Anne McCaffrey - Dragondrums

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 well-founded 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.

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.