Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums by Anne McCaffrey Read Free Book Online Page B

that he had a clear view of the one reasonably level area of the minehold where dragons could land.

    Only the bronze did. The two blues settled on the ridge above the mine opening. Sight of the great beast that backwinged to the ground told Piemur all he needed to know to understand the Miner’s grimness. Before their exile south, the Oldtimers from Fort Weyr had made few appearances, but Piemur recognized Fidranth by the long sear scar on his rump and T’ron by the arrogant swagger as he strode up to the minecot. Piemur didn’t need to hear the conversation to know that T’ron’s manner had not altered in his Turns south. With a very stiff bow, the Miner stepped aside as T’ron, slapping his flying gloves against his thigh, strode disdainfully into the cothold. As the Miner followed, he glanced toward the shed. Piemur ducked behind the runner.

    It needed little wit now to realize why the Miner had thrust the sack at him. Piemur investigated the contents: only four of the blue stones that spilled into his hand had been cut and polished. The others, ranging from one the size of his thumbnail to small uneven crystals, were rough. The blue sapphires were much prized by the Harper Hall, and stones as large as the four cut ones were mounted as badges for Masters of the Craft. Four cut stones? Four new masters walking the tables? Would Sebell be one of them, Piemur wondered.

    Piemur thought a moment and then slipped the cut stones carefully, two and two, into his boots. He wiggled his feet until the stones settled, sharp lumps against his ankles but they’d not slip out. He hesitated as he was about to stow the sack in his pouch. He doubted T’ron would stoop to searching a lowly apprentice, but the stones made a suspicious bulge, Checking the leather to make sure it bore no miner’s mark, he wrapped the thong on the backpad ring beside his drinking flask. Then he took off his jacket, folding the harper badge inside before he slung it over the pump handle. Trail dust had turned his blue pants to a nondescript gray.

    A clink of boot nails on the ridge stone warned him and, whistling tunelessly, he picked up the beast’s feet in turn, checking for stones in the cleft hooves.

    “You there!” The peremptory tone irritated Piemur. N’ton never spoke like that, even to a kitchen drudge.

    “Sor?” Piemur unbent and stared around at the Oldtimer, hoping his anxious expression masked the anger he really felt. Then he glanced apprehensively at the Miner, saw a harsh wariness in the man’s eyes and added in his best hillhold mumble, “Sor, he was that sweated, I’ve had a time cleaning him up.”

    “You’ve other work to do,” said the Miner in a cold voice, jerking his head toward the cothold.

    “A day too late, am I, Miner? Well, there’s been yesterday’s work and this morning’s.” The Oldtimer superciliously gestured the Miner to precede him toward the open shaft.

    Piemur watched, keeping a dull expression on his face as the two men disappeared from sight. Inwardly he was right pleased with his dissembling and was positive he’d seen an approving glint in the Miner’s eyes.

    By the time he had finished grooming the runner from nose to dock, T’ron and the Miner had not yet reappeared. What other work would he have to do if he were a genuine miner’s apprentice? It would be logical for him to stay far away from the shaft at the moment, for he’d be scared of the dragonrider if not of his master. Ah, but the Miner had indicated the cothold.

    Piemur pumped water into a spare pail and lugged it back to the cothold, ogling with what he hoped was appropriate fear the blue dragons ensconced on the ridge, the riders hunkered between them.

    The minecot was divided into two large rooms, one for sleeping, the other for relaxing and eating, with a small portion curtained off for the Miner’s privacy. The curtain was open, and plainly the disgruntled dragonrider had searched the press, locker and bedding. In