The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern) Page 2

  “Leave on that filthy trader, Toric—” His father rose as his eighteen-year-old son strode to the hall door, scooping his weather-gear off its peg. “Leave,” he bellowed, “and you will have neither hall nor hold, and all men’s hands will be turned against you. I’ll have the harpers read it!”

  The door slammed shut so hard that the latch bounced up, and it swung open again on squeaky hinges. The others at the dining table simply sat, stunned at such an unexpected drama at the end of a tiring day. The Masterfisher waited, hearing the progress of steel-tipped bootheels departing across the exterior flagstones. When all sound had died away, he sat down again. Looking across to his oldest son, who was still gape-mouthed, he said in a tight, bitter voice, “That hinge wants oil, Brever. See to it after your meal.”

  His wife could not completely choke back a sob of dismay, but her husband paid her no attention. He never mentioned Toric’s name again, not even when five of his remaining nine children followed their brother, irrevocably, off High Palisades Island.

  Keroon Hold—Winter—two Turns later…

  “Light-fingered she is, and I’ve told you that time and again, husband. She’s not to work in this hold ever again.”

  “But it’s winter, wife.”

  “Keita should have thought of that when she filched a whole loaf of bread. What does she think we are? Stupid? Rich enough to stuff her guts with more than she needs to do her work? Out she goes tonight. She’s holdless as of this moment. Let her remember that, as well. She’ll have no recommendation from Greystones if there is anyone fool enough to hire the slut.”

  At Keroon, on the first high spring tides in that eighth Turn after Fax’s rise to prominence, a battered ship finally makes safe harbor, her rigging torn, mainmast snapped, bowsprit broken; and several of the crew vow to find a less hazardous occupation. The third mate cannot look forward to employment of any kind…

  “Now, Brare, I’ve added a few credits to what’s yours by rights, but a footless man’s no good in the rigging, nor on the nets, and that’s a fact. I’ve asked my brother who’s Portmaster to see you healed and healthy. Talk it over with him, see what work’s available in the port holds. You were always a good man with your hands. I’ve a good word for you, too, in this recommendation. Any Lord Holder will see you’re an honest man who’s had a trade taken from him by injury. You’ll find a place. I’m sorry to have to beach you, Brare, real sorry.”

  “But you’re doing it anyway, aren’t you, Master?”

  “Now, let’s not be bitter, fisherman. I’m doing my best for you. It’s a tough enough life for an ablebodied man, let alone…”

  “Say it, Masterfisherman, say it. Let alone for a cripple!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so bitter!”

  “Leave it to me then, Master, and get back to your ablebodied fisherfolk! You’ll be missing the tide if you wait too long!”

  All through the summer, rumors of impending Threadfall are spreading. Someone suggests that Benden’s lone Weyr is circulating the rumors, but that idea is scoffed at: The precious dragonriders of Benden never show their faces outside the old mountain. And yet the possibility of Thread’s return begins to dominate all conversations…

  As the harvest in Southern Boll was particularly heavy that year, Lady Marella and her steward were constantly in the groves and fields, overseeing the pickers who were prone to slack off if given any opportunity.

  “We must be thrifty with the earth’s products,” Lady Marella kept repeating, urging the pickers to increase their efforts despite the heat of the waning summer days. “Lord Sangel expects a fair day’s labor for the marks he pays.”

  “Aye, he’s wise to be storing the plenty while the skies are clear,” one of the foremen remarked, picking hand over hand at a rate that astonished Lady Marella.

  “Now I want no talk of that nature here…”

  “Denol, Lady Marella,” the man filled in courteously enough. “And it would settle our minds some, lady, if you could assure us that sort of talk is nothing but sundream.”

  “Of course it is!” she said in her most decisive tone. “Lord Sangel has looked into the matter thoroughly, and you can rest assured that Thread will not return.”

  “Lord Sangel’s a good and provident man, Lady Marella. You ease my mind. Pardon me for mentioning it, lady, but iffen someone, say like some of the children, could bring us empty sacks, and iffen the cart could come between the rows to pick up the full ones, we could move much faster down these rows.”

  “Now, Denol,” the steward began in an admonitory tone.

  “No, no, that’s not a bad idea,” Lady Marella replied, noting the numbers of men and women plodding to the top row with full sacks. “Only children above ten Turns,” she added, “for the younger ones must attend the harper and learn their traditional ballads.”

  “And we appreciate their opportunity, Lady Marella,” Denol said, his hands darting with incredible speed from the fruit to the sack in front of him. “Moving about as we has to means they don’t get their learning. Tradition means a lot to me, lady. It’s the backbone of our world.”

  His sack was full, and he respectfully bowed as he trotted down the row to deposit it on the cart and pick up an empty sack. He was back and picking again within seconds, moving with diligent energy.

  She went on down the rows, noting how often pickers had to leave their rows, the steward silent behind her. When they were out of earshot, she turned to him. “Implement the change tomorrow. It would speed things up. And give that man an extra mark for his suggestion.”

  The steward kept his eye on Denol throughout the harvesting, somewhat annoyed that he had not had the idea himself. But he could never catch Denol slacking the pace he set, either among the bushes, or in the groves, or when they started the backbreaking labor of digging the tubers. Denol still logged in more sacks than any other picker. The steward had to concede that the man was an excellent worker.

  When the harvest was done, Denol approached the steward. “If my work has been satisfactory, steward, is it possible that me and my kin could stay on here over the winter? There’s still a lot to be done with the pruning and wintering of the land.”

  The steward was startled. “But you’re a picker. You’ll be needed next at Ruatha.”

  “Oh, I won’t go back there, not no way, steward,” Denol said, looking apprehensive. “Ruatha’s no place to go anymore since Lord Fax took it.”

  “But there’s Keroon…”

  “Aye, and the new lord’s a fair Holder. But I’ve a mind to settle.” He glanced up at the sky. “I know what the lady said, steward, that we wasn’t to pay any mind to the gossip, but, steward, I can’t get it out of my mind now. What with my nippers coming home and practicing their Harper Ballads and reminding me of what can happen does Thread fall.”

  The steward was frankly contemptuous. “Harper ballads are for teaching children their duty to hall and hold…”

  “And Weyr. And they’re smart ones, my nippers, steward, to be brought up in a trade, not wandering where Thread could fall out of the skies on them and eat them up like they was no better than ripe fruit.”

  The steward felt a shiver go down his spine. “Now, then, you heard Lady Marella tell you to stop such gossip.”

  “Would you speak to the lady for me, please, steward?” Denol slipped the bonus mark into the steward’s hand, his look imploring, his manner suitably self-effacing. “You know I’m a hard worker. So’s my woman and my oldest son. We’d work harder still for a chance to stay in such a fine hold as this. Finest one this side of the world.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose there’d be any harm in your staying the winter…provided—” The steward swung a warning finger on the man. “—you do work hard and show no disrespect. And stop that nonsense about Thread.”

  By the autumn of the ninth Turn, the rumors are well spread: whispered in Gathers, on back roads, in wine cellars, in kitchens and lofts. Trouble is coming, and not just that this Turn’
s harvest is unaccountably poor after last Turn’s bounty. But then, Keroon has experienced grave drought, and Nerat terrible torrents, and two mines in Telgar have collapsed—so the pessimists are certain that this is only the start of some tremendous calamity…

  “There’ll be a Pass?” Ketrin first stared at the carter, then frowned. “They said Thread would never come again. I don’t believe you.” He knew Borgald as a pragmatic, unimaginative sort, and a responsible carter, worried only about his precious burden beasts, the great horned bullocks that pulled his wagons. But the trader sounded convinced.

  “I don’t like to believe it,” Borgald replied, looking dolefully at the line of carts as the drivers urged them into Telgar Hold. He nodded, absently counting, as each passed. “But with so many people sure it will come, I believe in taking precautions.”

  “Precautions?” Ketrin repeated, giving Borgald a startled look. “What precautions could you take against Thread? Do you know what Thread can do? Drop out of a clear bright sky on a man and eat him, boots, balls, and all. It’d devour your biggest herdbeast quick as you could snap your fingers. Start at one end of a prime field of wheat and roll across it, leaving not so much as a straw!” Ketrin shuddered. He was scaring himself with that old harper description of Thread devastations.

  Borgald gave a snort. “Like I said, I’d take precautions. Just like my great-greats when they were hauling. The Amhold train has serviced holds since the very first Pass, and Thread didn’t stop my ancestors. It won’t stop me.”

  “But…Thread kills…” Ketrin was becoming worked up over the mere thought of its return to Pern’s skies.

  “Only if you get a direct hit; and no fool stays out in it.”

  “It eats through trees and flesh and anything not stone or metal…” Then Ketrin made a dismissive gesture. “Nah, can’t be true. You’ve been too long on the track, Borgald, to listen to fool’s talk. And I don’t take it kindly that you’re spilling such tripe at me.”

  “ ‘Tain’t tripe!” Borgald replied, sticking his chin out defensively. “You’ll see. But don’t worry. I’ll still haul your supplies up from Keroon and Igen. I’ll be safe with my precautions. I’ll put thin metal sheets over our carts and shelter the animals in caves. Thread won’t score man nor beast in the Amhold train.”

  Ketrin shuddered as if he felt the hot score of Thread down his back.

  “You holders,” Borgald added with good-natured scorn, “you have it too easy. Thick walls and deep passages—he gestured to the mighty prow of Telgar Hold—”make you soft and easily scared.”

  “Who’s scared?” Ketrin drew himself up. “But you wouldn’t have any place to shelter if Thread caught you out across the plains.”

  “There’s mountain routes to take—longer, you understand, but never so far from caves. Look you, though.” Borgald rubbed his chin. “It’s going to raise the cost of hauling. Extra time, change of relay stations, the expense of converting the carts—all that adds up.”

  “Raise the carting costs?” Ketrin burst out laughing. “So that’s what it’s all about, my friend. Naturally you’d have to raise your charges, with all this rumor of Thread coming again.” He slapped Borgald affectionately. “I’ll lay you odds to evens, Borgald, that this is no interval, that Thread is gone. Ended.”

  Borgald stuck out his big fist. “Done. Always knew you had some Bitran blood in you.”

  They were interrupted by the hearty voice of Ketrin’s Master. “Ho there, Borgald! Had you a good trip?” He did not wait for a reply. “Are you bringing me those supplies? Here, Ketrin, bring Carter Borgald up to the Hall. Where are your manners, man?”

  “I’ll trade you, Borgald,” Ketrin muttered.

  In the spring of the next Turn, Fax meets his death in a duel at the hands of F’lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, and Benden Weyr goes on Search for a woman to partner the last queen egg, hardening on the Hatching Grounds. While every Lord Holder heaves a sigh of relief for the death of the tyrant, they find themselves uneasy at this resurgence of the dragonriders. For though the rumors about the return of Thread died down during the winter, the Search has revived them, reminding folk of all they once owed to the dragonriders. In some folk, Fax’s death and the impression of the new queen have awakened old longings and dreams…

  “And you will not reconsider, Perschar?” Lord Vincet demanded, amazed, almost infuriated by the artisan’s continued refusal. Vincet bore in mind that the man was an absolute genius with brush and color—Perschar had faithfully touched up all the fading murals and produced perfectly splendid portraits of all his family members—but there was only so much he could, in conscience, offer the fellow. “I thought the terms of the new contract were most generous.” Vincet permitted his chagrin to border on the irritated.

  “You have indeed been extremely generous,” Perschar replied with the mournful smile that one of Vincet’s daughters found affecting but which, at the moment, annoyed the Lord Holder. “I do not fault the terms of the contract or wish to haggle over incidentals, Lord Vincet. It is merely time for me to travel on.”

  “But you’ve been here three Turns…”

  “Exactly, Lord Vincet.” Perschar’s usually long face crinkled in a happy smile. “Actually the longest I have stayed in any major Hold.”

  “Really?” Vincet was easily flattered.

  “So it is time and a half for me to be off to a different clime, to explore more of this marvelous continent. I need stimulation, Lord Vincet, far more than I need security.” The artist bowed in a self-deprecating apology.

  “Well, if travel is all you wish, take this summer off. Good season for getting about. I’ll have my Fishingmaster arrange passage for you. You wouldn’t need to be back here until—”

  “Good Lord Holder, I will return when it is time to return,” Perschar said ambiguously. With a second graceful half-bow, he turned on his heel and left Vincet’s office.

  It took a full hour for Vincet to realize that Perschar’s deft rejoinder had been a firm goodbye. No one had observed which of the many trails leading from Nerat’s main Hold the painter had taken. Lord Vincet was quite upset for the rest of the day. He really could not understand the fellow. Here he had a full set of rooms; a workshop where he had, it was true, trained several talented holders to his craft over the past three Turns; a seat at the high table; plenty of marks in his pocket—and three new suits of clothing, shoes and boots as required, and the use of a sturdy runnerbeast.

  Eventually, having heard the artisan’s parting phrase repeated by her affronted spouse for the twentieth time in an evening, the Lady Holder of Nerat said, “He did say he’ll return when it is time, Vincet. Cease fretting. He’s gone for now. He’ll be back.”

  In Telgar Hold, two Turns later, when the Lord Holders are becoming increasingly aware of and annoyed by the Weyr’s ascendance, Lord Larad is trying to make a suitable disposition of his rebellious sister…

  “Larad, I’m your sister—your older sister!” Thella shouted while Larad signalled vigorously for her to lower her voice. With his eyes, he appealed to his mother to support him, but Thella raged on. “You will not marry me off to some niggardly, foul-mouthed, snaggle-toothed senile old man, just because Father agreed to such a travesty in his dotage.”

  “Derabal is not senile or snaggle-toothed, and at thirty-four he is scarcely old,” Larad replied behind clenched teeth. Being a brother, even half-brother, he did not appreciate the defiant stance of her magnificently proportioned body, athletic and fit in her riding gear. To him, the high color in her cheeks, the flash of the hazel eyes, and the contemptuous curve of her sensuous mouth meant merely another stormy session with her. It did not help that she was within a half span of his own height, so that in the high-heeled long riding boots she preferred she was eye-to-eye with him. At that moment he would have liked to throttle her challenge and reduce her to compliance with the good beating that was long overdue. But Lord Holders did not thrash dependent kinswomen.

  Thella had alw
ays been the most contentious of his sisters, both half– and full-blooded: argumentative, arrogant, willful, and stubborn, making far too much use of the freedom their father had granted his adventurous and daring daughter. Larad had sometimes suspected that their father had almost preferred Thella, with her aggressive high-handed manner, to his son’s more considerative, reflective ways. Lord Tarathel had even looked the other way when Thella had beaten a young drudge to death. He had, however, taken her to task for riding a promising young runner into the ground. Valuable animals could not be wasted.

  Or perhaps as Larad’s mother had suggested, Lord Tarathel had given the girl special consideration since her mother had died giving birth to her. No matter the reason, the old lord had encouraged his first-born child in her hunting, riding, and exploring pursuits; it had amused Tarathel to encourage her to defy convention. Thella was also eleven months Larad’s senior, and she made as much of that seniority as she, a daughter, could. She had even challenged Larad at the Conclave of Lord Holders, demanding that she, Tarathel’s first born, be considered first for the Holdership. She had been politely, in most cases, and dismissively, in others, told to take her “rightful” place with her stepmother, sisters, and aunts. Telgar Hold had rung for weeks with her complaints at such injustice. The drudges bore new lash marks daily as she vented her frustration, and some fled the main Hold on any pretext they could invent.

  “Derabal is a minor holder, not even a lord…”

  “Derabal holds an impressive spread from river to mountain, my girl, and you’ll have more than enough to occupy you if you would deign”—Larad allowed some of his feeling to color that word—”to marry the man. His offer is in good faith, you know…”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “The jewels he offered as a bridal present are magnificent,” Lady Fira put in with some envy. She had nothing half as good in her own coffers, and Tarathel had not been a stingy man.