The Renegades of Pern (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  If Saneter hoped that the mishap would distract Mardra, he was quickly disappointed. She never lost an opportunity to aggravate Toric.

  When Saneter had been posted to the Southern Hold, Master Robinton had briefed him fully on the situation.

  “You’ve been chosen for more reasons than merely trying to ease your joint-ail, Master Saneter,” the Masterharper had said. “I can rely on your discretion and soothing manner, as well as your common sense, to keep me informed of any untoward occurrences.” The Masterharper had paused significantly, his clear eyes meeting Saneter’s. “The Southern Weyr was actually initiated some ten Turns before Threadfall, though that is not general knowledge, and volunteer holders went to assist them. When this Pass started, the Southern Weyr and Hold were temporarily abandoned. Then, as you know, with T’bor as Weyrleader and the ill-fated Kylara as his Weyrwoman, it became an excellent situation where injured dragons and riders could recuperate. You know the more recent history, I’m sure, with the discontent of some of the Oldtimers, and the exile of the incorrigible dissidents to Southern where they could do little harm.

  “Toric, who was holding rather an extensive area, elected to stay on. He’s rather well situated, mind you, though there were restrictions put on both the Oldtimer dragonriders who were exiled and any commerce between north and south.” The Masterharper cleared his throat and gave Saneter yet another enigmatic look.

  Saneter had been so relieved that he could continue to function as a harper, even in the south, that he would have been willing to do much more than exercise his diplomatic talents.

  “Toric puts up with Mardra, T’ton, T’kul—who is, in my opinion, the worst of the lot,” Robinton went on. “He’d have no such autonomy in the north, but I will want to hear what sort of friction develops…if you understand me, Saneter?”

  “I do, Master Robinton. I believe I do.”

  Saneter often chided himself for his innocence. But a man learned as he lived. Once, when Saneter was just settling in to Southern Hold, Toric’s lovely young sister, Sharra, had mentioned that Mardra fancied her brother, but that Toric wanted nothing to do with the Weyrwoman. Mardra’s attitude toward Toric reflected a deep and vicious antipathy, a desire to humiliate and demean.

  “I ask you why, Toric, my queen fire-lizard, who is far more reliable than a watchwher, distinctly informs me that someone was there and crept away.” Having made her point she glared at the Holder, who said nothing, though Saneter could see his fingers alternately clenching into fists and releasing into grasping motions. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Toric,” she added, leaning forward on her couch, her bleary eyes and features missing nothing of his attitude. When Toric moved his head fractionally, Saneter could see her deciding on a further insult.

  With a harper’s appreciation for valor, Saneter thought sadly of that glorious day when the Oldtimers’ Five Weyrs had arrived. Every man, woman, and child on Pern, saved from certain death by the reinforcements, had been grateful to their wings. He had been a harper at Telgar and had seen Mardra and T’ton, the Fort Weyrleaders, a handsome pair, so pleased with their reception. T’kul, High Reaches Weyrleader, had appeared to be an energetic and knowledgeable leader, if slightly condescending to F’lar and Lessa. After four Turns of dealing with the disaffected Oldtimers, Saneter found their decline increasingly painful to deal with. Mardra had become a raddled, blowsy old woman, constantly wine-sotted; and T’kul, stringy with age and potbellied, spent his time endlessly recounting spectacular Falls which he had seemingly charred with only his dragon Salth’s aid.

  “Look at me,” Mardra repeated, command still ringing in her voice, her eyes piercingly intent on the holder. Again his head moved fractionally, and Saneter, judging by the furious set of the Weyrwoman’s lips, suspected that Toric had adopted his very disconcerting habit of seeming to look right through her. “She saw someone. Someone who shouldn’t have been there. Someone who tampered with that sack. Find me that someone! I want to know what he or she took from that sack. Those were Crafthall tithes to this Weyr, and I hold you, all of you—” For the first time she glanced at the other Masters who had been summoned with Toric. “—responsible for any losses. Now hop it out of here!”

  There was a murmur of righteous protest from the other Masters—farmer, fisher, herdsman, and tanner. Saneter, too, would have backed any retaliation. Craftsmen had the right to withdraw their services from a holder—and, by law, from a Weyr, though such an extreme action had never been recorded. The harper caught his breath, slightly frightened of the consequences of such an act—they were, after all, in the early years of the Pass—but just when he could no longer stand the suspense, Toric whirled and strode out of the Weyrhall, his heels thudding loudly against the wide floorboards. There was a hint of frightened relief on Mardra’s face. If she realized that there were limits past which she could not go, then the morning had had a positive outcome. Saneter cleared his throat, gave Mardra a brief nod, and followed Toric. If the others could just contain their fury long enough to get out of the Weyr Hall, they would have brushed out of the incident without irrevocable damage. All for some trivial bauble!

  Saneter did not let his breath out until he reached the hall entry, just as Toric strode down the broad steps without seeming to touch them. Quickly the other Masters overtook the harper, as much to get out of the Weyrwoman’s presence as to support Toric’s example. Saneter did not consider himself a choleric man, but he was as livid as Toric. The farther the holder got from the Weyrhall clearing the louder his curses grew. By the time he reached the well-trod path skirting the cliffs around the beach, he was bellowing out inventive damnations, his voice rising above the complaints of the others.

  “We’re here by choice, not tradition,” Gabred, the Masterfarmer, cried. “Even Kylara was better behaved than that twat!”

  “I’d use her guts for bait if I thought fish would take it!” Osemore the Fisher said, his weatherworn hands closed into thick and dangerous fists. “Chain her to the beach and let the leeches eat her.”

  “Old baggage,” was Maindy the Herdsman’s contribution. “Useless slug. Salt ‘er, I would.”

  “If only they didn’t ride dragons,” Torsten the Tanner said. He shuddered. He was as incensed by the incident as the others, but by temperament he was a cautious man. His words stemmed the flood of invective. When the wounded northern dragons had been quartered at Southern, the holders had become all too acquainted with the agony of a dragon whose rider had died, and the forlorn, gut-twisting keen of those that heralded the dragon’s suicide.

  Though Saneter winced at the idea, he was grateful once again to Osemore. Dragonrider inviolability was deeply ingrained in them all—even a renegade holder like Toric. Which was why Toric had had to leave the Weyrhall before a total rupture of discipline occurred. But by Faranth’s First Egg, it had been close. If they had not been in a pass—not that Southern’s dragonriders did more than mount a token flight… Saneter shook his head, deploring the situation.

  “Their shipments of who knows what arrive,” Toric began again in a savage tone, “dumped down by their dragons, and suddenly it’s my fault that one sack arrived open. She doesn’t even blinding know what was in it, much less if anything is missing. We’re summoned—summoned like apprentices—”

  “More like drudges, at anyone’s beck and call,” Gabred put in sourly.

  “To account for a possible, not provable, theft on the word of a fire-lizard? If she and that slovenly lot can’t keep track of what comes in and out of their Hall, why should I? And how? When I’m never informed of shipments or Weyr requirements unless they run out of something in the middle of one of their carousals.” Toric threw up both arms in his exasperation, hitting the fronds that draped gracefully to shade the path. He tore down branches and began shredding the leaves, needing some way to release his fury.

  The last four Turns since the Oldtimers had been effectively exiled to Southern had been all too frequently punctuated with such sc
enes: the dragonriders demanding explanations for matters of which Toric had no knowledge whatsoever. There would come a day, the harper knew, when Toric would not respond to a summons. Saneter did not like to think about that day. The Oldtimers could not leave the south—and Toric would not.

  The situation deeply distressed Saneter and his ingrained respect for the traditional values and duties. He did not understand why the Weyrleaders would want to replace Toric. The man was an excellent holder.

  Unless the aim of those constant nuisance summonses and Mardra’s needling were being deliberately designed to force Toric out of the hold and replace him with someone more accommodating or obsequious. The Weyrleaders had misjudged Toric and his ambition in that case. Toric had long-ranging plans for his holding, more extensive than those of the Weyrleaders, who did not appreciate the potential of Southern’s bounty. Until just recently, the holder had seemed impervious to the demands and the pettiness, telling Saneter that it was easier to do whatever he was bid and get on with the next job. Toric had then shocked Saneter’s harper-trained sensibilities by remarking that the dragonriders would all be dying off soon enough, preferably before his patience with them was exhausted. But any residual loyalty Saneter had once felt had been totally compromised by the most recent episode. From then on the harper would support Toric completely, with no further comments about a holder’s duty to his Weyrleaders.

  While Toric and his folk thrived in Southern, the Weyrleaders were visibly decaying. While Toric sent teams out to discover the extent of the southern lands, the dragonriders kept to their quarters, venturing no farther than the lake or the nearest beach to bathe their dragons.

  Just then Toric stopped abruptly in the path, and the Masterfisherman tripped over his feet to halt, spreading out his arms to stop the others. Toric turned, eyes glinting narrowly with his fury, and made a scissoring motion with his hands.

  “Anyone…anyone at all…” he said, jaw working as he let his angry green eyes fall on the hastily assembled work party. “Anyone”—he brought open hands together in a resounding smack—”who gives over fire-lizard eggs to Oldtimers gets thrown out of Southern. No excuse, no appeal. On the next boat north! Have I made myself plain?”

  “I shall post a notice to that effect—” Saneter began, and then broke off. Why would Toric forbid an occupation that had earned the hold occasional marks? Fire-lizard eggs were in constant demand from northern traders and any seafolk pausing in Southern’s deep harbor. Surely not because Mardra’s little creature had played a part in this affair? But the moment was not right to question Toric; the holder had resumed his furious pace, the Craftmasters doing their best to keep up with him.

  Saneter dropped back, as much because he wanted to absorb the meaning of that order as because there was no way he could keep that pace. He no longer had the energy he had once enjoyed, and despite the improvement the mild southern climate had made in the joint-ail in hip and shoulder, the exhilaration of anger was giving way to exhaustion. He mopped his face, sweating even in the shade of the leaf-canopied trace, and let his pounding heart and the thudding pulse in his temples subside to a calmer rhythm.

  He wondered if he would send a message to the Masterharper about the latest uproar. Robinton already knew that Toric despised the Oldtimers; probably knew more about T’kul, Mardra, and the rest of the Oldtimers than Saneter ever would. Perhaps he ought to be informed about Toric’s new order. The amount of marks offered for the contents of a gold fire-lizard queen’s nest was more than most holders earned over three or four good Turns. Granted, not that many gold nests were generally located, but the demand for the creatures always seemed to increase. Well, they were more than pets, Saneter thought fondly, hoping his little bronze would perceive that he was no longer in Toric’s angry company and it was safe to return to his usual perch on the harper’s shoulder. He had also told Master Robinton that the Oldtimers were exacting far more than a normal tithe, and that the deliveries did not occur at the customary times or by the usual carriers: it had been moon-dark last night. And he had not seen a single dragon active that morning. But why would Toric forbid his holders to sell fire-lizard eggs to the Weyr?

  On the other hand, Saneter decided, a long account of that day’s incident, when viewed in a calmer frame of mind, was nothing to bother the already burdened Masterharper with.

  Mardra had sent them all to see that one sack in their delivery hung open. Saneter had looked closely enough to identify it as a northern weave, probably Nabolese. Certainly the hemp that closed the sack mouth was of Nabolese manufacture. There had been wine—one could smell the spill—souring in the hot sun. The Mastervintners of both Tillek and Benden sent more than a fair tithe of their pressings to the Southern Weyr, but then, Saneter thought uncharitably, Southern Weyr consumed far too much.

  Another bellow—only Toric could roar like that—startled him into a limping jogtrot. Who under the sun had been stupid enough to add fuel to Toric’s rage? Saneter hurried along. And to think that the Masterharper had implied that Southern Hold would be a pleasant sinecure, with just enough activity to keep him from boredom. Well, boredom was the least of Saneter’s worries.

  When he emerged into the clearing on the bluffs above the beach, he groaned. Two ships were anchoring, their decks plainly crowded with people and parcels. The last thing in the world Toric needed at that point was to deal with yet another shipment of useless northern discards. There might indeed be—there usually were—some useful workers with craft skills or general handiness, but far too many of those making the trip were as aimless as the Oldtimers were.

  Yet, when Toric roared again, Saneter heard a glad note in the bellow, and the way the holder was making for the harbor steps, waving his arms over his head and yodeling, gave every appearance of welcome and pleasure. Quickly the harper walked across the intervening space just in time to see Toric, arching majestically in the air, dive from the high point of the cliff into the deep clear blue-green waters of the anchorage and swim with powerful strokes to the larger of the two ships. It flew Rampesi’s pennant.

  “That’ll help cool him down,” a cheerful voice said at Saneter’s side. He looked over and saw Sharra, her fire-lizards chirping excitedly before they made a straight-line dash to the boat. “Hamian must be aboard.” She flashed her lovely smile at Saneter, and suddenly the morning was bearable again. “Remember? Osemore brought us a message that he was on his way from Telgar Smithcrafthall. My brother, an accredited Mastersmith!” She hugged herself, smiling with pride and anticipation. “Oh, Hamian has to be onboard. What was the old woman’s gripe this time? I ducked away when I saw him shredding mandamos.”

  One of the others present would undoubtedly spread the story, but the harper had some respect for his position. As he watched Toric’s arms flashing in a vigorous crawl toward Rampesi’s ship and its passengers, he shook his head. “I hope he’s doing the right thing, luring people to the south. We aren’t getting the folk who’re settled and craft-trained. Mostly the holdless. And why are they holdless?” Saneter wondered if he dared slip away for the rest of the morning. As harper he really should not countenance the human importations, yet he knew how desperately Toric needed bodies to cut through the jungle growths, clear more land, and secure his ambitions.

  “Toric won’t care, as long as they’re still breathing. Not if Hamian’s also aboard. I was wondering how on earth we were going to get him out of his black humor this time.” Sharra’s ability to cool her brother’s tempers was appreciated to the point where Southern holders dreaded her absence on forays into the wildness. She was, in her own way, as much of an original as her older brother, though her skill ran to healing rather than holding. She harvested the bounty of medicinal plants that grew to luxuriant size and in amazing quantity in the Southern Continent. She had no compunction about pursuing her particular interests, whether or not Toric forbade her to go out alone on the long searches she enjoyed. Suddenly she began to jump up and down, waving vigorously. “Look, San
eter! That has to be Hamian on the rail. And he’s not going to let Toric outdo him!”

  Saneter shaded his eyes, squinting across the brilliant sea. He had just one glimpse of the figure posed on the weatherrail before the man seemed to hover in his graceful dive, cleaving the brilliant blue water and bobbing up safely a moment later to swim energetically toward his brother.

  “Hamian’s return couldn’t be better timed,” Sharra remarked. “But I hope Rampesi got a good price for our last cargoes.”

  Saneter shook his head. Toric was not supposed to trade with the North. If someone ever checked to see how many ships had “been forced to seek shelter from storms in Southern coves”—always the one cove—there could be real trouble with the Northern Lord Holders and the Benden Weyrleaders. He was positive that if Toric approached the Masterharper, presenting the problems and the possibilities inherent in the magnificent continent, some proper arrangement could be made.

  Sharra began to shout impartial encouragement to her brothers, and even those who knew of the latest encounter of holder and Weyrwoman left their tasks to swell the hurrahs. Osemore was ordering crews to the sturdy fishing boats to ferry cargo and passengers ashore. When Saneter saw several more dive clumsily in to swim ashore, he felt somewhat encouraged by their enthusiasm.

  Meanwhile Toric and Hamian had met midway, with much splashing, ducking, and shouts of challenging laughter. Saneter decided not to worry until he had good cause. As he turned back to Sharra, his bronze fire-lizard settled to his shoulder.

  “Well, at least a few of those passengers have a measure of courage. Or maybe they’re just tired of smelling themselves. Either way, Sanny, I take it as a good sign they’d try to swim in,” she said, smiling. “I’d best warn Ramala that we’ll need more than fruit and rice on the table tonight.”

  “I can do that,” Saneter said. “Surely you want to be here to welcome your brother after three Turns’ absence?”