Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  “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 wellfounded 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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THAT AFTERNOON A drum message came in from the north. Piemur was in the main room diligently copying drum measures that Dirzan had set him to learn by evening, although he already knew them off rhythm perfect. He translated the message as it throbbed in.

  “Urgent. Reply required please. Nabol.” To himself Piemur smiled as the rest of the message pounded on, because he had the sudden suspicion that the Nabol drummer had begun with those measures to soften the arrogance of the main message. “Lord Meron of Nabol demands the immediate appearance of Master Oldive. Reply Instantly.” Had the drummer added “grave illness,” the signal “urgent” would have been appropriate.

  Piemur continued his copying smoothly, aware of the eyes of the other apprentices on him. Let them think that he understood little beyond the first three measures, which was about all they’d know.

  Rokayas, the journeyman on duty, came into the room a moment later.

  “Who’s running messages today?” he asked, the thin, folded sheaf of the transcribed message in his hand.

  The others all pointed to Piemur, who immediately put his pen down and rose to his feet. The journeyman frowned.

  “You were on yesterday.”

  “I’m on today again, Rokayas,” said Piemur cheerfully and reached for the sheaf.

  “Seems to me you’re always on,” Rokayas said, holding the message away from Piemur as he glared suspiciously at the others.

  “Dirzan said I was messenger until he said otherwise,” said Piemur, shrugging as if it were a matter of indifference to him.

  “All right, then,” and the journeyman surrendered the message, still eyeing the other four boys, “but it seems queer to me you’re always running!”

  “I’m newest,” said Piemur and left the room. He was rather pleased that Rokayas had noticed. Actually he didn’t mind because he got a brief respite from the sour presence of the other apprentices.

  He dashed down the three flights of steps in his usual fashion, one hand lightly on the stone rail, plummeting down as fast as he could go. He burst out into the courtyard, automatically glancing about. The raking team was at work. He waved cheerfully to the section leader and then took the main steps to the Hall three at a time. His legs must be getting longer, he thought, or he was improving his stride because he used to be able to leap only two.

  Slightly puffed, he tapped politely at Master Oldive’s door and handed over the message, wheeling instantly so that no one could say he’d seen the message.

  “Hold a moment, young Piemur,” said Master Oldive, unfolding the sheaf and frowning as he read its contents. “Urgent, is it? Well, it could be, at that. Though why they wouldn’t in courtesy send their watch dragon. . . . Ah well. Nabol hasn’t one, has it? Reply that I’ll come, and please ask Master Olodkey to pass the word to T’ledon that I must prevail on his good nature for passage to Nabol! I shall go straight to the meadow to wait for him.”

  Piemur repeated the message, using Master Oldive’s exact phrasing and intonation. Released by the healer, he sped back across the court with another wave to the section leader. He was halfway up the second flight when he felt his right foot slide on the stone. He tried to catch himself, but his forward motion and the stretch of his legs were such that he hadn’t a hope of saving himself from a fall. He tried to grab the stone railing with his right hand but it, too, was slick. He was thrown hard against the stone risers, wrenching thighs and hips, cracking his ribs painfully as he slid. He could have sworn that he heard a muffled laugh. His last conscious thought as his chin hit the stone and he bit his tongue hard was that someone had greased the rail and steps.

  His shoulder was roughly shaken, and he heard Dirzan’s irritated command to wake-up.

  “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you return immediately with Master Oldive’s request? He’s been waiting in the meadow. You can’t even be trusted to run messages!”

  Piemur tried to form an excuse, but only a groan issued from his lips as he groggily tried to right himself. He was dimly conscious of aches and pains all over his left side and sore stiffness across his cheek and under his skin.

  “Fell on the steps, did you? Knocked yourself out, huh?” Dirzan was unsympathetic,
but he was less rough-handed as he helped Piemur turn and sit on the bottom step.

  “Greased,” Piemur mumbled, waving with one hand at the steps while with the other he cushioned his aching head to reduce the pounding in his skull. But every place he touched his head seemed to ache, too, and the agony was making him ill to his stomach.

  “Greased! Greased?” Dirzan exclaimed in acid disbelief. “A likely notion. You’re always pelting up and down these steps. It’s a wonder you haven’t hurt yourself before now. Can’t you get up?”

  Piemur started to shake his head, but the slightest motion made him feel sick to his stomach. If he had to spew in front of Dirzan, he’d be doubly humiliated. And if he tried to move, he knew he would be ill.

  “You said it was greased?” Dirzan’s voice came from above his head. The agitated tone hurt Piemur’s skull.

  “Step there and handrail . . .” Piemur gestured with one hand.

  “There’s not a sign of grease! On your feet!” Dirzan sounded angrier than ever.

  “Did you find him, Dirzan?” Rokayas called. The voice of the duty journeyman made Piemur’s head throb like a message drum. “What happened to him?”

  “He fell down the steps and knocked himself between.” Dirzan was thoroughly disgusted. “Get up, Piemur!”

  “No, Piemur, stay where you are,” said Rokayas, and his voice was unexpectedly concerned.

  Piemur wished he wouldn’t shout, but he was very willing to stay where he was. The nausea in his belly seemed to be echoed by his head, and he didn’t dare so much as open his eyes. Things whirled even with them shut.

  “He said it was greased! Feel it yourself, Royakas. Clean as a drum!”

  “Too clean! And if Piemur fell on his way back, he was between a long time. Too long for a mere slip. We’d better get him to Silvina.”

  “To Silvina? Why bother her for a little tumble? He’s only skinned his chin.”

  Rokayas’ hands were gently pressing against his skull and neck, then his arms and legs. He couldn’t suppress a yelp when a particular painful bruise was touched.

  “This wasn’t a little tumble, Dirzan. I know you don’t like the boy . . . but any fool could see he’s hurt. Can you stand, Piemur?”

  Piemur groaned, which was all he dared to do or his dinner would come up.

  “He’s faking to get out of duty,” Dirzan said.

  “He’s not faking, Dirzan. And another thing, he’s done too much of the running. Clell and the others haven’t moved their butts out of the drumheights the last two sevendays I’ve been on duty.”

  “Piemur’s the newest. You know the rule—”

  “Oh, leave off, Dirzan. And take him from the other side. I want to carry him as flat as possible.”

  With Dirzan’s grudging assistance, they carried him down the stairs, Piemur fighting against his nausea. He was only dazedly aware that Rokayas shouted for someone to fetch Silvina and be quick.

  They were maneuvering him up the steps to the Main Hall, toward the infimary, when Silvina intercepted them, asking quick questions, to which she got simultaneous answers from Dirzan and Rokayas.

  “He fell down the stairs,” said Rokayas.

  “Nothing but a tumble,” said Dirzan, overriding the other man. “Kept Master Oldive standing in the meadow . . .”

  Silvina’s hands felt cool on his face, moved gently over his skull.

  “He knocked himself between, Silvina, probably for a good twenty minutes or more,” Rokayas was saying, his urgent tone cutting through Dirzan’s petulant complaint.

  “He claimed there was grease!”

  “There was grease,” said Silvina. “Look at his right shoe, Dirzan. Piemur, do you feel nauseated?”

  Piemur made an affirmative sound, hoping that he could suppress the urge to spew until he was in the infirmary, even as a small spark of irreverence suggested that here was a superb opportunity to get back at Dirzan with no possible repercussions.

  “He’s jarred his skull, all right. Smart of you to carry him prone, Rokayas. Here, now, set him down on this bed. No, you fool, don’t sit him . . . .”

  The tipping of his body upward triggered the nausea, and Piemur spewed violently onto the floor. Miserable at such a lack of control, Piemur was also powerless to prevent the heaving that shook him. Then he felt Silvina’s hand supporting his head, was aware that a basin was appropriately in position. Silvina spoke in a soothing tone, half-supporting his trembling body as he continued to vomit. He was thoroughly exhausted and trembling when the spasms ended and he was eased back against a pile of pillows and could rest his aching head.

  “I take it that Master Oldive has already gone off to Nabol?”

  “How did you know where he went?” demanded Dirzan, irritably astonished.

  “You are a proper idiot, Dirzan. I haven’t lived in the Harper Hall all my life without being able to understand drum messages quite well! Not to worry,” she said, and now her fingertips were delicately measuring Piemur’s skull inch by inch. “I can’t feel a crack or split. He may have done no more than rattle his brains. Rest, quiet and time will cure that thumping. Yes, Master Robinton?”

  Silvina’s hands paused as she tucked the sleeping fur about Piemur’s chin.

  “Piemur’s been hurt?” The Harper’s voice was anxious.

  As Piemur turned to one elbow, to acknowledge the Harper’s entrance, Silvina’s hands forced him back against the piled pillows.

  “Not seriously, I’m relieved to say, but let’s all leave the room. I’d like a word with these journeymen in your presence, Master Robin—”

  The door closed, and Piemur fought between the overwhelming desire to sleep and curiosity about what she had to say to Dirzan and Rokayas in front of the Masterharper. Sleep conquered.

  Once she’d closed the door, Silvina gave vent to the anger she’d held in since she’d first glimpsed the gray pallor of Piemur’s face and heard Dirzan’s nasal complaints.

  “How could you let matters get so out of hand, Dirzan?” she demanded, whirling on the astonished journeyman. “What sort of prank is that for apprentices to try on anyone? Piemur’s not been himself, but I put that down to losing his voice and adjusting to the disappointment over the music. But this . . . this is . . . criminal!” Silvina brandished Piemur’s begreased boot at Dirzan, backing the astonished journeyman against the wall, oblivious to Master Robinton’s repeated query about Piemur’s condition, to Menolly’s precipitous arrival, her face flushed and furrowed with anxiety, and to Rokayas’ delighted and amused observation.

  “Enough, Silvina!” The Masterharper’s voice was loud enough to quell her momentarily, but she turned to him with an injunction to keep his voice down. Please!

  “I will,” said the Harper in a moderate tone, keeping Silvina turned toward him, and away from the subject of her ire, “if you will tell me what happened to Piemur.”

  Silvina let out an exasperated breath, glared once more at Dirzan and then answered Master Robinton.

  “His skull isn’t cracked, though how it wasn’t I’ll never know,” and she exhibited the glistening sole of Piemur’s boot, “with stair treads coated with grease. He’s bruised, scraped and shaken, and he’s definitely suffering from shock and concussion. . . .”

  “When will he recover?” There was an urgency behind the Harper’s voice that Silvina heard. Now she gave him a long keen look.

  “A few days’ rest will see him right, I’m sure. But I mean rest!” She crossed her hands in a whipping motion to emphasize her verdict, then pointed to the closed infirmary door. “Right there! Nowhere near those murdering louts in the drumheights!”

  “Murdering?” Dirzan gasped an objection to her term.

  “He could have been killed. You know how Piemur climbs steps,” she said, scowling fiercely at the journeyman.

  “But . . . but there wasn’t a trace of grease on those steps or the railing. I tested them all myself!”

  “Too clean,” said Rokayas, and earned a reprim
anding glare from Dirzan. “Too clean!” Rokayas repeated and then said to Silvina, “Piemur’s decidedly odd man. He learns too quickly.”

  “And spouts off what he hears!” Dirzan spoke sharply, determined that Piemur should share the responsibility for this untoward incident.

  “Not Piemur,” Silvina and Menolly said in one breath.

  Dirzan sputtered a moment. “But there’ve been several very private messages that were all over the Hall, and everyone knows how much Piemur talks, what a conniver he is!”

  “Conniver, yes,” said Silvina just as Menolly drew breath to defend her friend. “Blabberer, no. He’s not been saying more than please and thank you lately either. I’ve noticed. And I’ve noticed some other things happening to him that ought not to have! No mere pranks for the new lad in the craft, either!”

  Dirzan moved uneasily under her intense stare and looked appealingly toward the Masterharper.

  “How much of drum message has Piemur learned in his time with you?” asked the Harper, no expression in voice or face other than polite inquiry.

  “Well, now, he does seem to have picked up every measure I’ve set him. In fact,” and Dirzan admitted this reluctantly, “he has quite a knack for it. Though, of course, he’s not done more than beat the woods or listen with the journeyman on duty.” He glanced at Rokayas for support.

  “I’d say Piemur knows more than he admits,” said Rokayas in a droll tone, grinning when Dirzan began to mouth a denial.

  “It’d be like Piemur,” said Menolly with a grin and then, touching Silvina’s arm, “does he need someone with him right now?”

  “Rest and quiet is what he needs, and I’ll look in on him every little while.”

  “Rocky could stay,” Menolly said. The little bronze fire lizard put in an immediate appearance, chittering worriedly to find himself in such an unexpected place.

  “I won’t deny that would be sensible,” said Silvina, glancing at the closed door. “Yes, that would be very wise, I think.”

  Everyone watched as Menolly, stroking Rocky gently, told him that he should stay with Piemur and let her know when he spoke. Then she opened the door just enough to admit the little fire lizard, watched as Rocky settled himself quietly by Piemur’s feet, his glistening eyes on the boy’s pale face.