That day held one more event! At sunset, as Piemur was helping the apprentice bring in the miners' runners from the pasture, he heard the shrill cry of a fire lizard. Glancing up, he saw a slender body, wings back, drop with unnerving speed in his direction. The apprentice dropped to the ground, covering his head with his arms. Piemur braced his legs, but the bronze fire lizard did not come to his shoulder. Instead, Rocky spun round his head, berating him, his jewel-faceted eyes spinning violently red and orange in anger.
It took Piemur a few minutes to talk Rocky into landing on his shoulder and even more time to soothe the little creature until his eyes calmed into tones of greeny blue. All the time the miner apprentice watched, eyes bugged out.
“There now. Rocky. I'm all right, but I have to stay the night here. I'm all right. You can tell Menolly that you've found me, can't you? That I'm all right?”
Rocky gave a half-chirp that sounded so skeptical Piemur had to laugh.
“Is that fire lizard yours?” asked the Miner curiously as he approached Piemur, eyeing Rocky all the time.
“No, sir,” said Piemur with such chagrin the Miner smiled. “This is one of Menolly's, Master Robinton's journeywoman. His name is Rocky. I help Menolly feed him mornings, because she's got the nine and they're a right handful, so he knows me pretty well.”
“I didn't think the creatures had enough sense to find people!”
“Well, sir, I have to say it's the first time it's happened to me,” and Piemur couldn't suppress the smug satisfaction he was feeling that Rocky had been able to find him.
“Now that he's found you, what good will that do?” asked the Miner with a revival of his skepticism.
“Well, sir, he could go back to Menolly and make her understand that he's seen me. But it would be much more useful if you'd let me have a bit of hide for a message. Tied on his leg, he'll take it back, and they'll know exactly...”
The Miner held up his hand admonishingly. “I'd rather nothing in script about the Oldtimers' visit.”
“Of course not, sir,” replied Piemur, offended that he needed to be cautioned.
A terse message was all he could scribe on the scrap of hide the Miner grudgingly produced for him. The hide was so old, had been scraped so often for messages, that the ink blurred as he wrote. “Safe! Delayed!” Then it occurred to him to add in drum measures, “Errand completed. Emergency. Old Dragon.”
“You've a way with the little things, haven't you?” said the Miner with reluctant respect as he watched Piemur tying the message on Rocky's leg, an operation the fire lizard oversaw as carefully as the Miner.
“He knows he can trust me,” said Piemur.
“I'd say there were not many,” replied the Miner in such a dry tone that Piemur stared at him in surprise. “No offense meant!”
Piemur had to concentrate just then on imagining Menolly as strongly as he could in his mind. Then, lifting his hand high, he gave a practiced flick to send Rocky into flight.
“Go to Menolly, Rocky! Go to Menolly!”
He and the Miner watched until the little fire lizard seemed to disappear in the dimming light to the east. Then the apprentice called them to their meal.
As he ate, Piemur wondered what the Miner had meant by that remark. “Not many that fire lizards could trust?” “Not many people that trusted Piemur?” Why would the Miner say a thing like that? Hadn't he saved the miners' sapphires for them? It wasn't as if he'd told any lies to do so. Further he'd never taken any real advantage of his friends in bargaining at a Gather or failing to keep a promise. All of his friends came to him for help. And, Shells, wasn't the Masterharper entrusting him with this errand? And knowing about Harper Hall secrets? What had the Miner meant?
“Piemur!” Someone shook him by the shoulder. Abruptly the young harper realized that he'd been addressed several times.
“You're a harper! Can you not give us a song?” The eagerness of the request from men isolated for long periods of time in a lonely hold gave Piemur a genuine pang of regret.
“Sirs, the reason I'm messenger is that my voice is changing and I'm not allowed to sing just now. But,” he added seeing the intense disappointment on every face, “that doesn't mean I can't talk them to you. If you've something I can drum to give the rhythm.”
After several attempts, he found a saucepan that did not sound too flat, and while the men stomped their heavy boots in time, he talked the newest songs from the Harper Hall, even giving them Domick's new song about Lessa. The Shell knew when they'd hear it sung, though no one was supposed to hear it until Lord Groghe's feast. If the performance of the spoken song lacked much in Piemur's estimation. Master Shonagar couldn't hear, Domick would never know, and the men were so grateful that he felt completely justified.
He left the minehold with the first rays of the sun and made the trip back to the Harper Hall at a downhill pace that all but forced his voice back up to the treble range. At times his runner slithered unnervingly down tracks that they had laboriously climbed the day before. Piemur closed his eyes, held tightly to the saddle pad, and fervently hoped not to go sailing off the track into the deep gorges. When he returned the stolid runner to Banak, it was barely sweated under the midstrap while Piemur knew that his armpits and back were damp with perspiration. “Safe back, I see,” was Banak's only remark.
“He may be slow, but he's sure-footed,” said Piemur with such exaggerated relief that Banak laughed.
As Piemur jogged into the Harper Hall court, he heard Tilgin bravely singing his first solo as Lessa. Piemur grinned to himself, for Tilgin's voice sounded tired even if he was note-wise. None of Menolly's fair was sunning on the ridge, but Zair was sprawled on the ledge of the Harper's window so Piemur took the steps two at a time. While he sort of wished someone would encounter him on his triumphant return, he was also relieved that he'd have no temptation to blurt out his adventures.
Master Robinton's greeting, however, was warm enough to make Piemur puff his chest out in pride.
“You make the most of your opportunities, young Piemur, but kindly explain your cryptic measures before I burst with curiosity! 'Old dragon' does mean oldtimers, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” and Piemur took the seat the Harper indicated and began. “T'ron and Fidranth with two blue dragons came to relieve the Miner of his sapphires!”
“You're positive beyond doubt that it was T'ron and Fidranth?”
“Positive! I did see them once or twice before they were exiled. Besides, the Miner knew them all too well.”
The Harper gestured for him to continue, and the day's events made good telling with the best of all audiences in the Masterharper, who listened intently without a single interruption. He then asked Piemur to repeat, this time questioning a detail here, a response there, and extracting from Piemur every nuance of the confrontation of Miner and Oldtimer. He laughed appreciatively at Piemur's strategy and lauded his caution of putting the four cut gems in his boots. It was only then that Piemur remembered to hand the precious stones to the Harper. The sun sparkled off the facets as the sapphires lay on the table.
“I'll have a word with Master Nicat myself. And I think I'll see him today,” said Robinton, holding up one of the gems between thumb and forefinger and squinting at it in the sunlight. “Beautiful workmanship! Not a flaw!”
“That's what the Miner said,” and then Piemur daringly added. “I gather it's not easy to find the right blues for masterharpers.”
Master Robinton regarded Piemur, a startled expression on his face, which changed to amusement. “You will keep that to yourself as well, young man!”
Piemur nodded solemnly. “Of course, if I'd had a fire lizard of my own, you wouldn't have had to worry about me and the stones, and perhaps something could have been done about T'ron.”
The Harper's face altered and the flash in his eyes had nothing to do with amusement. Now Plemur couldn't imagine what had prompted him to say such a thing. He didn't even dare look away from the Harper's severe gaze, although he wanted more than anything else to creep away and hide from his Master's disapproval. He did stiffen, fully expecting a blow for such impertinence.
“When you can keep your wits about you as you did yesterday, Piemur,” said Master Robinton after an interminable interval, “you prove Menolly's good opinion of your potential. You have also just proved the main criticism that Hall masters have expressed. I do not disapprove of ambition, nor the ability to think independently, but,” and suddenly his voice lost the cold displeasure, “presumption is unforgiveable. Presuming to criticize a dragonrider is the most dangerous offense against discretion. Further,” and the Harper's finger was raised in warning, “you are rushing toward a privilege you have by no means earned. Now, off with you to Master Olodkey and learn the proper drum measure for 'Oldtimer'.”
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 rumour 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 rumour 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 drum heights 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 rumour 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.
He wasn't certain how much more of this he could endure when Menolly appeared in the drumheights just after breakfast one morning.
“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 Loith 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, T'ron, 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 cluttering, 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. Piemur wasn't sure that he would like living in such a barren-looking Hold, even if no Thread could ever attack it. And it was hot!
Red dust puffed up as Lioth landed, and suddenly Piemur was unbearably warm. He began to unbelt his wherhide jacket before he released the riding strap and noticed that Menolly was as quick to strip helmet, gloves and jacket.
“I always forget how hot it is at Igen,” she said, fluffing out her hair.
“The dragons love it,” said N'ton, pointing beyond the Hold to where the rough shapes that Piemur had assumed were rock now became recognizable as dragons, stretched out to bake in the sun.
It was as he was sliding down Lioth's shoulder that Piemur noticed the curious construction of the Gather rectangle. There didn't seem to be any walkway. The only open space was the customary central square for dancing. Though who'd have the energy to dance in this heat he didn't know.
Then Piemur ducked while Lioth showered them all with sand as he vaulted into the air and winged to join the other sunbathing dragons. The fire lizards, N'ton's Tris, Sebell's Kimi and Menolly's nine-swirled up and away and were met, midair, by other fire lizards, the augmented fair swirling higher and higher in the joy of meeting.
“That'll occupy them for a while,” said Menolly, then she turned to Piemur. “Give me your flying gear and I'll leave it at the Hold till you need it again.”
“We must pay our respects to Lord Laudey and the others,” said Sebell, bringing out a handful of marks from his pocket. He presented Piemur with an eighth piece and two thirty-seconds. “I'm not being stingy, Piemur, but you'd be questioned if you had too many marks about you. And I don't think Igen Hold runs to bubbly pies.”
“Too hot to eat 'em anyway.” Piemur mopped his sweaty forehead with one hand as he gratefully slid the marks into his pouch.
“But they do make a confection of fruits that you might like,” said Sebell. “Anyway, move around and listen. Don't get caught being nosy and come up to the Hold for the evening meal. Ask for Harper Bantur if you have any trouble. Or Deece. He remembers you.”
They had reached the edge of the Gather tents, and now Piemur realized that walking space existed but was considerately covered with tenting to deflect the worst of the sun's baking heat. It was simple now for Piemur to move away from the journeymen harpers and the Weyrleader in the steady flow of people sauntering past the Gather stalls. He saw Menolly turn about, trying to see where he had got to, then Sebell spoke to her, and she shrugged and moved on with him.
Almost immediately Piemur noticed one great difference between this and the Gathers he had attended in the west, people took their time. In order to separate himself from his craftmates, Piemur had deliberately lagged behind, but when he would have stepped out again at his customary pace, he hesitated. No one was moving briskly at all. Gestures and voices were languid, smiles slow, and even laughter had a lazy fall. A great many people carried long tubes from which they sipped. Stalls dispensing drinks, chilled water, as well as sliced fruits, were frequently placed and well-patronized. About every ten stalls or so, there were areas where people lounged, either on the sand or on benches placed about the edges. The tenting was raised in corners to catch breezes sweeping up from the river, cooling the lounge areas and the walkway.
Piemur did one complete walkabout of the Gather rectangle. He could appreciate that, despite breezeways and the expenditure of the minimum of physical effort, people did not do much talking as they strolled from stall to stall. The talking, either conversation or bartering, was done while both parties sat comfortably. So he used one thirtysecond piece on a long tube of fruit juice and some succulent slices of a rind-melon, found himself an inconspicuous spot in one lounge area, and settled to listen as he sipped his drink and ate.
At first he didn't quite catch the softer drawl of these south-easterners. The low-pitched conversation between two men on his left turned out to be the innocuous boasting of one about the breeding lines of the splay-footed runners he was hoping to barter profitably while the other man kept extolling the virtues of the currently favoured strain. Disgusted at such a waste of his time, Piemur focused his ears on the group of five men on his right. They were blaming the weather on Thread, the bad crops on the weather and everything else except their lack of industry, which Piemur thought would be the real problem. A group of women were also murmuring against the weather, their mates, their children and the nuisancy children of other holds, but all in a fairly comfortable, tolerantly amused fashion. Three men, with their heads so close together no sound passed their shoulders, finally parted, but not before Piemur saw a small sack pass from one to another and decided that they must only have been bargaining hard. The runnermen left and a new pair took their places, composed their loose robes about them, leaned back and promptly went to sleep. Piemur found himself growing more heavy eyed and sipped the last of his juice to keep him awake, wondering if he would find another lounge area as dull.
A combination of excited voices and a chill breeze woke him. He stared about him, wondering if he had missed a drum message, and then oriented himself. Night had fallen and, with the set of the sun, the cooler winds of evening blew cheerfully through the raised flaps. There was no one else in the tent with him, but he could smell the aroma of roasting meats and scrambled to his feet. He'd be late at the Hold for his supper, and he was hungry.
Cool evening had enlivened everyone, for the walkway was now full of quickly stepping, chattering people, and Piemur had to duck and dart his way out of the Gather tents. The dragon lumps on the Hold cliff turned their brilliant lanterns of eyes on the doings below them, rivaling the blazing glow baskets set on high standards about the Gather grounds.
No one challenged Piemur at the Hold courtyard gates, and he found the main Hall by simply following the general drift of the well-dressed people.
Lord Laudey, according to Harper Hall gossip, was not a very outgoing man, but at a Gather, every Holder did make an effort. The principal men and craftmasters of his Hold were invited with their immediate families to dine in the Hold Hall, as well as such dragonriders and visiting Lord Holders, Craftmasters and Masters who might be attending the Gather.
By custom, the harpers ate at the first table below the main one. Piemur had never seen the resident Harper, Bantur, and hoped that Menolly and Sebell were already at the table. They were, and chatting in high spirits with Deece, who'd been seconded to Bantur the night Menolly had walked the tables to become a journeywoman, and with Strud, who'd been posted to a sea hold on Igen River that same night. Gray of hair but with bright and unusually blue eyes, Bantur welcomed Piemur with such friendliness for a mere apprentice that Piemur was made more uncomfortable by kindness than he would have been by taciturnity. Bantur insisted on getting him fresh meats and tubers from one of the drudges and heaped his plate so high with choice cuts that Piemur's eyes boggled.
The other harpers talked while he ate, and when he had finally swallowed the last morsel, Bantur suggested they all leave to make room for more of Lord Laudey's guests. Then Bantur asked if Piemur would take a harper's turn on drum or gitar and, when Piemur saw Sebell's discreet nod, he agreed with a show of enthusiasm to take a gitar part. ““Why Piemur, I thought sure you'd take a drum part,” said Menolly, her expression so bland that he nearly rose to her bait.
Piemur restrained an urge to kick her in the shins and smiled sweetly at her instead. “You heard today what the drummers think of me,” he replied so demurely that Menolly chortled until her eyes filled.
As the harpers filed out of the Hall for the Gather, Sebell fell in step with Piemur.
“Heard anything of interest?”
“Who talks during the day's heat?” asked Piemur with heartfelt disgust. He suspected that Sebell had known about desert daytime indolence.
“You'll notice the change in them now, and you'll only need to do the dance turns. If I gauge the Gather right,” said Sebell, glancing ahead at Menolly's slender figure in harper blue, “they'll keep her singing until she's hoarse. They always do.”
Piemur glanced swiftly at Sebell, wondering if the journeyman was aware of showing his feelings for the harper girl so openly.
The first dance turn was the longest and most energetic. The crisp night air stimulated the dancers' gyrations until they were energetic beyond Piemur's credence. Quite a transformation from the languid manners of the afternoon. Then, as Bantur, Deece, Strud and Menolly remained on the platform to sing, Sebell nodded to Piemur to work his way from the square's attentive audience toward the smaller groups of men, drinking tubes in hand, conversing in quiet tones.
The subdued level, Piemur decided, was out of courtesy to the singers and their audience, but it made it hard for him. He was about to give up when the word 'Oldtimers' caught his ear. He sidled closer to the group and, in the light of the glow baskets, recognized two as seaholders, a miner, a smith and an Igen holder.
“I don't say it was them, but since they've gone south, we've had no more unexpected demands,” said the smith. “G'narish may also be an Oldtimer, but he follows Benden's ways. So it had to have been Oldtimers.”
“Young Toric often sends his two-master north for trade,” said one of the seaholders, in a voice so confidential that Piemur had to strain to catch the words. “He always has, and my Holder sees no harm in it. Toric's no dragonman, and those that stayed south with him don't fall under Benden's order. So we trade. He may bargain close, but he pays well.”
“In marks?” asked the Igen holder, surprised.
“No. Barter! Gemstones, hides, fruit, such like. And once,” here Piemur held his breath for fear of missing the confidential whisper, “nine fire lizard eggs!”
“No?” Envy as well as surprised interest were expressed in that startled reply. The seaholder quickly gestured the man to keep his tone down. “Of course,” and there was no disguising the bitter jealousy, “they've all the sand beaches in the world to search in the south! Any chance...”
The fascinating conversation broke off as another seaholder joined them, an older man, and possibly superior to the gossiping seaman, for talk turned to other things, and Piemur moved on.
Then Menolly began to sing alone, the other harpers accompanying her. All conversations died as she sang, with what appeared to Piemur to be incredible aptness, the “Fire Lizard Song.”
Her voice was richer now, Piemur noticed with a critical ear, the tone better sustained. He couldn't fault her musical phrasing. Nor should he be able to after three Turns of severe instruction by Master Shonagar. Her voice was so admirably suited to the songs she sang, he thought, and more expressive than many singers who had even better natural voices. As often as Piemur had heard the “Fire Lizard Song,” he found himself listening as intently as ever. When the song ended, he applauded as vigorously as everyone else, only then aware that he had been equally captivated. Putting words to music was not Menolly's only talent; she put her music in the hearts and minds of her listeners, too.
While her enrapt audience started shouting for their favourite tunes, she beckoned Sebell to the platform, and they sang a duet of an eastern sea hold song, their voices so well blended that Piemur's respect and admiration for his fellow harpers reached unprecedented heights. Now, if only his voice turned tenor, he might have the chance to sing with...
He played three more dance turns, but Sebell had been correct. The Igen gatherers wanted Menolly whenever she would favour them with song. Piemur also noticed that for every solo she sang, there was at least one group song and a. duet including the Igen harpers. Clever of her to forestall ill-feeling. Too bad such discretion did not translate into his particular problem with the drum apprentices!
Whether it was because he'd had a sleep in the afternoon or because the desert air was particularly bracing, Piemur was never sure, but it was only when he noticed the thinning of the crowd around the dance area, and the increased number of people rolled up in their blankets in the Gather tents, that he began to feel fatigue. He looked around then for Sebell and Menolly. When he saw nothing of them, he finally sought a weary, yawning Strud, who advised him, with a grin, to find a corner and get some sleep, if he could.
It had been easy enough to sleep that afternoon, but now, with no heat to lull him, the things he had heard, music as well as malice, danced about in his mind. One positive fact emerged. The Oldtimer's descent on the miner in Fort Hold was not an isolated incident. He also knew that while G'narish, Igen's Oldtime Weyrleader, was respected, Igen Holders would have given much to be beholden to Benden instead.
A sharp peck on his ear woke him, and he had a momentary fright before he focused his eyes on Rocky's cocked head and heard the reassuring soft chirrup. Someone was snoring lustily beside him, and Piemur's back was warm. He cautiously eased away from this unknown sleeper.
Rocky chirped again and, hopping off his shoulder, walked a few paces away with exaggerated steps before looking back at Piemur. He wanted Piemur to come with him, and while his eyes were not red with hunger, they were whirling fast enough to indicate some urgency.
“I don't need a drum to get your message,” Piemur said under his breath as he moved further away from his snoring bed companion. He really must have been tired to sleep through that sort of racket.
Rocky landed on his right shoulder, poking at his cheek to force his head left. Piemur obediently ducked under the tent flap and, in the glows that were shedding a subdued waning light on the sands before Igen Hold, he saw the dark bulk of a dragon and several figures.
Rocky called in a sweet light voice and then took off toward the group. Piemur followed, yawning and shivering in the chill pre-dawn breeze, wishing he had some klah. Especially if the presence of a dragon meant he had to go between; he was cold enough already.
The dragon was not Lioth, as he'd half expected, but a brown nearly as big as the Fort Weyr dragon. It had to be Canth. And it was, for as he neared the group, he saw the scars on Fnor's face from the dreadful, near-fatal scoring he'd taken on his famous jump to the Red Star.
“Cmon, Piemur,” called Sebell “Fnor's here to take us to Benden Weyr. Ramoth's latest clutch is Hatching.”
Piemur started to whoop with joy, then bit his tongue, choking off his jubilation. Bad enough he'd been to a Gather, but when Clell and that lot heard he'd been to a Benden Hatching, his life wouldn't be worth a wax mark. He saw in the same instant that the others were expecting him to react with appropriate anticipation and, loudly damning his changing voice, he affected as genuine a smile as he could manage. The groan that escaped him as he climbed to Canth's back was for the inexorable forces he wouldn't resist rather than the physical effort. He endured in silence Sebell's teasing about the miseries of an apprentice's life, and then Menolly's for his silence, which she attributed to either hunger or sleepiness.
“Never mind, Piemur,” she said with an encouraging smile, “there's bound to be some klah left in the pot for you at Benden Weyr.” She peered down at his face. “You are awake, aren't you?”
“Sort of,” he said, yawning again, then added for her benefit, “I just can't take it in that me, Piemur, gets to go to a Benden Weyr Hatching!”
Should he ask Menolly not to tell the Drum Master and Dirzan? Could he ask her to say he'd been left at Igen Hold until they could collect him? No, he couldn't, because she'd want to know why. And he couldn't tell her because that would mark him a blubber-baby, bleater, babblemouth. There had to be some way he could settle Clell and Dirzan by himself!
Despite his misgivings, Piemur succumbed to the fear charged thrill of Canth's initial vault into the air, the sensation of being pressed down, the breathlessness as the huge wings beat powerfully, and he felt the effort of Canth's neck muscles under his buttocks. It wasn't quite as scary flying in this predawn darkness because he didn't know how far he was above the ground, particularly since his face was turned away from Igen Hold's fading lights; but he caught his breath in a spurt of pure terror as F'nor gave Canth the audible request to take them between to Benden Weyr. He was again alone in the intense, sense deprived, utter cold, and then, before the cold could sink to his bones, they had emerged into the brightening day, momentarily suspended above the massive Bowl of Benden Weyr.
He'd been to Fort Weyr once, by cart, with a group of harpers, when Ludeth, the Weyrqueen, had her first queen egg hatching. He'd thought that Fort was huge, but Benden seemed much bigger. Perhaps because he was seeing it from dragonback, perhaps because of the light, touching the far edges of the Bowl, gilding the lake. Perhaps it was because this was Benden, and Benden figured so hugely and importantly in his eyes, and the eyes of everyone else on Pern.
Without Benden and her courageous leaders, Pern might have been half-destroyed by Thread.
Another dragon appeared in the air just above them, and instinctively Piemur ducked, hearing Menolly laugh at his reflex. A third and then a fourth dragon arrived even as Canth began to glide down to the bowl floor. By the time Piemur could slide from Brown's shoulder to the ground, he marvelled that the dragons hadn't collided midair, appearing as they had with such startling frequency.
Beauty, Kimi, Rocky and Diver popped in above Menolly's head, carolling with excitement, and suddenly they were joined by five other fire lizards Piemur had never seen before. When Menolly muttered worriedly about feeding fire lizards before they disrupted the Weyr, F'nor laughingly told them to find Mirrim. She was likely to be supervising breakfast in the kitchen caverns. Sebell's nudge in his ribs reminded Piemur to thank the brown rider and his dragon. Then the three harpers made their way across the Bowl to the brightly lit cavern.
The enticing aromas of fresh klah and toasted cereals quickened their steps, Menolly leading the way toward the smallest hearth, away from the bustle and hurry of weyrfolk at the larger fires.
“Mirrim?” she called, and the girl at the hearth turned, her face lighting as she recognized the new arrivals.
“Menolly! You came! Sebell! How are you? What have you been up to recently to get so tanned? Who's this?” Her smile disappeared as she noticed Piemur bringing up the rear, as if such a scruffy apprentice shouldn't be in such good company.
“Mirrim, this is Piemur. You've heard me speak of him often enough,” said Menolly, putting her hand on Piemur to draw him forward and closer to her, the intimacy a guarantee of him to Mirrim. “He was my first friend at the Harper Hall, as you were mine here. We've all been at the Igen Gather. Baked yesterday, frozen this morning, and very hungry!” Menolly let her tone drift upward plaintively.
“Well, of course, you're hungry,” said Mirrim, breaking off her stern appraisal of Piemur to turn to the hearth. She filled cups and bowls and set them out on one of the small tables with such alacrity that Piemur changed his first, unflattering impression of her. “I can't stop long with you. You know how things are at the Weyr when there's a Hatching; so much to do. The important details you really have to see to yourself to be sure they're done right.” She flopped gracelessly into a chair with an exaggerated sigh of relief to underscore the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Then she ran both hands through the fringe of brown hair on her forehead, ending the gesture with pats at the near plaits that hung down her back.
Piemur eyed her with a certain skeptical cynicism but, when he realized that Menolly and Sebell took no notice of her mannerisms and had sought out her company from everyone in the busy cavern, he came to the reluctant conclusion that there must be more to her than was obvious.
Beauty landed on Menolly's shoulder just then, chirruping with some petulance, her eyes whirling reddishly. Diver swooped to Menolly's other shoulder just as Kimi landed on Sebell's. Rocky, to Piemur's intense delight, came to roost on his.
“I thought that was Rocky,” Mirrim said, pointing accusingly at Piemur as if he oughtn't to have a fire lizard anyhow.
“It is,” said Menolly with a laugh, “but Piemur helps me feed him every day so Rocky's just reminding us he's hungry, too.”
“Why didn't you say they hadn't been fed?” Mirrim bounced to her feet, scowling with disapproval. “Really, Menolly, I'd've thought you'd take care of your friends first.”
Sebell and Menolly exchanged guilty smiles as Mirrim stalked off to a table where women were cutting up wherries for the Hatching Feast. She returned with a generous bowlful of scraps, three fire lizards hovering anxiously above her. She shooed them away, reminding them with gruff affection that they'd already been fed. To Piemur's relief, because he was developing an antipathy to her manner, Mirrim was called away to one of the main hearths. Rocky poked his cheek imperiously, and Piemur concentrated on feeding him.
“Is she a good friend of yours?” Piemur asked when the first edge of fire lizard hunger had been eased.
Sebell laughed, and Menolly made a rueful grimace.
“She's very good-hearted. Don't let her ways put you off.”
Piemur grunted. “They have.”
Sebell laughed again, offering Kimi a large chunk of meat so he could get a swallow of his klah while she struggled to chew. “Mirrim does take a bit of getting used to but, as Menolly says, she'll give you the shirt from her back...”
“Complaining all the time, I'll wager,” Piemur said.
Menolly's expression was solemn. “She was fosterling to Brekke, and Manora's always said that it was Mirrim's devoted nursing that helped Brekke live after her queen was killed.”
“Really?” That did impress Piemur, and he looked for Mirrim among the knot of women by the hearth as if this disclosure had caused her to change visibly.
“Don't, please don't judge her too quickly, Piemur,” said Menolly, touching his arm to emphasize her request.
“Well, of course, if you say so...”
Sebell winked at Piemur. “She says so, Piemur, and we must obey!”
“Oh, you,” and Menolly dismissed Sebell's teasing with a scowl of irritation. “I just don't want Piemur jumping to the wrong conclusion on the basis of a few moments meeting, “
“When everyone knows,” and Sebell rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, “that it takes time, endurance, tolerance and luck to appreciate Mirrim!” Sebell ducked as Menolly threatened him with her spoon.
They had finished feeding the fire lizards and sent them out to sun themselves when Mirrim popped up before them again, exhaling a mighty sigh.
“I don't know how we're going to get everything finished in time. Why those eggs have to be so awkward in their timing. Half the western guests will be dead of sleep and need breakfast.... See?” She waved toward the entrance where dragons were depositing more passengers. “There's so much to be done. And I particularly want to get to this Hatching. Felessan's a candidate today, you know.”
“So F'nor told us. I could manage the breakfast hearth, Mirrim,” said Menolly.
“Just set us a task,” said Sebell, throwing his arm across Piemur's shoulders, “and we'll do our best to assist.”
“Oh, would you?” Suddenly the affected manners dropped, and Mirrim's scowl gave way to an incredulous smile of relief, illuminating her face and making her a very pretty girl. “If you would just set up those tables,” and she pointed to stacks of trestles and tops, “that'd be the greatest help!”
She was again summoned across the cavern and dashed off with a smile of such unaffected gratitude that Piemur stared after her in astonishment. Why did the girl act oddly? She was much nicer when she was just herself.
“So, Felessan stands on the Hatching Ground,” said Sebell. “I missed that this morning.”
“Sorry, thought I'd told you,” said Menolly, rising to clear the table of their dishes. “I wonder if he'll Impress.”
“Why shouldn't he?” asked Piemur, startled by her doubt.
“He may be the son of the Weyrleaders, but that doesn't necessarily mean he'll Impress. Dragon choice can't be forced.”
“Oh, Felessan'll Impress,” said a dragonrider, approaching the small hearth, two others just behind him. “Are you tending the pot, Menolly?”
“And a good day to you, T'gellan,” Menolly said with a pert smile for the bronze rider as she poured klah for him.
“How's yourself, Sebell?” T'gellan went on, seating himself on the bench and gesturing to the other riders to join him.
“Hard put upon,” said Sebell in a long-suffering tone that sounded suspiciously like an imitation of Mirrim. “We just got organized to set up the tables. C'mon, Piemur, before Mirrim lays about us with her ladle.”
Because Menolly had so stoutly championed Mirrim, Piemur kept an eye out for the girl as he and Sebell arranged the additional tables. He spotted Mirrim dashing from one hearth to another, called to assist in trussing wherries for roasting, herdbeasts for the spit. He watched her organize one group of youngsters to peel roots and tubers and another to laying the tables with utensils and platters. He decided that Mirrim had not been puffing up her responsibilities.
Menolly, too, was kept busy, feeding dragonriders and their sleepy-eyed passengers, dragged from their beds for the imminent Hatching.
Sebell and Piemur had just set up the last table when a faint hum reached their ears. Fire lizards reappeared in the cavern, the high notes of their chirruping a countercadence to the low bass throb of the humming dragons.
Mirrim, divested of her apron and brushing water stains from her skirt, came dashing toward them.
“C'mon, Oharan promised to save us all seats by him,” she cried and led the way across the Bowl at a run.
The Weyr Harper had kept them places in the tiers above the Hatching Ground, though, he informed them, his life had been threatened by Holders and Craftmasters. Piemur could see why as he settled down, for this was a. splendid position, in the second tier, close to the entrance so that the view of the entire Ground was clear. There was no queen egg for Ramoth to guard, so the Benden queen dragon was standing to one side of the ground, Lessa and F'lar on the ledge above her. Occasionally the enormous golden dragon looked up at her weyrmate, as if seeking assurance or, Piemur thought, consolation, since the eggs she had clutched were shortly to be taken from her care. The notion amused Piemur, for he'd never have ascribed maternal emotions to Benden's preeminent queen dragon. Certainly Ramoth with her yellow flashing eyes and restless foot-shifting, wing-rustling, was a far picture from the gentle concern female herdbeast or runners showed their offspring.
A blur of white, seen from the corner of his eye, drew Piemur's attention to the Hatching Ground entrance. The candidates were approaching the eggs, their white tunics fluttering in the light morning breeze. Piemur suppressed his amusements as the boys, stepping further on the hot sands, began to pick up their feet smartly. When they had reached the clutch, they ranged themselves in a loose semicircle about the gently rocking eggs. Ramoth made a noise like a disapproving growl, which the boys all ignored, but Piemur noticed that the ones nearest her edged surreptitiously away.
A startled murmur ran through the audience as one of the eggs rocked more violently. The sudden snapping of the shell seemed to resound through the high-ceilinged cavern, and the dragons on the upper ledges hummed more loudly than ever with encouragement. The actual Hatching had begun. Piemur didn't know where to look because the audience was as fascinating as the Hatching, dragonriders' faces with soft glows as they relived the magic moment when they had Impressed the hatchling dragon who became their life's companion, minds indissolubly linked. On other faces was hope, breathless and incredulous, as guests and parents of the candidates waited for the moment when their lads would be chosen, or rejected, by the hatchlings. Fire lizards, respectfully quiet, perched on many shoulders in the Ground. And Piemur, who could never aspire to Impress a dragon, was reminded of that unfilled promise, that he would have a fire lizard one day. He wondered if Menolly remembered her promise to him. Or if he'd ever have the opportunity to remind her of it.
“There's Felessan,” said Menolly, nudging him sharply with her elbow. She pointed to a leggy figure with such a luxuriant growth of dark curling hair that his head seemed oversized.
“He doesn't even look nervous,” said Piemur, as he noted the signs of apprehension in other candidates who shifted uneasily or twitched unnecessarily at their tunics. A concerted gasp directed their attention from Felessan, and they saw that several more eggs were rocking violently as the hatchlings struggled to be free. Abruptly an egg split open, and a moist little brown dragon was spilled to his feet on the hot sands. Dragging his fragile-looking damp wings on the ground, he began to lunge this way and that, calling piteously, while the adult dragons crooned encouragement, reinforced by Ramoth's half-hum, half-howl.
The boys nearest the dragonet tried to anticipate his direction, hoping to Impress him, but he lurched out of their immediate circle, staggering across the sands, his call plaintive, desperate until the next group of boys turned. One, prompted by some instinct, took a step forward. The little brown's cries turned joyous, he tried to extend his wet wings to bridge the distance between them, but the boy rushed to the dragon's side, caressing head and shoulders, patting the damp wings while the little hatchling crooned with triumph, his jewelled eyes glowing the blue and purple of love and devotion. The day's first Impression had been made!
Piemur heard Menolly's deep and satisfied sigh and knew that she was reliving the moment she had Impressed her fire lizards in the Dragon Stones cave three Turns ago. He was again assailed by a deep stab of envy. When would he rate a fire lizard?
Excited cries brought his attention back to the Hatching Ground as more eggs cracked, exposing their occupants.
“Watch Felessan, Piemur! There's a bronze near him...” cried Mirrim, grabbing Piemur's arm in her excitement.
“And two browns and a blue,” added Menolly, scarcely less excited as she canted her body in a mental effort to direct the little bronze toward Felessan. “He deserves a bronze! He deserves one!”
“Only if the dragon wants him,” said Mirrim sententiously. “Just because he's the Weyrleader's son, “
“Shut up, Mirrim,” said Piemur, exasperated, clenching his fists, urging the Impression to occur.
Felessan was aware of the bronze's proximity, but so were a handful of other candidates. The little creature, rocking unstably on his wobbly legs, seemed not to see any of them for a moment. Then the wedge-shaped head fell forward and got buried in the sand as his hind legs overbalanced him. It was too much. Felessan gently righted the little beast and then stood transfixed, the expression on his exultant face plainly visible to his friends as Impression was made.
Ramoth's bugle astonished everyone into a long moment of silence; but it was no wonder, Piemur thought, that F'lar and Lessa were embracing each other at the sight of their one child Impressing a bronze!
The excitement was over too soon, Piemur thought, just moments later. He wished that all the eggs hadn't hatched at once, so this dizzy happiness could be extended. Not that there wasn't some disappointment and sadness, too, because far more candidates were presented to the eggs than could Impress. Only one little green had not Impressed, and she was mewling unhappily, butting one boy out of her way, lurching to another and peering up into his face, obviously searching for just the right lad. She had worked her way toward the tiers, despite the efforts of the remaining candidates to attract her attention and keep her well out into the Ground.
“Whatever is the matter with those boys?” demanded Mirrim, frowning with anxiety over the little green's pathetic wandering. She stood up, gesturing peremptorily to the candidates to close around the little green.
Just then the creature began to croon urgently and made directly for the steps that led up to the tiers.
“What is possessing her?” Mirrim asked no one in particular. She looked behind her accusingly, as if somehow a candidate might be hiding among the guests.
“She wants someone not on the Ground,” rang a voice from the crowd.
“She's going to hurt herself,” said Mirrim in an agitated mutter and pushed past the three people seated between her and the stairs. “She'll bruise her wings on the walls.”
The little green did hurt herself, slipping off the first step and banging her muzzle so sharply on the stone that she let out a cry of pain, echoed by a fierce bugle from Ramoth who began to move across the sands.
“Now, listen here, you silly thing, the boys you want are out there on the Ground. Turn yourself around and go back to them,” Mirrim was saying as she made her way down the steps to the little green. Her fire lizards, calling out in wildly ecstatic buglings, halted her. She stared for a long moment at the antics of her friends, and then, her expression incredulous, she looked down at the green hatchling determinedly attacking the obstacle of steps. “I can't!” Mirrim cried, so panic-stricken that she slipped on the steps herself and slid down three before her flailing hands found support. “I can't!” Mirrim glanced about her for confirmation. “I'm not supposed to Impress. I'm not a candidate. She can't want me!” Awe washed over the consternation on her face and in her voice.
“If it's you she wants, Mirrim, get down there before she hurts herself!” said F'lar, who had by now reached the scene, Lessa beside him.
“But I'm not, “
“It would seem that you are, Mirrim,” said Lessa, her face reflecting amusement and resignation. “The dragon's never wrong! Come! Be quick about it, girl. She's scraping her chin raw to get to you!”
With one final startled look at her Weyrleaders, Mirrim half-slid the remaining steps, cushioning the little green's chin from yet another harsh contact with the stone of the step.
“Oh, you silly darling! Whatever made you choose me?” Mirrim said in a loving voice as she gathered the green into her arms and began to soothe the hatchling's distressed cries. “She says her name is Path!” The glory on Mirrim's face caused Piemur to look away in embarrassment and envy.
For one brief moment, Piemur had entertained the bizarre notion that maybe the little green dragon had been looking for him. A deep sigh fluttered through his lips, and a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Schooling his expression, he turned to see Menolly watching him, a deep pity and understanding in her eyes.
“I promised you Turns ago that you'd have a fire lizard, Piemur. I haven't forgotten. I will keep that promise!”
As one they turned their heads back to watch Mirrim fussing over her Path, her fire lizards hopping on the sands, chattering away as if welcoming the little green in their own fashion.
“Come on, you two,” said Sebell, as Mirrim began to encourage Path to walk out of the Hatching Ground. “We'd better see Master Robinton. This is going to cause problems.” The last he said in a low voice.
“Why?” asked Piemur, making sure they weren't overheard. But everyone was filing out of the tiers now, eager to congratulate or condole. “She's weyrbred.”
“Greens are fighting dragons,” began Sebell.
“In that case, Mirrim's well paired, isn't she?” asked Piemur with droll amusement.
“Piemur!”
At Menolly's shocked remonstrance, Piemur turned to Sebell and saw an answering gleam, though the journeyman turned quickly and started down the steps.
“Sebell's right, though,” Menolly said thoughtfully as they started across the hot sands, quickening their pace as the heat penetrated the soles of their flying boots.
“Why?” asked Piemur again. “Just because she's a girl?”
“There won't be as much shock as there might be,” Sebell went on. “Jaxom's Impression of Ruth set a precedent.”
“It's not quite the same thing, Sebell,” Menolly replied. “Jaxom is a Lord Holder and has to remain so. And then the weyrmen did think the little white dragon mightn't live. And now he has, it's obvious he's never going to be a full-sized dragon. Not that he's needed in the Weyrs, but Mirrim is!”
“Exactly! And not in the capacity of green rider.”
“I think she'd make a good fighting rider,” said Pienmr, keeping the comment carefully under his breath.
When they located Master Robinton, he was already earnestly discussing the matter with Oharan.
“Completely unexpected! Mirrim swears that she hadn't been in the Hatching Ground at all when the candidates were familiarizing themselves with the Eggs,” Master Robinton told his craftsmen. Then he smiled. “Fortunately, with F'lessan Impressing a bronze, Lessa and F'lar are in great spirits.” Now he shrugged, his grin broadening. “It was simply a case of the dragon finding her own partnership where she wanted it!”
“As Ruth did with Jaxom.”
“Precisely.”
“And that is the Harper message?” asked Sebell, glancing about the Bowl where knots of people surrounded weyrlings and dragonets.
“There doesn't seem to be any other explanation. So let us drink and be merry. It's a good day for Pern! And I'm terribly dry,” said the Masterharper as the Weyr Harper solemnly proffered a cup of wine. “Oh thanks, Oharan. Must be the heat of the Hatching Ground or the excitement. I'm parched. Ahhhh.” The Harper's sigh was of relief and pleasure. “A good Benden vintage... ah, an old one, the wine has a mellowness, a smoothness...” He glanced about him as his audience waited expectantly. Oharan's hand casually covered the seal of the wineskin. The Harper took another judicious sip. “Yes, indeed. I have it now. The pressing of ten Turns back, and furthermore...” he held up a finger, “it's from the northwestern slopes of upper Benden.”
Oharan slowly uncovered the seal, and the others saw that the Harper had been absolutely correct.
“I don't know how you do it, Master Robinton,” said Oharan, having hoped to confound his master.
“He's had a lot of practice,” said Menolly at her driest, and they all laughed as Master Robinton started to protest.
They had time for a quiet glass before the admiring guests had exhausted all the possible things one could say to a newly impressed pair. Then the weyrlingmaster took his charges off to the lake where the newly hatched would be fed, bathed and oiled, and the guests began to drift toward the tables, seating themselves for the feasting that would follow.
Master Robinton led his craftsmen in a rousing ballad of praise to dragons and their riders before he joined the Weyrleaders and their visiting Lord Holders. Oharan, Sebell, Menolly and Piemur did the courtesy round to the tables where the parents of new dragonriders were seated, singing requests. Menolly's fire lizards sang several songs with her before she excused them, explaining that they were far more interested in the new dragons than singing for mere people. Then she got involved with a group from the crafthall at Bitra, and the other three harpers left her explaining how to teach fire lizards to sing as they continued the rounds.
The tradition was that a harper's song deserved a cup of wine. Chatting as they drank, Sebell and Oharan took turns directing conversation where they wished it, Mirrim's unexpected Impression.
There was, to be sure, considerable surprise that Mirrim had done so, but most of those queried found it to be no large affair. After all, they said, Mirrim was weyrbred, a fosterling of Brekke's, had Impressed three of the first fire lizards to be found at Southern, so her unexpected rise to dragonrider was at least consistent. Now Jaxom, who had to remain Lord of Ruatha, was a different case entirely. Piemur noticed that everyone was a good deal interested in the health of the little white dragon and, while they wished him the best, were just as pleased that he'd never make a full-sized beast. Evidently that made it easier for people to accept the fact that Ruth was being raised in a Hold instead of a weyr.
Holdlessness was a topic to which conversations returned time and again that evening. Many lads, growing up in land crafts, would not find holdings of their own when they were old enough. There simply weren't any old places left. Could not more of the mountainous regions of the far north be made habitable? Or the remote slopes of High Reaches or Crom? Piemur noted that Nabol, which actually had tenable land uncultivated, was never cited. What about the marshlands of lower Benden? Surely with such a competent Weyr, more holds could be protected. Occasionally Piemur, standing or sitting at the edges of groups, would overhear fascinating snatches and try to make sense out of them. Mostly he discarded them as gossip, but one stuck in his tired mind. Lord Oterel had been the speaker. He didn't know the other man, though his lighter clothes suggested he came from the southern part of Pern. “Meron gets more than his share; we go without. Girls impress fighting dragons, and our lad stands on the Ground. Ridiculous!”
Piemur found it getting progressively harder to rise from one table and move to another. Not that he was drinking any wine; he had sense enough not to do that. He just seemed to be more tired than he ought to be; if he could just put his head down for a few moments.
He was scarcely conscious of the cold of between, only annoyed because he was being forced to walk when he wanted to sit down. He did recall some sort of argument going on over his head. He could have sworn it was Silvina giving someone the very rough edge of her tongue. He wasmercifully grateful that finally he was permitted to stretch out on a bed, feel furs pulled over his shoulders, and he could give in to the sleep he craved.
The bell woke him, and his surroundings confused him. He looked about, trying to figure out where he was, since he certainly wasn't in the drum apprentices' quarters. Further he was on a rush bag on a floor, the floor in Sebell's room, for the clothes Sebell had been wearing for the past two days were draped on a nearby chair, his flying boots sagging against each other by the bed. Piemur's empty clothes had been neatly piled on his boots at the foot of the rush bag.
The bell continued to ring, and Piemur, keenly aware of the emptiness of his belly, hastily dressed, paused long enough to splash his face and hands with water in case anyone, like Dirzan, wanted to fault him on cleanliness and proceeded down the corridor to the steps and the dining hall. He was just turning into the hall when Clell and the other three came in the main door. Clell flashed a look at the others and then strode up to Piemur, grabbing him by the arm roughly.
“Where've you been for two days?”
“Why? Did you have to polish the drums?”
“You're going to get it from Dirzan.” A pleased smirk crossed Clell's face.
“Why should he get it from Dirzan, Clell?” asked Menolly, quietly coming up behind the drum apprentices. “He's been on Harper business.”
“He's always getting off on Harper business,” replied Clell with unexpected anger, “and always with you!”
Piemur raised his fist at such insolence and leaned back to make the swing count in Clell's sneering face. But Menoily was quicker; she swung the apprentice about and shoved him forcefully toward the main door.
“Insolence to a journeyman means water rations for you, Clell!” she said and, without bothering to see that he'd continued out of the hall, she turned to the other three who gawked at her. “And, for you, too, if I should learn of any mischief against Piemur because of this. Have I made myself perfectly clear? Or do I need to mention the incident to Master Olodkey?”
The cowed apprentices murmured the necessary assurances and, at her dismissal, lost themselves in the throng of other apprentices.
“How much trouble have you been having in the drumheights, Piemur?”
“Nothing I can't handle,” said Piemur, wondering when he could get back at Clell for that insult to Menolly.
“Water rations for you, too, Piemur, if I see so much as a scratch on Clell's face.”
“But he...”
Bonz, Timiny and Brolly came flying into the hall at that point and hailed Piemur with such evident relief that, after giving Piemur a long, forbidding glance, Menolly went off toward the journeyman's tables. The boys demanded to know where he'd been and he was to tell them everything.
He didn't. He told them what he felt they should know as far as the Igen Hold Gather was concerned, an innocuous enough tale. And he could, and did, describe in great detail the Impression of Path to Mirrim. The bare bones of that unexpected event was already the talk of the Hall, and Piemur had heard the public version so often that he knew he wasn't committing any indiscretion. He was careful to play down, even to his good friends, the circumstances that had brought him to Benden Weyr at such an auspicious occasion.
“No dragonrider was going to take me, an apprentice harper, all the way back to the Hall when there was a Hatching, so I had to stay.”
“C'mon, Piemur,” said Bonz, thoroughly disgusted with his indifference, “you can't ever get me to believe that you didn't enjoy every moment of it.”
“Then I won't. 'Cause I did. But I was just bloody lucky to be at the Igen Gather right then. Otherwise I'd've been back polishing the big drums yesterday!”
“Say, Piemur, you getting on all right with Clell and those others?” asked Ranly.
“Sure. Why?” Piemur kept his voice as casual as he could.
“Oh, nothing, except they're not mixers, and lately, they've been sort of asking about you in a funny sort of way.” Ranly was worried, and from the solemn expressions on the other faces, he had confided their concern.
“You just haven't been the same since your voice changed, Piemur,” said Timiny, blushing with embarrassment.
Piemur snorted, then grinned because Timiny looked so uncomfortable. “Of course, I'm not, Tim. How could I be? My voice is changing, and the rest of me, too.”
“I didn't mean that...” and Tuniny faltered in a muddle of confusion, looking at Bonz and Brolly for help to express what puzzled them all.
Just then the journeyman rose to give out the day's assignments, and the apprentices were forced to be quiet. Piemur held his breath, hoping that Menolly had not made Clell's discipline a public one and felt relieved when it was obvious that she hadn't. He was going to have enough trouble with Clell as it was. Not that he worried about the apprentice going hungry. He'd seen the other three secreting bread, fruit and a thick wherry slice to smuggle out to him.
As the sections dispersed for their work parties, Piemur went to the drumheights, wondering exactly what awaited him. He was not surprised to find that the drums had been left for him to polish, or that Dirzan grumbled about his absence because how could he learn enough to be a proper drummer. And it was only to be expected that there was no word of praise from Dirzan when he came out measure perfect on all the sequences Dirzan asked him. What Piemur wasn't prepared for was the state of his belongings when Dirzan dismissed him. He got the first whiff when he opened the door to the apprentices' room. Despite the fact that both windows were propped wide open, the small room smelled like the necessary. He opened the press for clean clothes and realized where the worst of the offending stench lay. He turned, half-hoping this was all, but as he ran his hand over his sleeping furs they were disgustingly damp.
“Who's been...” Dirzan came striding into the room, finger and thumb pinching his nose against the odour.
Piemur said nothing, he merely let the soiled clothing unroll and held the furs up so that the light fell on the long, damp stain. Dirzan's eyes narrowed, and his grimace deepened. Piemur wondered what annoyed Dirzan more, that Piemur's unexpectedly long absence had made the joke more noisome than necessary, or that here was proof positive that Piemur was being harassed by his roommates.
“You may be excused from other duties to attend to this,” said Dirzan. “Be sure to bring back a sweet candle to clear the odour. How they could sleep with that...”
Dirzan waited until Piemur had cleared the noxious things from the room, and then he slammed the door with such force that the journeyman on watch came to see what was the matter.
With everyone scattered for work sections, Piemur managed to get to the washing room without being stopped. He was so furious he wouldn't have trusted himself to answer properly if anyone had asked him the most civil of questions. He slapped the furs, hair side out into the warm tub, sprinkling half the jar of sweetsand on the slowly sinking bedding. He shook the half-hardened stuff out of his clothing into the drain, and then, with washing paddle, shoved and prodded the garments to loosen the encrustations. If there were stains on his new clothes, he'd face a month's water rations but he'd pay them all back, so he would.
“What are you doing in here at this time of day, Piemur?” asked Silvina, attracted by the splashing and pounding.
“Me?” The force of his tone brought Silvina right into the room. “My roommates play dirty jokes!”
Silvina gave him a long searching look as her nose told her what kind of dirty jokes. “Any reason for them to?”
In a split second Piemur decided. Silvina was one of the few people in the Hall he could trust. She instinctively knew when he was shamming, so she'd know now that he was being put on. And he had an unbearable need and urge to release some of the troubles he had suppressed. This last trick of the apprentices, damaging his good new clothes, hurt more than he had realized in the numbness following his discovery. He'd been so proud of the fine garments, and to have them crudely soiled before he'd worn some of them enough to acquire honest dirt hit him harder than the slanders at his supposed indiscretions.
“I get to Gathers and Impressions,” Piemur drew a whistling breath through his teeth, “and I've made the mistake of learning drum measures too fast and too well.”
Silvina continued to stare at him, her eyes slightly narrowed and her head tilted to one side. Abruptly she moved beside him and took the washpaddle from his hand, slipping it deftly under the soaking furs.
“They probably expected you back right after the Igen Gather!” She chuckled as she plunged the fur back under the water, grinning broadly at him. “So they had to sleep in the stink they caused for two nights!” Her laughter was infectious, and Piemur found his spirits lifting as he grinned back at her. “That Clell. He's the one who planned it. Watch him, Piemur. He's got a mean streak.” Then she sighed. “Still, you won't be there long, and it won't do you any harm to learn the drum measures. Could be very useful one day.” She gave him another long appraising look. “I'll say this for you, Piemur, you know when to keep your tongue in your head! Here, put that through the wringer now and let's see if we've got the worst out!”
Silvina helped him finish the washing, asking him all about the Hatching and Mirrim's unexpected Impression of a green dragon. And how did he find the climate in Igen? It was as much a relief for him to talk to Silvina without restraint as to have her expert help in cleaning his clothes.
Then, because she said nothing would be dry before evening, she got him another sleeping fur, and a spare shirt and pants, commenting that they were well-enough worn not to cause envy.
“You'll mention, of course, that I tore strips out of you for ruining good cloth and staining fur,” she said with a parting wink.
He was halfway out of the Hall when he remembered the need for a sweet candle and went back for it, bearing her loud grumbles to the rest of the kitchen with fortitude.
Afterward, Piemur thought that if Dirzan had ignored the mischief the way Piemur intended to, the whole incident might have been forgotten. But Dirzan reprimanded the others in front of the journeymen and put them on water rations for three days. The sweet candle cleared the quarters of the stench, but nothing would ever sweeten the apprentices toward Piemur after that. It was almost as if, Piemur thought, Dirzan was determined to ruin any chance Piemur had of making friends with Clell or the others.
Though he did his best to stay out of their vicinities, he was constantly having benches shoved into his shins in the study room, his feet trod on everywhere, his ribs painfully stuck by drumsticks or elbows. His furs were sewn together three nights running, and his clothes were so frequently dipped in the roof gutters that he finally asked Brolly to make him a locking mechanism for his press that he alone could open. Apprentices were not supposed to have any private containers, but Dirzan made no mention of the addition to Piemur's box.
In a way, Piemur found a certain satisfaction in being able to ignore the nuisances, rising above all the pettiness perpetrated on him with massive and complete disdain. He spent as much time as he could studying the drum records, tapping his fingers on his fur even as he was falling asleep to memorize the times and rhythms of the most complicated measures. He knew the others knew exactly what he was doing, and there was nothing they could do to thwart him.
Unfortunately, the coolness he developed to fend off their little tricks began insidiously to come between him and his old friends. Bonz and Brolly complained loudly that he was different, while Timiny watched him with mournful eyes, as if he somehow considered himself responsible for Piemur's alterations.
Piemur tried to laugh it off, saying he was drum happy.
“They're putting on you up in the drumheights, Piemur,” said Bonz glowering loyally. “I just know they are. And if Clell…”
“Clell isn't!” Piemur said in a tone so fierce that Bonz rocked back on his heels.
“That's exactly what I mean, Piemur!” said Brolly, who wasn't easily intimidated by a boy he'd known for five Turns and still topped by a full head. “You're different and don't give me that old wheeze about your voice changing and you with it. Your voice is settling. You haven't cracked in days!”
Piemur blinked, mildly surprised at the phenomenon of which he'd been unaware.
“It's too bad. Anyhow, Tilgin's got the part down... finally, and it wouldn't sound the same with you as baritone,” Brolly went on.
“Baritone?” Piemur's voice broke in surprise and, when he saw the disappointment on his friends' faces, he started to laugh. “Well, maybe, and then, maybe not.”
“Now you sound like Piemur,” said Bonz, shouting with emphasis.
Isolated as he'd been in the drumheights, Piemur had easily managed to forget the fast approaching feast at Lord Groghe's and the performance of Domick's new music. Two sevendays had passed since the Benden Hatching, and he'd been too engrossed with his own problems to give much attention to extraneous matters. His friends now underlined the nearness of the Feast, and he was sure that he couldn't escape attending it and wondered how he could. He'd prefer to be out of Fort Hold altogether on the night of the performance because, sure as eggs cracked, he'd have to go to it.
Then it occurred to him that he hadn't been on any trips with Sebell and Menolly lately. He forced himself to laugh and joke with his friends in a fair imitation of his old self, but once back in the drumheights, while he stood his afternoon watch, he began to wonder if he'd done something wrong at Benden Weyr or Igen Hold. Or if, by any freak chance, Dirzan's tittle-tattle had affected Menolly's opinion of him. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Sebell at all of late.
The next morning, when he was feeding the fire lizards with her, he asked her where the journeyman was.
“Between you and me,” she said in a low voice, having seen Camo occupied with the greedy Auntie One, “he's up in the Ranges. He should be back tonight. Don't worry, Piemur,” she said, smiling. “We haven't forgotten you.” Then she gave him a very searching look. “You haven't been worried, have you?”
“Me? No, why should I worry?” He gave a derisive snort. “I put my time to good use. I know more drum measures than any of those dimwits, for all they've been mucking about up there for Turns!”
Menolly laughed. “Now you sound more like yourself. You're all right with Master Olodkey then?”
“Me? Sure!” Which, Piemur felt, was not stretching the truth. He was fine with Master Olodkey because he rarely came in contact with the man.
“And that rough lad, Clell, he's not come back at you for the other day, has he?”
“Menolly,” said Piemur, taking a stern tone with her, “I'm Piemur. No one gets back at me. What gave you such a notion?” He sounded as scornful as he could.
“Hmmmm, just that you haven't been as, well...” and she smiled half-apologetically. “Oh, never mind. I expect you can take care of yourself any time, anywhere.”
They continued feeding the Fire lizards, and Piemur wished heartily that he could tell Menolly the real state of affairs in the drumheights. But what good would it do? She could only speak to Dirzan, who would never accept Piemur for any reason. Asking Dirzan to discipline the other apprentices for what was only stupid petty narking wouldn't help. Piemur could see clearly now that his well founded reputation for mischief and game playing were coming back at him when he least expected, or even less, deserved it. He'd no one but himself to fault, so he'd just have to chew it raw and swallow! After all, once his voice settled, he'd be out of the drumheights. He could put up with it because he'd have the odd Gather out with Sebell and Menolly.