Anne McCaffrey - Dragondrums

The big message drums needed only to be uncovered. Sebell stood for a moment, beaters poised over the taut hide as he composed his message. The opening roll boomed across the valley, the urgent measure following as the last echoes died. Then Sebell, eyes half-closed in concentration, beat out the recipients’ names, the Harper’s request, and the urgent measures once again to insure immediate reply and attention. Menolly positioned herself at the window then, ears straining to catch the pass-along roll from the next drumheights.

“There it is from the east,” she told the two men. “What’s wrong with the northern listeners? Still asleep? Ah, there they are.”

“Candler, any chance of some food?” Sebell asked the Hold Harper. “We’d best wait here for replies.”

“Yes, let’s eat here where the air is clear,” said Menolly, with a shudder as she thought of the thick, distasteful odor in Lord Meron’s rooms.

“Of course, of course. I apologize for not offering sooner.” Candler was away down the stairs.

Sebell picked up the sticks again and beat a quick measure. “Apprentice. Report. Urgent.” He waited a few breaths and then repeated the measure.

“If he’s anywhere between here and Ruatha or Crom, he’ll hear that,” Sebell said, carefully replacing the drum-sticks on their hooks before he joined Menolly at the window.

Her face was sad and her brows constricted in a tiny frown as she gazed across the huddle of cots below the Hold ramp and over the disorganized Gather square, still tenanted by those unwillingly held over by the emergency. Few sounds wafted to their ears at this height, and the scene was unrealistically calm.

“Don’t fret over Piemur, Menolly,” Sebell said, trying to sound more lighthearted than he felt. “He has a knack of landing on his feet.” He smiled down at her, allowing himself the luxury of putting his arm lightly about her shoulders.

“Except when the steps are greased!” Menolly’s voice had an angry edge, and he gripped her shoulder reassuringly.

“Look at it this way: just see how that misadventure has worked to his advantage. He’s got out of the drum-heights and acquired himself a queen fire lizard egg. For all we know, he may meet us at the Hold gates with it, smiling in that ingenuous fashion of his, when you and I know he’s as devious as Meron!”

“I wish I could believe you, Sebell,” Menolly said sighing heavily, but she leaned trustingly against him for his comfort. “If he was anywhere in the vicinity, Beauty and Rocky ought to have found him.”

“He’s somewhere,” replied Sebell firmly, and daring more than ever, he gave her a quick hug, turning abruptly from her as he caught her startled look. “The wretch!” he added, more of a growl than a comment. At that moment, they both heard the message drum roll across the mountains, and Sebell hastily strode back to the drums.

Candler arrived just as Sebell beat “receive” for the last of the messages. The Nabol Harper was panting with the exertion of his climb, for he carried not only a well-laden tray, but a full wine skin slung over his shoulder. The three harpers had time to make a leisurely meal before the first of the visitors arrived. The harpers then escorted the Lord Holders and T’bor to the Master Harper.

Sebell almost gagged and lost his breakfast when he brought Lords Holder Nessel and Bargen into Lord Meron’s inner room. Menolly was already there with Lord Oterel and Weyrleader T’bor. He saw her mouth working to control the revulsion she was obviously feeling. Only Candler seemed impervious to the odor.

Although Sebell had seen Lord Meron the day before, he was appalled by the change in the man propped up in the bed: the eyes were sunken, pain had lined his face deeply, his skin was a pale yellow, and his fingers, plucking nervously at the fur rug that covered him, were claws with hanging bags of flesh between the knuckles. It was as if, Sebell thought, all life was centered in those hands, feebly holding onto life through the hair of the fur.

“So, I’m granted my own private gather, is that it? Well, I’ve no welcome for any of you. Go away. I’m dying. That’s what you all wished me to do these past Turns. Leave me to it.”

“You’ve not named your successor,” said Lord Oterel bluntly.

“I’ll die before I do.”

“I think we must persuade you to change your mind on that count,” said the Masterharper in a quiet, amiable tone.

“How?” Lord Meron’s snarl was smug in his self-assurance.

“There is friendly persuasion…”

“If you think I’ll name a successor just to make things easy for you and those dregs at Benden, think again!” The force of that remark left the man gasping against his props, one hand feebly beckoning to Master Oldive, whose attention was on the Harper.

“…Or unfriendly persuasion,” continued Master Robinton as if Lord Meron hadn’t spoken.

“Ha! You can do nothing to a dying man, Master Robinton! You, Healer, my medicine!”

Master Robinton lifted his arm, effectively barring Berdine from approaching the sick man.

“That’s precisely it, my Lord Meron,” said the Harper in an implacable voice, “we can do…nothing…to a dying man.”

Sebell heard Menolly’s catch of breath as she understood what Master Robinton had in mind to force this issue with Lord Meron. Berdine started to protest, but was silenced by a growl from Lord Oterel. The healer turned appealingly to Master Oldive, whose eyes had never left the face of the Harper. Although Sebell had known how desperately Master Robinton wished for a peaceful succession in this Hold, he had not appreciated the steel in his pacific Master’s will. Nabol Hold must not come into contention, not with every Holder’s younger sons eager and willing to fight to the death to secure even as ill-managed a Hold as this. Such fighting could go on and on, until no more challengers presented themselves. What little prosperity Nabol enjoyed would have been wasted in the meantime with no one holding the lands properly.

“What do you mean?” Meron’s voice rose to a shriek. “Master Oldive, attend me. Now!”

Master Oldive turned to the Lords Holder and bowed. “I understand, my Lords, that there are many seeking my aid at the Hold gates. I will, of course, return when my presence is required here. Berdine, accompany me!”

When Lord Meron screamed for the two healers to halt, to attend him, Master Oldive took Berdine by the arm and firmly led him out, deaf to Meron’s orders. As the door closed behind him, Meron ceased his entreaties and turned to the impassive faces that watched him.

“You wouldn’t? Can’t you understand? I’m in pain. Agony! Something inside is burning through my vitals. It won’t stop until it’s eaten me to a shell. I must have medicine. I must have it!”

“We must have the name of your successor.” Lord Oterel’s voice was pitiless.

Master Robinton began to name the male relatives, his voice expressionless as he intoned the list. When he had completed it, he recited it again.

“You’ve forgotten one, Master,” Sebell said in a respectful tone. “Deckter.”

“Deckter?” The Harper turned slightly toward Sebell, his brows raised in surprise at being corrected.

“Yes, sir. A grand-nephew.”

“Oh.” The Harper sounded surprised, at the same time dismissing the man with a flick of his fingers. He repeated the list to Lord Meron, now mouthing obscenities as he writhed on his bed. Deckter was added as an afterthought. Then the Harper paused, looking inquiringly at Lord Meron, who responded with another flow of invective, demanding Oldive’s presence at the top of his voice. Again, the effort rendered him momentarily exhausted. He lay back, panting through his opened mouth, blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes.