The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  So he wandered, every perception tuned high, every nuance, shrug, laugh, gesture and frown weighed and measured. He observed the groupings, who shifted between the lines of region, craft and rank. When he realized he had seen nothing of the Mastersmith Fandarel or his Craft-second, Terry, or, indeed, any smithcrafters, he began to wonder. Had Fandarel’s distance-writer been installed? He took a look down the side of the Hold and could see no posts as had been described to him. He chewed thoughtfully at a rough spot on his lower lip.

  Voices and laughter seemed to have a strident edge. From his detached vantage point, he surveyed the Great Court, now so full it appeared as a moving carpet of solid bodies, here and there a tight knot of bent heads. As if—as if everyone were determined to enjoy themselves, frantically grasping pleasure . . .

  Dragons trumpeted from the heights. Robinton grinned. They spoke in thirds, he noticed. Now, if a man could direct them—what an accompaniment to his Ballad.

  “Good Masterharper, have you seen F’lar or Fandarel?” Lytol had come up to him, the young Lord Jaxom at his elbow.

  “Not yet.”

  Lytol frowned, suggested pointedly that Jaxom look for the young Bloods of Telgar Hold and drew Robinton further from the nearest guests.

  “How do you think the Lords will react to Lord Meron of Nabol?”

  “React to Meron?” Robinton snorted derisively. “By ignoring him, of course. Not that his opinion would influence the Conclave . . .”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean his possession of a fire lizard—” Lytol broke off as the Harper stared at him. “You didn’t hear? The messenger went through Ruatha Hold yesterday, bound for Fort Hold and your Crafthall.”

  “He missed me or—was he free with his news?”

  “To me, yes. I seem to attract confidences . . .”

  “Fire lizard? What about them? I used to spend hours trying to catch one. Never did. In fact I never heard of one being caught. How did Meron manage the trick?”

  Lytol grimaced, the tic beginning in his cheek. “They can be Impressed. There always was that nursery tale that fire lizards are the ancestors of dragons.”

  “And Meron of Nabol Impressed one?”

  Lytol gave a mirthless laugh. “Unlikely, I grant you. The fire lizards exhibit a woeful lack of taste. But you can rest assured that Meron of Nabol would not waste time on fire lizards if they weren’t of use to him.”

  Robinton considered this and then shrugged. “I don’t think you need be concerned. But how did Nabol get one? How can they be Impressed? I thought that was strictly a draconic trait”

  “How Lord Meron of Nabol acquired one is what bothers me the most,” Lytol said, glowering. “That Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara, brought him a whole clutch of eggs. Of course, they lost most in the Hatching, but the few that survived are making quite a stir in Nabol Hold. The messenger had seen one, and he was all bright-eyed in the telling. ‘A regular dragon in miniature,’ he said, and he’s all for trying his luck on the sandy beaches in Southern Boll and Fort from the gleam in his eye.”

  “ ‘A regular dragon in miniature,’ huh?” Robinton began to turn the significance of this around in his mind. He didn’t like the angles he saw.

  There wasn’t a boy alive on Pern that hadn’t at one time dreamed of suddenly becoming acceptable to dragonkind, of Impressing. Of having at his beck and call (little dreaming it was more the other way round) an immense creature, capable of going anywhere on Pern in a breath, of defeating all enemies with his flame-ridden breath (also fallacious as dragons never flamed anything but Thread and wouldn’t knowingly harm a human). Life at the mountaintop Weyrs assumed a glamor all out of proportion to reality, yet dragonmen were not stooped by the heavy labor of the fields, orchards and craft benches; they were straight and tall, dressed in beautifully tanned wherhides, and seemed somehow superior. Very few boys could become Lord Holders, unless they were properly Blooded. But there was always that tantalizing possibility that a dragonrider might choose you to go to the Weyr for an Impression. So generations of boys had vainly tried to catch a fire lizard, symbolic of that other yearning.

  And a “regular miniature dragon” in the possession of a sly-faced underhanded malcontent like Meron of Nabol, who was sour about dragonmen anyway (with some justification in the matter of the Esvay valley against T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr), could be an embarrassment for F’lar at the least, and might disrupt their plans for the day at the worst.

  “Well, if Kylara brought the fire-lizard eggs to Nabol Hold, F’lar will know,” Robinton told the worried Lord Warder. “They keep pretty close tabs on that woman.”

  Lytol’s glower deepened. “I hope so. Meron of Nabol will certainly let no chance pass to irritate or embarrass F’lar. Have you seen F’lar?”

  They both glanced around, hopefully. Then Robinton caught sight of a familiar grizzled head, bobbing toward himself and the Warder.

  “Speaking of Benden, here’s old Lord Raid charging down on us. I’ve an idea what he wants and I will not sing that ancient lay about the Holders one more time. Excuse me, Lytol.”

  Robinton slipped into the milling guests, working as rapidly away from the Benden Lord Holder as possible. He happened to dislike Lord Raid’s favorite ballad with a passion and, if Raid cornered him, he’d have no choice but to sing it. He felt no compunction about leaving Lytol exposed to Lord Raid’s pompous manner. Lytol enjoyed an unusual status with the Lord Holders. They weren’t certain how to treat a man who’d been a dragonrider, Weaverhallmaster, and was now Lord Warder of a Ruatha prospering under his guidance. He could deal with Raid.

  The Masterharper halted at a point where he could look up at the cliff, trying to spot Ramoth or Mnementh among the dragons lining the edge.

  Fire lizards? How was Meron going to use a fire lizard? Unless it was because Kylara, a Weyrwoman, had given him one. Yes. That was guaranteed to sow dissension. Undoubtedly every Lord Holder here would want one, so as to be equal to Meron. There couldn’t be enough eggs to go around. Meron would capitalize on forgotten yearnings, and chalk up one more irritation against dragonmen.

  Robinton found that the meatrolls sat heavily in his stomach. Suddenly Brudegan detached himself from the crowd, bowing with a rueful grin to those he’d been serenading as if he were reluctantly answering his Master’s summons.

  “The undercurrent is something fierce,” the journeyman said, pretending to tune his instrument. “Everyone’s so determined to have a good time. Odd, too. It’s not what they say, but how they say it that tips you off.” The boy flushed as Robinton nodded approvingly. “For instance, they refer to ‘that Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ always means F’lar of Benden. ‘The Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own Weyrwoman. Interesting?”

  “Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”

  Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He drew his hand across all eight in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine. Then Brudegan turned away with a gay song.

  Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of Ista Weyr talking earnestly to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers, G’narish being young enough to change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose was in it. Trouble was, he kept his nose inside Ista Weyr too much.

  Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of empty space around them—an obvious ostracization with the Court so crowded—as anything else. They greeted Robinton with grave relief.

  “Such a happy occasion,” he said and, when they reacted with surprise, he hurried on. “Have you heard from F’lar?”

  “Should we? There’s been more Thread?” G’narish asked, alarmed.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”

  “No, in
fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”

  D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.

  “R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scoring.”

  “I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympathetically. “No way to predict it’d fall there at that time, either?”

  “I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his Holders are here in strength, though,” D’ram said, his voice bitter.

  “He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How bad were the Telgar Weyr’s casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”

  D’ram gave the Harper the distinct feeling that he’d asked an impertinent question, but G’narish answered easily.

  “The Wing-second, M’rek, took over but the Weyr is so badly understrength that D’ram and I talked it over and sent replacements. As it happens, we’ve enough weyrlings who’ve just started chewing stone so we’re wing-full.” G’narish glanced at the older dragonman as if he suddenly realized that he was discussing Weyr affairs with an outsider. He gave a shrug. “It makes more sense with Thread falling out of phase and the Crom Hold demoralized. We used to do it in the Oldtime when a Weyr was understrength. In fact, I flew with Benden one season as a weyrling.”

  “I’m certain that Crom and Telgar Holds will appreciate your cooperation, Weyrleaders,” Robinton said. “Tell me, though, have you had any luck Impressing some fire lizards? Igen and Ista ought to be good hunting grounds.”

  “Impressing? Fire lizards?” D’ram snorted with as much incredulity as Robinton had expressed earlier.

  “That’d be a trick,” G’narish laughed. “Look, there’s Ramoth and Mnementh now.”

  There was no mistaking the two beasts who were gliding to the fire heights. It was also unmistakable that the dragons already perched on the pinnacle moved aside to make room for them.

  “Now, that’s the first time—” G’narish muttered under his breath and stopped, because a sudden lull in the conversation had swept through the assembly, punctuated by audible hushings and scrapings as people turned to the Gate.

  Robinton watched, with fond pride, as Lessa and F’lar mounted the steps to their hosts. They were both wearing the soft green of new leaves and the Harper wanted to applaud. However, he restrained himself and, signaling to the dragonmen, began to thread his way toward the new arrivals. Another dragon, closely followed by a bronze, swept in at dangerously low altitude. Gold wingtips showed above the outer wall of the Court and the wind from her backstrokes flung up dust, dirt and the skirts of the ladies nearest the Gate. There was a spate of screams and angry protests from those discommoded which settled into an ominous murmur.

  Robinton, his height giving him an advantage, noticed Lord Larad hesitate in the act of bowing to Lessa. He saw Lord Asgenar and the ladies staring intently beyond. Irritated that he was missing something, Robinton pushed urgently on.

  He broke through to the corner of the stairs, took the first four in two big strides and halted.

  Resplendent in red, her golden hair unbound like a maiden’s, Kylara approached the Hall entrance, her smile composed of pure malice, not pleasure. Her right hand rested on the arm of Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, whose red tunic was slightly too orange in cast to blend with hers. Such details Robinton remembered at another time. Now all he saw were the two fire lizards, wings slightly extended for balance; a gold one on Kylara’s left arm, a bronze on Meron’s. “Regular miniature dragons,” beautiful, evoking a feeling of envy and desire in the Harper. He swallowed hastily, firmly suppressing such unbecoming emotions.

  The murmur grew as more people became aware of the newest arrivals.

  “By the First Shell, they’ve got fire lizards!” Lord Corman of Keroon Hold bellowed. He stepped out of the crowd into the aisle that had been opened to the Hall entrance, and stalked forward to have a good look.

  The golden lizard screamed at his approach, and the little bronze hissed in warning. There was an irritatingly smug smirk on Meron’s face.

  “Did you know Meron had one?” D’ram demanded in a harsh whisper at the Harper’s elbow.

  Robinton raised a hand to still further questions.

  “And here come Kylara of Southern and Lord Meron of Nabol Hold with living examples of this small token of our best wishes for the happy couple,” F’lar’s voice rang out.

  Utter silence fell as he and Lessa presented felt-wrapped round bundles to Lord Asgenar and his bride, Lady Famira.

  “They are just now hard,” F’lar said in a loud voice that carried over the murmurings, “and must be kept in heated sands to crack, of course. They come to you through the generosity of one Toric, a seaholder at Southern Weyr, from a clutch he discovered only hours ago. Weyrleader T’bor brought them to me.”

  Robinton glanced back at Kylara. Her flushed face now matched Meron’s tunic while he looked ready to kill. Lessa, smiling graciously, turned to Kylara.

  “F’lar told me he’d seen your little pet . . .”

  “Pet nothing!” Kylara blazed with anger. “She ate Thread yesterday at High Reaches . . .”

  What else she’d had to say was lost as her words, “ate Thread,” “ate Thread,” ricocheted back through the assembly. The raucous screams of the two lizards added cacophony and Kylara and Meron had all they could do to soothe their creatures. To Robinton it was plain that whatever effect Meron of Nabol had planned had been foiled. He was not the only Lord Holder to own “a regular miniature dragon.”

  Two minor Holders, from Nerat to judge by their devices, bore down on D’ram and G’narish.

  “As you love your dragons, pretend you knew about the lizards,” Robinton said in an urgent undertone to the two. D’ram started to protest but the anxious Holders closed in with a barrage of eager questions on how to acquire a fire lizard just like Meron’s.

  Recovering first, G’narish answered with more poise than Robinton thought he’d have. Pressing against the stone wall, the Harper inched his way up the stairs, to push in around the women clustered about Lord Asgenar, his lady Famira and F’lar.

  “LORD HOLDERS, OF MAJOR AND MINOR DEGREE, PRESENT YOURSELF FOR THE CONCLAVE,” boomed out the Telgar Hold guard captain. A brass chorus of dragons echoed from the heights, satisfactorily stunning the guests into momentary silence.

  The Captain repeated his summons and abjured the crowd to make room.

  Lord Asgenar handed Famira his egg, murmuring something in her ear and pointing into the Hall. He stepped aside, gesturing for Lessa and Famira to pass inside. As well they did, for the Holders were now massing up the stairs. Robinton tried to signal F’lar but the dragonman was struggling toward Kylara, against the current. She was arguing heatedly with Meron who gave an angry shrug, left her and began shoving roughly into the Hall, past more polite Holders.

  There was another exodus, Robinton noticed, of Craftmasters who congregated near the kitchen.

  F’lar needs the Harper

  Robinton glanced around him, wondering who had spoken, amazed that so soft a voice had reached him over the gabbling. He was alerted by a dissonant twang of strings and, turning his head unerringly toward the sound, spotted Brudegan up on the sentry walk with Chad, from the look of him. Had the resident Harper of Telgar Hold found a way to overhear the Conclave?

  As Robinton changed his direction for the tower steps, a dragonrider confronted him.

  “F’lar wants you, Masterharper.”

  Robinton hesitated, looking back to the two harpers who were urgently signaling him to hurry.

  Lessa listens.

  “Did you speak?” Robinton demanded of the rider.

  “Yes, sir. F’lar wants you to join him. It’s important.”

  The Harper looked toward the dragons and Mnementh dipped his head up and down. Robinton shook his, trying to cope with another of this day’s astonishing shocks. A piercing whistle reached him from above.

  He pursed his lips
and gave the “go-ahead” sequence, adding in its different tempo the tune for “report later.”

  Brudegan strummed an “understand” chord with which Chad apparently disagreed. Marks for the journeyman, Robinton thought, and whistled the strident trill for “comply.” He wished the harpers had as flexible a code as the one he’d developed for the Smith—and where was he?

  That was one man easily spotted in a crowd but, as Robinton followed the dragonrider, he didn’t see a smithcrafter anywhere. Of course, the impact of the distance-writer would be anticlimactic to the introduction of the lizards. Robinton felt sorry for the Smith, quietly perfecting an ingenious means of communication only to have it overshadowed by Threadeating miniature dragons. Creatures who could be Impressed by non-weyrfolk. The average Pernese would be far more struck by a draconic substitute than by any mechanical miracle.

  The dragonrider had led him to the watchtower to the right of the Gate. When Robinton looked back over his left shoulder, Brudegan and Chad were no longer visible on the sentry walk.

  The lower floor of the tower was a single large room, the stone stairs which rose to the right side of the sentry walk were on the far wall. Sleeping furs were piled in one corner in readiness for such guests as might have to be lodged there that night. Two slit windows, facing each other on the long sides of the room, gave little light G’narish, the Igen Weyrleader, was unshielding the glow basket in the ceiling as the Harper entered. Kylara was standing right under it, glaring furiously at T’bor.

  “Yes, I went to Nabol. My queen lizard was there. And well I did, for Prideth saw Thread sign across the High Reaches Range!” She had everyone’s attention now. Her eyes gleamed, her chin lifted and, Robinton noted, the shrewish rasp left her voice. Kylara was a fine-looking female, but there was a hard ruthlessness about her that repelled him.