“Not normally, I’m sure. But you might be tempted to speak when taunted by others.”
“Me, sir?” Piemur’s imagination was genuine. “Not me, sir! I may be small, but I’m not stupid.”
“No, one could not accuse you of that, my young friend, but as you’ve already pointed out, we are living in an uncertain Turn. I think…”
The Harper broke off, staring out the window, frowning absently. Abruptly he made a decision and regarded Piemur for a long moment. “Menolly told me you were quick-witted. Let’s see if you comprehend the reason behind this: you will not be known as my apprentice…” and Master Robinton smiled understandingly at Piemur’s sharp intake of breath. Then he nodded with approval as Piemur promptly schooled his expression to polite acceptance. “You will be told off as apprentice to the Drummaster, Olodkey, who will know that you are under my orders as well. Yes” —and the crispness of Master Robinton’s tone told Piemur that he was pleased by this solution, and Piemur had better be– “that will serve. The drummers must, of course, keep irregular hours. No one would note your absences or think anything of your taking messages.”
Master Robinton put his hand on Piemur’s shoulder and gave him a little shake, smiling kindly.
“No one will miss your boyish treble more than I, lad, except possibly Domick, but here in the Harper Hall, some of us listen to other tunes and drum a different beat.” He gave Piemur another shake, then cuffed him on the shoulder encouragingly. “I don’t want you to stop listening, Piemur, not if you can take isolated facts and put them together as well as you just did. But I also want you to notice the way things are said, the tone and inflection, the emphasis.”
Piemur mustered a grin. “What a harper hears is for the Harper’s ears, sir?”
Master Robinton laughed. “Good lad! Now, take this tray back to Silvina and ask her to fit you out with wherhide. A drummer has to be at his post in all weathers!”
“You don’t need wherhide on the drumheight!” exclaimed Piemur. Then he grinned as he cocked his head at his master. “You do need it if you’re riding a dragonback, though.”
“I told you he was quick,” said Menolly, grinning at the Harper’s consternation.
“Scamp! Rascal! Impertinent snip!” cried the Harper, dismissing him with a vigorous wave of his hand that set Zair squawking. “Do as you’re told and keep your notions to yourself!”
“Then I will be riding dragons!” said Piemur, and when he saw Master Robinton rise half out of his chair, he quickly slipped out of the room.
“What did I tell you, Master,” said Menolly, laughing. “He’s quick enough to be very useful.”
Though the glint of amusement remained in his eyes, the Harper stared thoughtfully at the closed door, his fingers tapping idly on his chair arm.
“Quick yes, but a shade young…”
“Young? Piemur? He was never young, that one. Don’t let that innocent, wide-eyed stare of his fool you. Besides, he’d got fourteen Turns, almost as old as I was when I left Half-Circle Sea Hold to live in the Dragon Stones’ cave with my fire lizards. And what else can be done with all his energy and mischief? He’s simply not suited for any other section of this Craft. Master Shonagar was the only person who had half a chance of keeping him out of trouble. Old Arnor couldn’t, nor Jerint. It’s got to be Olodkey and the drums.”
“I could almost see the merit of the Oldtimers’ attitudes,” said the Harper on the end of a heavy sigh.
“Sir?” Menolly stared at him, startled as much by the abrupt change of subject as the sense of what he said.
“I wish we hadn’t changed so in this last long Interval.”
“But, sir, you’ve been supporting all the changes F’lar and Lessa have advocated. And Benden’s been right to make those changes. They’re united Hall and Hold behind the Weyrs. Furthermore,” and Menolly took a deep breath, “Sebell told me not so long ago that before this Pass of the Red Star began, harpers were nearly as discredited as dragon riders. You’ve made this Hall into the most prestigious craft on Pern. Everyone respects Masterharper Robinton. Even Piemur,” she added with a laugh trembling in her voice as she struggled to relieve her master’s melancholy.
“Ah, now, there’s the real accomplishment!”
“Indeed it is,” she said, ignoring his facetiousness. “For he’s very hard to impress, I assure you. Believe me, too, that he won’t be in the least distressed to do for you what he does naturally for himself. He’s always heard the gossip at Gathers and told me, knowing I’d tell you. ‘What a harper hears is for the Harper’s ears.’ ” She laughed to find Piemur’s saucy quip so applicable.
“It was easier during the Interval…” Robinton said, with another long sigh. Zair, who’d been cleaning himself, chirped in a querying way, tilting his head and peering with earnestly whirling eyes at his friend. The Harper smiled as he stroked the little creature. “Boring, too, to be completely candid. Still, it won’t be that long an assignment for Piemur, will it? His voice ought to settle within the Turn, and he can resume his place as a soloist. If his adult voice is half as good as his treble, he’ll be a better singer than Tagetarl.”
Seeing that that prospect cheered her Master, Menolly smiled.
“The drum message was from Ista Hold. Sebell’s on his way back with those herbal medicines Master Oldive wanted. He’ll be at Fort Sea Hold by late afternoon tomorrow if the wind holds.”
“Indeed? I’ll be very interested to hear what our good Sebell has for his Harper’s ears.”
Chapter 2
The tray Piemur was carrying was all that restrained him from jumping into the air and kicking his heels together in his jubilation. Working for Master Robinton, no matter how indirectly, and being apprenticed to Master Olodkey, was no loss of prestige and much more than he had dared contemplate. Not, Piemur admitted to himself, that he’d given much thought to his future.
Of course, one never saw much of Master Olodkey about the Hall. He kept to the drum height, a lean, slightly stooped figure of a man with a big head and coarse bristling brown hair that seemed to stand out from his skull to give him the appearance, the irreverent said, of one of his own bass drumsticks. Others insisted that he was deaf from years of pounding the great message-drums for the Harper Hall. Except for drumbeats, they hastily amended, which he didn’t need to hear: he felt the vibrations in the air.
Piemur considered his new apprenticeship and found it good: there were only four other apprentices, seniors all, and five journeymen serving Master Olodkey. Granted that Piemur had been Master Shonagar’s special, but Master Shonagar was responsible for every singer in the Hall, whereas Master Olodkey rarely had more than ten harpers looking to him. Piemur again was in a select group. Even more select if he’d been permitted to announce the full truth.
He skittered down the steps, balancing the tray deftly. Maybe, once he’d proved to the Masterharper that he could keep his mouth sealed…And Master Robinton was wrong to think that any could extract information from Piemur that Piemur didn’t care to divulge. Nothing pleased Piemur more than “knowing.” He didn’t necessarily have to show off to other people how much he “knew.” The fact that he, Piemur, an insignificant herdsman’s son from Crom, knew, was sufficient.
He wished he hadn’t been so brash, mentioning the Southern Continent, but the reactions had proved that his guess was accurate. They had been down to the south: at least Sebell had, and probably Menolly. If they’d gone, then the Harper needn’t risk the trip with such eyes and ears to do the hard work.
Piemur hadn’t had much to do with the Oldtimers before F’lar had ordered them exiled to the Southern Continent. For this he was fervently grateful as he’d heard enough about their arrogance and greed. But if he, Piemur, had been exiled, he wouldn’t have just stayed put. He couldn’t understand why the Oldtimers had quietly accepted their humiliating dismissal. Piemur calculated that some two hundred and forty-eight Oldtimers and their women had gone to the Southern Continent, including the two dissatisfied
Weyrleaders, T’ron of Fort and T’kul of the High Reaches. Seventeen Oldtimers had returned north, accepting Benden as their leader or so Piemur had heard. Most of the exiled men and dragons had been well on in Turns, so they were no real loss to the dragon strength of Pern. Old age and sickness had claimed almost forty dragons in the first Turn, and almost as many had gone between this Turn. Somehow that struck Piemur as being rather careless of dragons, even Oldtimer ones.
He stopped abruptly, aware of a tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchens. Bubbly berry pies? And just when he needed a real treat! His mouth began to water in anticipation. The pies must be just out of the bake oven or surely he would have discerned that fragrance before.
He heard Silvina’s voice rising above the working noises and grimaced. He could’ve gotten a few pies out of Abuna with no trouble. But Silvina wasn’t often taken in by his starts and schemes. Still…
He let his shoulders sag, dropped his head and began to shuffle down the last few steps into the kitchen level.
“Piemur? What are you doing here at this hour? Why do you have the Harper’s tray? You should be rehearsing…” Silvina took the tray from his hands and stared at him accusingly.
“You didn’t hear?” Piemur asked in a low, dejected voice.
“Hear? Hear what? How could anyone hear anything in this babble? I’ll…” She slipped the tray onto the nearest work surface and, putting her finger under his chin, forced his head up.
Piemur was rather pleased to be able to squeeze moisture from the corners of his eyes. He narrowed them quickly for Silvina wasn’t easily fooled. Though, he told himself hastily, he was very sorry he wouldn’t be singing Domick’s music. And he was sorrier that Tilgin was!
“Your voice? Your voice is changing?”
Piemur heard the regret and dismay in Silvina’s hushed tone. It occurred to him that women’s voices never did change, and that she couldn’t possibly imagine his feelings of total loss and crushing disappointment. More tears followed the first.
“There, lad. The world’s not lost. In a half-Turn or less your range’ll settle again.”
“Master Domick’s music was just right for me…” Piemur did not need to fake the ragged tones.
“To be sure, since he wrote it with you in mind, scamp. Well, wouldn’t you know? Though I can’t for the life of me believe you could contrive to change your voice to spite Domick—”
“Spite Master Domick?” Piemur widened his eyes with indignation. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, Silvina.”
“Only because you couldn’t, rascal. I know how you hate singing female parts.” Her voice was acerbic, but her hand under his chin was gentle. She took a clean corner of her apron and blotted the tears on his cheeks. “As luck would have it, I seem to be prepared with an easement for your tragedy.” She propelled him before her, motioning toward the trays of cooling pies. Piemur rapidly wondered if he ought to dissemble. “You can have two, one for each hand, and then away with you! Have you seen Master Shonagar yet? Watch those pies! They’re just out of the oven.”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, biting into the first pie despite her admonition. “It’s the only way to eat ’em,” he mumbled through a mouthful so hot that he had to suck in cool air to ease the burning of his gums. “But…I’m to get wherhide clothes.”
“You? In wherhide? Why would you need wherhide?” She frowned suspiciously at him now.
“I’m to study drum with Master Olodkey, and Menolly asked me could I ride runners, and Master Robinton said I was to ask you for wherhide.”
“All three of them in it? Hmmm. And you’d be apprenticed to Master Olodkey?” Silvina considered the matter and then eyed him shrewdly. He wondered should he tell Menolly that Silvina hadn’t been taken in by their stratagem of making him a drummer. “Well, I suppose you’ll be kept out of mischief. Though I, for one, doubt it’s possible. Come on then. I do have a wherhide jacket that might fit.” She cast him a calculating look as they moved toward the storage section of the kitchen level. “Let’s hope it’ll fit for a while because sure as eggs hatch, I shan’t be able to pass it on to anyone else the way you mangle your clothes.”
Piemur loved the storerooms, redolent with the smell of well-cured hides and the eye-smarting acridity of newly dyed fabrics. He liked the glowing colors of the cloth bales, the jumble of boots, belts, packs hanging from hooks about the walls, the boxes with their odd treasures. Silvina rapped his knuckles with her keys several times for opening lids to investigate.
The jacket fit, the stiff new leather bucking against his thighs as he pranced about, swinging his arms to make the shoulders settle. It was long in the body, but Silvina was pleased: he’d need the length. Fitting him with new boots showed her how ragged his trousers were, so she found him two new pairs, one in harper blue and the other in a deep gray leather. Two shirts with sleeves too long, but which no doubt would fit him perfectly by midwinter, a hat to keep his ears warm and his eyes shaded, and heavy riding gloves with down-lined fingers.
He left the stores, his arms piled high with new clothes, boots dangling from their laces over his shoulder and bumping him front and back, his ears ringing with Silvina’s promise of dire things happening to him if he snagged, tore, or scuffed his new finery before he’d had it on his back a sevenday.
He happily employed the rest of the morning by dressing in his new gear, examining himself from all angles in the one mirrored surface of the apprentice dormitory.
He heard the burst of shouts as the chorus was released and peered cautiously over the sill. Most of the boys and young men swarmed across the Court to the Hall. But Master Domick, music rolled in one fist, strode purposefully toward Master Shonagar’s hall. The last to exit was Tilgin, head bowed, shoulders slumped, weary from what must have been an exhausting rehearsal. Piemur grinned; he had warned Tilgin to study the part. One never knew when Master Domick might call on the understudy. There was always the chance of a bad throat or a hacking cough for a soloist. Not that Piemur had ever been sick for performance…until this one. Piemur gave a sour note. He really had wanted to sing Lessa in Domick’s ballad. He’d sort of counted on coming to the Benden Weyrwoman’s notice that way. It was always wise to be known to the two Benden Weyrleaders, and this would have been the perfect opportunity.
Ah well, there were more ways of skinning a herdbeast than shaving him with a table-knife.
He folded his new clothing carefully in his bedpress, giving the fur a smoothing twitch. Then quickly glanced out the window again. Now, while Master Domick was busy with Master Shonagar, would be the time for him to slip into the dining hall, Keep out of sight, and soon enough he’d be out of Domick’s mind. Not that Piemur was at fault. This time.
A shame, really. Lessa’s melody was the loveliest Domick had ever written. It had so suited his range. Once again a lump pushed up in his throat at the sadness of the lost opportunity. And probably a Turn before he could try to sing again. Nor was there a guarantee that he’d have anywhere near as good a singing voice as an adult as he’d had as a boy. None at all. He’d miss being able to astonish people with the pure tone he could produce, the marvelous flexibility, the perfect sense of pitch and timing, not to mention his particularly acute skill at note-reading.
His reflections caused him sufficient pangs of regrets so that, when he drifted past the first group of apprentices in the court, they paused in their play and watched his slow progress with awed silence.
He trudged up the steps, past apprentices and journeymen, eyes down, hands flopping at his sides, the picture of dejection. Scorch it, would he have to pretend to have lost his appetite? He could smell roast wherry, succulent, and dripping with juices. And then, berry pies.
However, if he managed his tablemates adroitly… Hunger warred with greed, and there was nothing feigned about his expression of sad reflection when the dining room began to fill.
Piemur, deep in his plans, was aware of being flanked by silent boys. But the chubby fist visible on the left w
as Brolly’s. The stained, dirty, calloused, nail-bitten hand on the right was Timiny’s. His good friends were standing by him in this moment of loss. He let out a long, draggling sigh, heard Brolly shift his feet uncomfortably, saw Timiny extend his hand tentatively to draw it back slowly, uncertain how a gesture of sympathy would be received. Well, Timiny might just give him both pies, Piemur thought.
Dragonriders of Pern 6 - Dragondrums Page 3
