Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums (19 page)

“Now, sir, have you a tale to tell?” asked Sebell, lightly taunting with his Master’s usual greeting. “Could we not have come to Nabol and helped speed matters?”

“I would have thought you’d seen enough of Nabol Hold to last a Turn or two,” said Master Robinton, sipping at his wine.

“He’s got news, Sebell,” said Menolly, narrowing her eyes to glare at her master. “I can tell that look on his face.

“Smug, that’s what he is. Did you learn what happened to Piemur at Nabol?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t find out about Piemur, but among other, equally important, things, I have arranged matters so that we don’t have to worry about Nabol Hold supplying the Oldtimers with northern goods or receiving a further embarrassing riches of fire lizard eggs in that otherwise impoverished Hold.”

“Then, none of the disappointed heirs caused trouble during the confirmation?” asked Sebell.

Master Robinton waggled his fingers, a sly smile on his face. “Not to speak of, though Hittet is a master of the snide remark. They could scarcely contend the nomination, since it had been made before such notable witnesses. Besides, I never bothered to disabuse them of the notion that Benden and the other Lord Holders would call the heir to account for the sins of his predecessor.” Master Robinton beamed at the reactions of his journeyman to his strategy. “It afforded me considerable pleasure to help the new Lord Deckter send the worthless lot back to improve their beggared holds.”

“And Lord Deckter?” asked Sebell.

“A good choice, however unwilling. I pointed out to him, adroitly, that if he merely regarded his Hold as a flagging business and applied the same ingenuity and industry with which he had built a flourishing carting trade, he would find that the Hold would respond and repair. I also pointed out that in his four sons he has able assistants and ministers, a fortune few Lords can enjoy. However, he did have one matter he was particularly anxious to resolve.” The Harper paused. He looked at the expectant faces. “A matter that just happens to march kindly with a problem we face.” He turned to Menolly. “You’d best ready that boat of yours…” he had started referring to her skiff in that manner after he and Menolly had been storm-lost on his one voyage to the southern hold the previous Turn. Now Menolly’s face brightened, and Sebell sat up straight, eyes wide with anticipation. “We won’t locate Piemur by whistling for him from the north. You two go south. Make certain that Toric lets the Oldtimers know, if you can’t carry the message discreetly to them yourselves, that Meron is dead and that his successor supports Benden Weyr. I believe that Master Oldive wants you to bring back some of those herbs and powders. He used up a large portion of his supplies on Meron.

“But don’t you dare return until you’ve found Piemur.”

Stupid bleated, his rump, as he struggled to his feet, pushing sharply into Piemur’s belly. Curled on Piemur’s shoulder, Farli gave a sleepy complaint, which rapidly changed to a squeak of alarm. Piemur rolled over, away from both his friends for fear of injuring either and got stiffly to his feet. There wasn’t anything alarming in the clearing about his small shelter but, as his eyes swung about, he caught the unexpected distant blur of bright red on the river. Startled, he brushed aside an obscuring bough and saw, just where the river began to narrow between the plains, three single-masted ships, carrying brilliant red sails. Even as he watched in surprise, the ships altered course, their red sails flapping as they were first turned into the wind and then were carried by momentum up onto the muddy beach.

Fascinated at the sight of ships on his river, Piemur moved further from his shelter, stroking to reassure Farli, who chittered questions at him. He was marginally conscious of Stupid brushing against his bare leg as he reached the outermost screen of trees. Not that anyone from the ships could possibly see him at this distance. He watched, as one will review a dream, while people jumped out of the ships: men, women and children. Sails were furled fully, not just thrown across the boom. A line was formed to convey bundles and packages from the ships across the muddy beach to the higher, dry banks. Holdless men from the north? wondered Piemur. But surely he’d heard that they were passed through Toric first, so that their inclusion in the Southern Hold was unobtrusive and the Oldtimers had no cause to complain. Whoever these people were, they looked as if they intended to stay awhile.

As Piemur continued to watch the disembarkation, he became aware of a growing sense of indignation that anyone would dare invade his privacy, would have the audacity to make a camp and set up cooking fires with great kettles balanced on spits across the flames, just as if they belonged here. This was his river, and Stupid’s grazing grounds. His! Not theirs to litter with tent, kettle and fire!

What if the Oldtimers just happened to fly this way? There’d be trouble. Didn’t those folk know any better? Setting up in the sight of everything?

Farli distracted him by protesting her hunger. Stupid had fallen to his customary sampling of every type of greenery in his immediate area. Absently, Piemur reached in the pouch at his belt for a handful of nutmeats he’d kept there to pacify Farli. Daintily she took the offerings, but informed him with a querulous cheep that this had better not be all she was given to eat that morning.

Piemur chewed on a nut himself, trying to figure out who these people were and what they were about. One group was now separating itself from those bustling about tents or filling the huge kettles with water drawn from the river. This group moved purposefully toward the far end of the field and then the individuals spread out. Long chopping blades flashed in the sun, and suddenly Piemur knew who they were and what they were doing.

Southerners had come to harvest the numbweed bushes, now full of sap and strong with the juice that eased pain. He wrinkled his nose in disgust: it’d take them days to harvest that field; and each kettleful would require three days of stewing to reduce the tough plant to pulp. Another day would be required to strain the pulp, and the juice had to be simmered down to the right consistency to make the numbweed salve. Piemur knew that Master Oldive took the purest of the resultant salve and did something else with it to make it a powder for internal use.

He sighed deeply, because the intruders would be here for days and days. The camp may have been set up a good hour’s walk from him and undoubtedly he could keep from being noticed. He wouldn’t escape however, even at this distance, from the stench of boiling numbweed, for that smell was pervasive, and the prevailing breeze right now was from the sea. It was infuriating to be forced out of his place just when he’d gotten everything arranged to his convenience so that he could feed himself, Farli and Stupid, had shelter from the tropical storms at night and safety from Threadfall whenever it came.

Then it occurred to him that perhaps these weren’t Southerners, but a work party from the north. He knew that Master Oldive preferred southern grown herbs; that was why Sebell had made that trip not long ago to bring back sacks and sacks of medicinal things. Surely he’d brought enough or maybe this was a new arrangement with the Oldtimers, who surely couldn’t object to the Healer.

But northern ships had many-colored sails; Menolly had told him that seaholders prided themselves on the intricacy of their sail patterns. Plain red sail did suggest Southerners, whom everyone knew broke northern tradition whenever possible. Also those work groups were moving with the familiarity of much practice.

Piemur grinned to himself. One thing sure, he wasn’t going to announce his presence right now. Sure as eggs hatched, he’d get himself included in harvesting numbweed. He’d just take what he needed and work around them, through the forest, until he got to the seashore, well east of them. And well away from the stink of boiling numbweed.

So he made a neat bundle of his woven mat and tied it with a vine thong, ignoring the chittering of Farli, who disapproved of his activity and of the fact that he was ignoring her gradually more insistent requests for food. He stared at the walls of his little shelter and decided that there was just the chance that someone might hunt in the forest and discover his rude hold. He dismantled the sheets of woven grass and hid them in the thick leaves of nearby bushes. He couldn’t remove the clearing he’d made, but he scuffed up the tamped-down earth and scattered dead fronds here and there so that a casual glance would make it appear a natural clearing. He silenced Farli’s now-urgent complaints by heading for the river. His fish trap, tied to his sunken Thread-tree, held more than enough to feed her amply. He gutted what remained after she was sated, and wrapping them in broad leaves, added that to his bundle. He hesitated a few moments before tossing the fish trap back into the water. Surely no one would notice it unless someone tripped over the silly thing, which seemed highly unlikely, and the fish it captured wouldn’t suffer. He’d leave it, and then he’d have ample eating when he returned here.

He made his way through the forest, skirting the wide plain, pausing to drink when he crossed a small contributory stream and to let Stupid rest awhile. The little fellow’s short legs tired quickly, and while the creature was no great weight, he did seem to get heavier on those occasions when Piemur took pity and carried him awhile. Farli flitted ahead of them and behind, venturing up through the trees into the sky occasionally, twittering a scold that Piemur didn’t understand but assumed was directed at the invaders.

“At least, you’re not afraid of them,” said Piemur, when she returned to her perch on his shoulder, begging caresses. She leaned against his finger as he stroked her neck, murmuring sweetly for him to continue, and she twined her tail lightly about his neck. “If only they weren’t making numbweed, I’d be willing to introduce us all.”

Or would he? Piemur wondered.

It would have been so simple to go down and find out if they were Southerners. Imagine their surprise when he wandered in, as easy as you please. They’d be startled, they would! And amazed when he told them his adventures here in the south. Yes, but then they’d want to know how he’d got here, and he wasn’t at all certain he ought to tell the exact truth. Surely it wasn’t unusual for a bold holdless man to try to sneak south, particularly if he had merited his Holder’s displeasure! Piemur didn’t have to mention that he’d acquired Farli in the North and certainly not that he’d removed her from Meron’s hearth in Nabol Hold. Southerners would naturally assume that he’d found the little queen fire lizard here in some beach clutch. Stupid’s acquisition posed no problem at all. He could tell the truth there. Piemur could always pretend that he didn’t know where the Southern Hold was, and had been endlessly searching. Yes, that was it, he could say he’d stolen a small boat and had had an absolutely ghastly trip south, which was only the truth. Yes, but where had he sailed from? Ista? That was too small a hold to steal a boat from. Igen? Maybe even Keroon? The Southerners were not likely to check with anyone…

“Hello! What are you doing sneaking around here?”

A tall girl stepped into his path, blocking his way. On one shoulder was a bronze fire lizard, on the other a brown, both eyeing Farli intently. She let out an apologetic squak, as startled as Piemur. As she also dug her talons into his shoulder and tightened her tail about his neck, all that came out of his mouth was a choked cry of astonishment. A quick chirp from the little bronze caused Farli to relax her tail. Piemur turned his head toward her, annoyed that she hadn’t warned him.

“It’s not her fault,” said the girl with a wide smile, easing her weight to one leg as she enjoyed Piemur’s discomfiture. She had a pack strapped to her shoulders; a belt with a variety of pouches, some empty; dark hair wrapped with a band tightly about her head so strands wouldn’t tangle in branches; and thick-soled sandals on her feet as well as shin guards tied about her lower legs. “Meer,” and she indicated the bronze, “and Talla know how to be silent when they wish. And when they realized that she was already Impressed, we all wanted to see who had got a gold. I’m Sharra from the Southern Hold.” She held out her hand, palm up. “How’d you get down here? We didn’t see any wreckage as we came along the coast.”

“I’ve been here three Threadfalls already,” said Piemur, crossing her palm quickly in case she was the sort of person who sensed when someone lied. “Landed up near the big lagoon.” Which was also partially true.

“Near the big lagoon?’ Sharra’s face expressed concern. “Then you weren’t alone? The others were killed? That lagoon is treacherous in high tide. You don’t see the outside shelf of rocks until you’re right on them.”

“I guess being little, I sort of slid over okay.” Piemur felt it was safe to seem sorrowful.

“That’s all past history for you, lad,” said Sharra, her deep, musical voice compassionate. “If you survived the southern seas, and three Threadfalls holdless, I’d say you belong in the south.”

“I belong here?” Suddenly the prospect heartened Piemur. Sharra was as perceptive as the Harper. The thought of being permitted to stay on in this beautiful land, walking where no one else, maybe not even Sharra, had ever trod before, made Piemur’s heart tip over.

“Yes, I’d say you belonged,” said Sharra, wide mouth curled in a smile. “So, what name shall I call you by?”

If she hadn’t given him the option to state a name, any name, not necessarily his own, Piemur might have prevaricated. Instead, he answered her with a grin. “I’m Piemur of Pern.”

Sharra threw back her head and laughed at his audacity, but she also laid her arm about his shoulders and gave him a companionable squeeze.

“I like you, Piemur of Pern. What have you named your little queen? Farli? That’s a pretty name, and is that little runner beast a friend of yours, too?”

“Stupid? Yes, but he’s just joined us. His mother was threadscored last Fall, but he keeps up with us—”

“Keeps up with you? You mean, you saw the ships land?”

“Sure. Saw ’em going to harvest numbweed, too.”

Sharra laughed again at the intense disgust in his tone, and Piemur found himself grinning at the infectiousness of her humor. “And that decided you to make tracks away from wherever you were? Can’t blame you, Piemur of Pern.” Her eyes glinted with humor and she added in a conspiratorial tone. “I make it my special job to gather other leaves and herbs that grow in this area. Generally takes me the entire time they’re rendering the numbweed.”

“I wouldn’t mind helping you with that, you know,” suggested Piemur, slyly giving her a look. He was only just aware of how much he had missed the interchange with someone of like mind.

“I’d be glad of the right sort of help. And you’ll have to keep up with me. I’ve got a lot to do while they muck about with the numbweed. There’s a northern Healer who’s sent me a special request.”

“I thought you Southerners kept away from the north?” Piemur decided it was time to be ignorantly discreet.

“Well, there are some things that need to be traded back and forth.”

“But I thought Benden Weyr doesn’t permit—”

“Dragonriders, yes,” and there was curious tone in her voice when she said “dragonriders” that caught Piemur’s quick ear. It was a mocking derision that surprised him, accustomed as he was to the respect with which all dragonriders—except the Southern Oldtimers—were treated. But Sharra meant the Southern Oldtimers when she said “dragonriders.” “No, we trade with Northerners.” Again that odd derision, as if Northerners weren’t up to southern standards. “All manner of southern plants grow bigger and better than the same things in your old north. Numbweed, for one, feather herb and tuft grass for fever, red wort for infection, pink root for bellyache, oh all manner of things.”

She had begun to walk now, gesturing Piemur to follow her deeper into the forest, her stride swinging as if she knew exactly where she was going in the tangled depths, had traveled this way many times before.

At some stages of the next few days, Piemur had occasion to regret not harvesting numbweed, a comparatively simple task compared to Sharra’s search, which included digging, scrambling under thorny bushes that scratched his back raw, and climbing trees for parasitic growths. He felt he had found a taskmaster in her equal to old Besel at Nabol Hold. However, a taskmaster far more interesting, for Sharra talked about the properties and virtues of the roots for which they dug, the leaves for which they climbed only the healthiest of trees, well-sheltered from the worst ravages of Threadfall, or equally elusive herbs that lived obscurely where other bushes had thorns to scratch. Sharra had a wherhide jacket with her, but he had nothing to shield him from lacerations. She was quite ready and prepared to daub him with numbweed whenever necessary, but she did have to point out that his size made him the logical person to pursue the shyest herbs in their protective environment. Nothing would permit Piemur to lose honor in Sharra’s eyes.