Drummer of Pern, Chapter 5
Like most on Pern, Fabian's dreamed of Impressing a dragon and joining his brother in Pern's fighting ranks. He's dreamed of fighting Thread and saving Pern from its greatest menace.
It turns out there's a lot more to being a dragonrider than fighting Thread.
S’tav entered the baths, towel wrapped around his waist, and snagged a handful of soapsand from one of the baskets set next to every pool. The baths was one large room supported by natural floor-to-ceiling columns of pure rock. The baths themselves were sunken into the floor, pools of varying size heated from an unknown source. Lower Caverns women replaced the filters regularly, so that the cycling water was always clean.
He headed for an empty pool away from the chatter of the group of green and blueriders in the center of the room. It was chilly outside and most had come to fool around, rather than clean themselves.
S’tav couldn’t truly say his mission was any better, but avoiding the twins was always a perk. Wingleaders were given access to a special set of baths well away from the main ones, which, when there were almost 1,500 people living in the Weyr, was a plus. Queens had their own, too, but that was to be expected. They were queens.
The water was just a bit above comfortably hot when he stepped in, towel still firmly around his waist, his time in the Weyr not erasing the modesty of his boyhood in Nabol. S’tav sank down with a groan, relishing in the emptiness of the pool, the distant sounds of squeals and splashing, the heat of the water…
…the very distinct sound of two bodies dropping themselves unceremoniously into the pool.
“Noticed you weren’t at dinner,” W’helm chirped. S’tav cracked an eye open, though he already knew they were crowding in around him. “Did you do anything exciting tonight?”
S’tav didn’t answer. W’helm clicked his tongue and tried another approach.
“That was a good thing you did in flying Giblath.”
“Was it?” S’tav asked. He had played their games for Turns, was willing to play their games for Turns more, but he didn’t relish what he had to do.
W’helm hummed. T’mas was unusually quiet. W’helm always led these things, but the older twin usually had a say in them.
“It was. J’nes is sure to be grateful for what you did…and F’abi as well.”
S’tav supposed they would be more embarrassed, but it was W’helm’s game: he could call it whatever he wanted.
“And M’äx, too,” T’mas finally added. S’tav turned his head towards the bronzerider, admiring the way the water lapped at his hips and the damp air made his muscular chest glisten. W’helm was the beauty of the two (if one identical twin could be called more beautiful than the other) and well-admired among the riders, but T’mas was handsome, having the same effect on the Lower Caverns women and scores of greenriders. S’tav had the dubious luck of calling the pair close friends. “His blue would never have been able to fly J’nes’ green.”
S’tav didn’t ask why no one else had tried, why not a single other dragon had risen for a green who was so obviously fair game. Any of J’nes’ close friends would have known M’äx’s blue was down, yet none had joined the Flight, except for his own brother. W’helm and T’mas’ lives were filled with strange coincidences.
He would have to be very careful around Dr’eas from now on. That man didn’t belong to himself.
“Are you here just to thank me?” S’tav asked. Do what they wanted, he would, but these mind games were tiring. He would much rather have a wash and go back to his bed than listen to the pair meander their way to a meaning. “This is the baths, not the Hall. You got your hair wet for no reason.”
W’helm flashed a bright smile. T’mas added a lazier version.
“Oh, we’re here to thank you.”
ØØØ
F’abi was hunched in the corner of M’äx’s humungous temporary weyr, waiting for him to wake up. His mind was fuzzy, like he had drunk too much, and he didn’t remember much of anything. Certainly nothing clearly. What he did scared him badly.
“M’äx,” he hissed, pushing the bluerider’s shoulder. M’äx was under heavy doses of fellis. His hip had been so bad the Weyrhealer called in someone from the Healer Hall. They had to do a skin graft, a procedure F’abi didn’t really understand but that involved sewing and tons of fellis. “M’ääääx, wake uppppp.”
M’äx groaned and swatted at him, but opened his eyes anyway.
“What?” he asked, looking delighted to have F’abi leaning over his bed anxiously.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Why would I- F’abi, what did you do?”
F’abi grimaced and shifted his feet. M’äx stared him down. F’abi fidgeted again, then told him everything. M’äx looked a little stunned at first but then he laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
F’abi didn’t laugh. He didn’t think- okay, yeah, it sounded kind of funny if you hadn’t been there, which, granted he wasn’t positive he had been.
“Does it sound that bad?”
“Yep. Don’t worry; Jo’ll be down here later to tell me. Just don’t expect him to look at you for the next few days.
“Great,” F’abi groaned.
ØØØ
How in the First Egg's name T'mas' Wing had ever won anything was beyond M’äx. A sevenday and a half in and the bluerider could already see that. Jo was, of course, completely enamored with the words coming out of W'helm's mouth and so hadn't a clue what else was going on, but M’äx had, y'know, brains. Two bronzeriders, one brown, four blues, and four greens left a whopping total of eleven dragons.
Eleven. A Fighting Wing had to have a minimum of twelve to be considered a Wing. Two other riders were also technically part of the Wing but one was a brownrider with a broken collarbone and the other an ancient bluerider with a wasting disease. The latter was set to die in a sevenday.
What had Jo gotten them into?
M’äx couldn't really complain, though. J'qen was an ass for grounding Jo and M’äx himself was in no shape to fly. He had a month yet before he was allowed to even attempt to mount Schlith and Schlith had longer before his bone knitted back together. They were grounded from now until winter began. That didn't mean this was a better idea than H'lith's Wing. H'lith had three times as many riders. He wasn't all that well-known but he had riders and that meant they wouldn't be put in a situation like the one that had gotten Schlith hurt in the first place.
But did Jo listen to reason? Nope. He never had.
There was also W'helm. M’äx had a better chance of the next three Threadfalls turning to crackdust than getting Jo to refuse T'mas' offer.
Oh, yeah. T'mas was an ass. A complete ass. All bronzeriders were but he took the cake for misogynist pig. At least he didn't play around with greenriders. M’äx didn’t have to worry about that. He thanked Faranth for the millionth time that F'abi hadn't impressed green. One greenrider was enough for him to handle. Two hormonal and horny greenriders was way too much, especially if F'abi had turned out to be as much a bitch as Jo did when Giblath was about to rise.
"We'll be up to fifteen if you join," W'helm was saying excitedly. "That would be so great!"
Yeah, so great. Except M’äx was grounded. They had to be desperate to take on an injured rider.
He would soon learn it wasn't just riders the Wing was desperate for.
ØØØ
W’helm and T’mas waited a month before revealing their plan, the one that had garnered them such disrespect among the other riders, to M’äx and F’abi. It was easy to see after spending time with the two blueriders that whatever M’äx agreed to, F’abi would.
Unfortunately for W’helm and T’mas, M’äx refused. The chance to fly one of the most coveted greens in High Reaches and he said no.
“I’ll follow,” M’äx said, “but Schlith won’t fly Klith. He doesn’t want to and I don’t want to. We’re perfectly fine with following W’helm otherwise.”
They were at the Red Butte, practicing formations. Two weyrling groups had popped in from between while they were there, a gawky brown nearly landing on Klith’s head at one point.
Jo was absent, as were the other greenriders, all except for W’helm. T’mas had sent them for training with B’shid, whose Wing flew immediately below them. F’abi didn’t mind B’shid, wouldn’t have minded joining B’shid’s Wing if he had been offering. He hadn’t and F’abi was at the Red Butte, looking out for big butted weyrlings who couldn’t look where they were going. F’abi was decidedly not a weyrling anymore and would never make that sort of mistake (even when it was unreasonable to expect a group of riders to be talking on the south side of the basic landmark).
“Schlith needs to fly Klith,” T’mas insisted, adjusting his grip on Kauth’s saddle. The distance M’äx had to crane his neck up to look at the Wingleader had to be intentional. F’abi, who was sitting behind M’äx, was a bit miffed at the insistence that they talk a-dragonback. Halbith looked like a runner compared to the bronzes and browns. “He won’t listen to her if he doesn’t. She doesn’t outrank him.”
“Then have Schlith relay the message. We can work around it.”
“It’s no use, T’mas,” G’org said wearily. “We’ve been trying for a sevenday. He won’t see reason.”
“Are you Holderborn?” T’mas asked M’äx suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Where?”
“A small crafthall near Nabol.”
“But he grew up at the Harper Hall,” F’abi butted in. M’äx threw him a dirty look over his shoulder. F’abi shrugged. He did.
“You grew up at the Harper Hall,” M’äx told his weyrmate’s brother. “I was twelve Turns when we got there.”
“Ah.” T’mas looked like he’d seen the light of it. F’abi hoped Jo’s choice was a good one. He knew nothing about this Wing, except the Wingleader was nuts. A few sevendays with them had only taught him that everyone had been right. Good Wingleader or not, he was a bit of a weirdo outside of Fall. “You should know, Weyrfolk are a bit different fr-”
“I know Weyrfolk are different!” M’äx snapped. It was a rare occurrence to see him angry. “I’ve ridden for five Turns. This doesn’t have to do with that sort of thing. If Klith were to rise right now and there wasn’t another dragon to fly her, I might reconsider. That’s not the case. We don’t want to fly them.”
“We could try flying with Klith giving Schlith commands,” G’org mused. “It couldn’t hurt. If Schlith won’t follow, have him relay commands. F’abi will go through with it, though. Won’t you?” he asked the bluerider.
“No,” F’abi said, surprising the assembled group of riders. All of them outranked him. It was folly for him to oppose them. He didn’t even have a weyrmate to make his refusal reasonable. “If M’äx won’t do it, I won’t.”
“Come on, F’abi, what could it hurt?”
F’abi was starting to learn how very hard it was to oppose T’mas and his Wingriders. He stood his ground anyway, on the principle that M’äx thought it was a bad idea. M’äx was older, more rational, and less prone to embarrassing mistakes than F’abi. His decision stood.
He was going to be very disappointed when he found out it was all because Jo wanted to sleep with W’helm.
ØØØ
“M’äx!” Jo shouted as he clomped down the stairs to the queens’ weyrs. This walking up and down everywhere just to see M’äx was annoying as anything. He couldn’t wait till his lazy weyrmate was finally in the air again. “M’äx!” Where had he gone? Schlith couldn’t fly anywhere and Jo knew firsthand how awkward M’äx’s movements were with his leg injury (though other parts of his body certainly weren’t injured), so he had to be nearby.
“M’äx!” Jo called again, stepping into the weyr. Tiamath was asleep on a stone couch twice the size of his body in the massive room and didn’t crack an eyelid at the sound of the greenrider striding by. He was used to the ruckus by now.
Schlith had certainly not been allowed the empty queen’s weyr for himself. Tiamath and Tiamath’s non-injured rider were his temporary roommates. They were even-tempered, the rider good-natured and the dragon prone to long bouts of sleeping. Tiamath’s rider spent as little time as possible in the weyr, often out helping Weyrwoman Pira with various tasks while his dragon slept.
Jo had almost reached the ledge, spotting Schlith’s navy blue hide, when he saw a person he never expected to see in M’äx’s weyr.
Greenrider W’helm stood there, obviously in silent conversation with the stocky blue. Jealousy surged through Jo. He couldn’t stand the sight of the other greenrider so close to his weyrmate’s dragon. The jealousy was irrational and intensely strong.
Giblath?
He is talking to Schlith! the green answered, quickly confirming Jo’s theory that she was the source of the emotions. He is talking to Schlith and Schlith answers!
Klith is talking to Schlith? Does she want Schlith? Jo asked, confused by Giblath’s words.
There was a pause.
Klith does not want Schlith. Giblath sounded hurt. She does not like talking to him. She does not want her rider talking to him.
Jo’s jealousy turned glacial. Some dragons were especially sociable and would talk to any person who addressed them. Schlith was not one of them. M’äx would have to hold someone in very high regard for Schlith to talk to that person.
There were only two people Jo knew who fit into that category.
Schlith, why is W’helm talking to you?
Because he wants to, Schlith answered sleepily. I would like to sleep now.
Then go to sleep.
He strode angrily towards W’helm.
“Hello, J’nes,” W’helm said pleasantly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jo snapped, all traces of hero worship leaving him for the first time. He saw W’helm for who he was for the first time: a treacherous, traitorous, weyrmate-stealing bi-
“Excuse me?”
“You talked to Schlith directly,” Jo accused W’helm, only vaguely aware that Giblath was baring her fangs at Klith and hissing, her back arched angrily. Schlith was asleep or pretending to be. “He answered you.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Are you having an affair with my weyrmate? Because I don’t want to be in a Wing with someone who doesn’t respect basic boundaries.”
W’helm’s beautiful face curled into a sneer. “I haven’t touched him. He made that quite clear when he refused to fly Klith.”
“Then why did Schlith listen to you?”
W’helm refused to answer.
“I can hear every dragon I’ve ever met…and they can hear me.”
“What?”
“I can talk to any dragon I want,” W’helm explained. “I’ve always been able to. T’mas can, too.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed to hateful slits.
“So that mating flight theory of T’mas’- it’s all a lie, isn’t it? You can direct the dragons in Threadfall.”
“I can, but Klith can’t. They won’t listen to her.”
If Jo was angry before, it was nothing compared to how he was now. He was livid.
“She’s a green! Of course, they’re not going to take a command from her.”
“Unless they fly her. Dragons listen to their weyrmates.”
“Only as long as they’re weyrmates! What, could you not find anyone willing to fly Klith without some convoluted ploy?!”
W’helm slapped him brutally, the rings on the man’s fingers making the slap feel ten times worse. Jo clutched his cheek and stared at the greenrider, his idol, stunned.
“Listen to me, J’nes, and listen to me good: if I wanted just to bed every rider in this weyr, I could. What I am striving to do is something completely different. Me talking to Schlith now, that is the only other choice. Either the dragons fly Klith or I talk to them directly. I don’t want your weyrmate-” W’helm wrinkled his nose. “-I honestly don’t know why you want your weyrmate- but I will do what I can to make these dragons listen to me. Understood?”
Jo glared at W’helm, who patted his cheek with a smile and began to saunter off across the Grounds.
“Oh, and J’nes?” he tossed over his shoulder. “Remember that I can hear everything Giblath says.”
ØØØ
M’äx, fresh from the baths with hair still sopping wet, widened his eyes at the sight of Jo standing in the weyr entrance, radiating fury. He tried to back out of the room, but Jo grabbed his elbow and he had nowhere to go. He was probably strong enough to fight Jo off, but that would cause far more trouble than it was worth.
“W’helm was talking to Schlith.”
“I know. Schlith told me. He says W’helm is hard to ignore.”
“But why was he talking to Schlith?”
M’äx let out his breath in a long, relieved whoosh. He wasn’t in trouble.
“Because Klith won’t talk to him.” M’äx gave Jo an amused look. “She was very insulted that Schlith wouldn’t fly her. She won’t talk to Halbith, either, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Jo hadn’t. He had been avoiding F’abi for a while now and ignoring him when he couldn’t.
“That was your choice, not the dragons’.”
“Yeah, well, Schlith didn’t have to add that Klith’s hide wasn’t bright enough for him. Halbith didn’t like the shape of her muzzle.” Jo clapped his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“Where was I?”
“Eating, probably.”
“Ass,” Jo said, hitting him lightly.
“You know you love me.”
Previous
Next