Master’s will. Nabol Hold must not come into contention, not with every Holder’s younger sons eager and willing to fight to the death to secure even as illmanaged a Hold as this. Such fighting could go on and on, until no more challengers presented themselves. What little prosperity Nabol enjoyed would have been wasted in the meantime with no one holding the lands properly.

  “What do you mean?” Meron’s voice rose to a shriek. “Master Oldive, attend me. Now!”

  Master Oldive turned to the Lords Holder and bowed. “I understand, my Lords, that there are many seeking my aid at the Hold gates. I will, of course, return when my presence is required here. Berdine, accompany me!”

  When Lord Meron screamed for the two healers to halt, to attend him, Master Oldive took Berdine by the arm and firmly led him out, deaf to Meron’s orders. As the door closed behind him, Meron ceased his entreaties and turned to the impassive faces that watched him.

  “You wouldn’t? Can’t you understand? I’m in pain. Agony! Something inside is burning through my vitals. It won’t stop until it’s eaten me to a shell. I must have medicine. I must have it!”

  “We must have the name of your successor.” Lord Oterel’s voice was pitiless.

  Master Robinton began to name the male relatives, his voice expressionless as he intoned the list. When he had completed it, he recited it again.

  “You’ve forgotten one, Master,” Sebell said in a respectful tone. “Deckter.”

  “Deckter?” The Harper turned slightly toward Sebell, his brows raised in surprise at being corrected.

  “Yes, sir. A grand-nephew.”

  “Oh.” The Harper sounded surprised, at the same time dismissing the man with a flick of his fingers. He repeat
ed the list to Lord Meron, now mouthing obscenities as he writhed on his bed. Deckter was added as an afterthought. Then the Harper paused, looking inquiringly at Lord Meron, who responded with another flow of invective, demanding Oldive’s presence at the top of his voice. Again, the effort rendered him momentarily exhausted. He lay back, panting through his opened mouth, blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes.

  “You must name your successor,” said T’bor, High Reaches Weyrleader, and Meron’s eyes rested on the man whose private grievance with him ran deepest. For it was Lord Meron’s association with T’bor’s Weyrwoman, Kylara, that had caused the death of both Kylara’s queen dragon, Pridenth, and Brekke’s Wirenth.

  Sebell watched Meron’s eyes widen with growing horror as he finally realized that he would have no surcease from the pain of his body until he did name a successor, confronted as he was by men who had excellent reason for hating him.

  Sebell also noted that T’bor forgot to mention Deckter. So did Lord Oterel when he took his turn. Lord Bargen recited the name first, with a glance at Oterel for his omission.

  Sebell knew he would always remember this bizarre and macabre scene with horror as well as with a certain awful respect. He had long known that Master Robinton would use unexpected methods to maintain order throughout Pern and to uphold the leadership of Benden Weyr, but he had never expected such ruthlessness in the otherwise gentle and compassionate Robinton. He schooled his mind away from the stink and closeness of the room, from Meron’s pain, by trying to appreciate the tactics that were being used as Lord Meron was deftly maneuvered into choosing the one man the others preferred among his heirs by their seeming to forget Deckter half the time. For a long while afterward, the flickering of glows would remind Sebell and Menolly of those eerie hours while Lord Meron tried to resist the will of his inflexible peers.

  It was inevitable that Meron would capitulate: Sebell thought he could almost feel the pulsing of pain through the man’s body as he screamed out Deckter’s name, thinking he had chosen to displease the men who had so tormented him.

  The instant he spoke Deckter’s name, Master Oldive, who had gone no further than the next room, came to give the man relief.

  “Perhaps it was a terrible cruelty to inflict on anyone,” Master Oldive told the Lords when they left Meron in a drugged stupor, “but the ordeal has also hastened his end. Which can only be a mercy. I don’t think he can last another day.”

  The other heirs, Hittet the most vocal, now barged in from the entry room, demanding to know why they had been excluded from their kinsman’s presence, berating the Lord Holders and Master Robinton for this unconscionable delay and finally remembering to ask if Lord Meron had indeed named an heir. When they were told of Deckter, their reactions were compounds of relief, consternation, disappointment and then incredulity. Sebell extricated Menolly from the knot of chattering relatives and guided her to the steps down to the Main Hall and out of the Hold where they could breathe the fresh, untainted air.

  A considerable and silent crowd lined the ramp, held back by the guards. At the sight of the two harpers, they began to shout for news. Was Lord Meron dead? What was happening to bring Lord Holders and the Weyrleader to Nabol?

  As Sebell raised his hands for silence, he and Menolly scanned the faces, looking for Piemur in that crowd. When he had their attention, Sebell told them that Lord Meron had named his successor. A curious rippling groan came from the crowd as if they expected the worst and were steeling themselves. So Sebell grinned as he called out Deckter’s name. The multiple gasp of astonishment turned into a spate of relieved cheers. Sebell then told the head guard to send for the honored man, and half the crowd followed the messengers of this mixed fortune.

  “I don’t see Piemur,” said Menolly in a low anxious voice, her eyes continually scanning. “Surely with us here, he’d come forward.”

  “Yes, he would. And since he hasn’t . . .” Sebell looked about the courtyard. “I wonder . . .” As he twisted slowly in a circle, he realized that there would have been no way for Piemur to climb out of the Hold yards. Not even a fire lizard could claw its way up the cliff above the Hold’s windows. Especially not in the dark and encumbered by a fragile fire lizard egg. His eyes were drawn by the ash and refuse pits, but he distinctly remembered their being vigorously spear-searched. His glance traveled upward and paused on the small window. “Menolly!” He grabbed her by the hand and started pulling her toward the kitchen yard. “Kimi said it was dark. I wonder what’s . . .” In his excitement, Sebell reversed back to the guard, hauling the complaining Menolly with him. “See that little window above the ashpit?” he asked the guard excitedly. “What does it open on? The kitchen?”

  “That one? Naught but a stores room.” And then the guard clamped his teeth shut, looking apprehensively back to the Hold as if he had been indiscreet and feared reprisal.

  His reaction told Sebell exactly what he needed to know.

  “The supplies for the Southern Weyr were stored in that room, weren’t they?”

  The guard stared straight ahead of him, lips pressed firmly together, but the flush in his face was a giveaway. Laughing with relief, Sebell half-ran toward the kitchen yard, Menolly eagerly following him.

  “You think Piemur hid himself among the stuff for the Oldtimers?” Menolly asked.

  “It’s the only answer that suits the circumstances, Menolly,” said Sebell. He halted right in front of the ashpit and pointed to the wall that separated the two pits. “That wouldn’t be too high a jump for an agile lad, would it?”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so. And just like Piemur! But, Sebell, that would mean he’s in the Southern Weyr!”

  “Yes it would, wouldn’t it,” said Sebell, unutterably relieved that the mystery of Piemur’s disappearance could be explained. “C’mon. We’ll send a message to Toric to be on the lookout for that rascal. I think Kimi knows Southern better than Beauty and Rocky.”

  “Let’s send them all. Mine know Piemur best. Oh, just wait till I get my hands on that young man!”

  Sebell laughed at Menolly’s fierce expression. “I told you he’d land on his feet.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CHANGE IN temperature roused Piemur, his mouth dry and sour, his body stiff. He couldn’t think for a moment where he was or why he ached and his guts rumbled.

  He sat bolt upright as he remembered and felt inside his tunic for the beragged egg. He tore the covering in his frenzy to check the precious shell and was trembling with relief when he touched its warm shape. The quick tropical dusk was nearly on him, the vivid glimmer of the sun coating the foliage about him with gold. He heard the lap of water and, peering toward the sound, realized that he was close to a beach. The call of a nest-homing wherry startled him as he crept stiffly from under his bush. He knew he’d have little time and light to settle the egg in warm sand for the night. He staggered to the beach, praying it would be a sandy one, crying out in relief when he saw that it was, dropping to his knees to burrow into the warm sand and bury the egg safely.

  Wearily he built a pile of rocks to mark the spot and then pulled himself back to the jungle, using the light to locate a tree with orange fruit. The first few he batted down from the branches with a long stick were too hard to be edible, another fell with a liquid splot. He scooped up the overripe fruit and swallowed it down, grimacing at the slightly rancid taste. Then he managed, after several more attempts, to get two edible fruits. Barely satisfied, he propped himself against the tree’s trunk and slept fitfully through the night.

  Piemur stayed in that area all the next day, resting, washing his scratched and bruised self in the warm seawater, rinsing out his stained and torn clothes. He had to seek the concealing shelter of the forest several times as first fire lizards and then dragons flew overhead. He was too close to the Weyr, he realized, and he would have to move on. But first, something to eat: more orange fruit and redfruit, which seemed to grow in profusion. He also picked up several dried hulls, one for carrying
water and another for carrying his fire lizard egg buried in warm beach sand.

  When he saw fire lizards and dragons returning to the Weyr, he waited for a spell before he retrieved his egg, packing it well in the hot sands, and headed westward, away from the Weyr.

  Afterward, he never could figure out why he felt the Weyr and the Southern Hold were dangerous to him. He just felt he ought to avoid any contact with them, certainly until his egg had hatched and he had Impressed his own fire lizard. It wasn’t logical, really, but he’d endured a harrowing experience, had already been in the role of the hunted, and so he continued to run.

  The first moon rose early and full, lighting his way along the shore, up the rocky banks and steep sand dunes. He traveled on, occasionally eating fruit as he plodded and pausing three times for a small nap. But each time anxiety snapped him wakeful and set him on his way again.

  The second moon rose, doubling the quantity of light but striking curious shadows against its companion that often made Piemur detour around rocks made gigantic by the mismatched illumination. He knew that strange things could happen to travelers under the double moons, but he persevered until both moons had set and the darkness forced him to seek refuge under the trees, where he’d be safely hid if he slept and dawn came before he knew.

  He woke when a snake crawled over his legs, scraping against his bare skin where the trousers had been torn. He clutched feverishly at the egg, for snakes liked fire lizard eggs. The sand about his precious possession was cool and that brought him to his feet. He emerged onto a small cove, baking in a midmorning sun. He scooped out a hole and buried his egg, marking the spot with the upturned fruit shell ringed by beach stones. Then he returned to the jungle to seek his breakfast and water.

  The diet of fresh raw fruit was affecting his digestion, and he spent some uncomfortable moments before he realized he would have to have something else to eat. He remembered what Menolly had said about fishing from her cave in the Dragon Stones, but he hadn’t so much as a line. Then he noticed the thick vines clinging to tree trunks and viewed the thorns on the orange-fruit trees with new sight. Using his belt knife and a little ingenuity, he shortly had himself a respectable fishing line. He baited his hook with a sliver of orange fruit, having nothing better.