“May I see it?” Zist asked, holding out a hand. The pipe that Cristov reluctantly gave him was immediately familiar to the Master. He had made it himself not too many Turns before. In fact, Pellar had been just about Cristov’s age when Zist had presented him with this very pipe.
“Did Pellar give this to you?”
Cristov looked surprised but nodded. “He said he’d see me again but it would probably be Turns,” he explained.
“Well,” Zist replied, “if he said it, then it will be so.”
Zist twirled the pipe in his hand. The Ancients would have called it a recorder. The mouthpiece was at the top of the pipe, not at the side as with the more common flute. A recorder was much easier to learn than a flute, but at the expense of the dynamic range it could produce.
Zist nodded to himself in sudden decision. He looked at Cristov. “I’ll teach you.”
“Thank you,” Cristov said, smiling. Then his smile faded as another thought crossed his mind. “Can we not tell my parents?”
Zist considered the question carefully. “I see no reason why we can’t wait until the appropriate time to surprise them,” he allowed, his eyes twinkling with a sense of mischief that Cristov had never seen before.
“Thank you,” Cristov said.
“Let’s see if you thank me after your first lesson,” Zist replied. He handed the pipe back to Cristov. “And your first lesson will be on breathing.”
Breathing? Cristov thought to himself in dismay. He’d heard how Kindan and Zenor had both been as limp as rags after an hour of Zist’s “breathing” lessons! Well, he had asked.
“Egg?” Tarik repeated to Tenim in disbelief. “What would you want with an egg?”
“Not me,” Tenim said. “Others. They’d pay full marks, too.”
“The egg hatched two days ago,” Tarik replied. “It’s bonded with the brat now.”
“Bonded?”
“Yes, the thing bit the boy and now it follows him everywhere.”
Tenim’s features soured as he scowled. They were in the kitchen of Tarik’s new cothold and it was dark. Tenim’s journey had taken two more days than he had planned: profitable days, to be sure, considering the increased bulk of his well-hidden purse, but perhaps not profitable enough to make up for missing a chance at the egg.
“Hmmph,” Tenim snorted in disgust. “It’s no good to me now.”
“It’s a green,” Tarik said thoughtfully. “That means it’ll mate someday.” He smirked at the thought of how young Kindan would deal with that.
“Greens aren’t as good as golds,” Tenim snapped, having absorbed that much lore from Moran’s teachings. “Not green fire-lizards, nor green dragons. I’m sure it’s the same for those uglies, too.”
“Then the best price would be paid for a gold egg, wouldn’t it?” Tarik suggested, carefully keeping his tone neutral. Tarik would breathe easier if Tenim took up the wild watch-wher chase.
Tenim cocked his head quizzically at the suggestion. It was a good idea, so good it surprised him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow while he examined Tarik, wondering what thoughts were going on in the older man’s head. Still…it was a good idea.
“No one knows where the queen watch-wher is,” Tenim said.
“No one?” Tarik asked. “From what I’ve heard, there were several buyers vying for watch-wher eggs.”
“No one’s told me anything,” Tenim said, gazing intently at the miner.
Tarik returned Tenim’s intent look with a bland one of his own, waiting with growing anxiety that he worked desperately to hide. As the silence grew uncomfortable, he suggested, “Perhaps your harper friend might learn more?”
“Him!” Tenim snorted at the suggestion.
“What’s he doing now, I wonder,” Tarik said, sounding as though he were talking to himself.
Tenim nodded thoughtfully and rose from his seat, heading for the door.
At the door, he stopped and said, “I’ll find out.” He waved a finger at Tarik. “When I come back, I’ll expect you to have more coal set aside.”
Tarik nodded, knowing that there was nothing else he could do—except hope that perhaps Tenim wouldn’t come back.
Halla said nothing as she watched Moran scan the landscape in front of them, just as she’d said nothing when Moran announced their sudden departure from the environs of Hold Balan, even though some of the older boys had grumbled about missing Tenim.
“He’ll find us, no worries,” Moran had replied lightly. Halla had been the only one close enough to see his face in the dark night, and she’d seen the deep lines and worry written on it. To her it had looked like Moran was more worried about Tenim finding them than not, but perhaps she was just assigning her own feelings to the harper.
Little Tucker bumped into her. He did that often to get attention. Halla ignored him this time, knowing that the child was still half-asleep.
“We’ll need food soon,” she said to Moran. Moran gave her a surprised look; usually children told him that they were hungry. It was a sign of Halla’s forced maturity that she thought the way she did.
“It looks pretty barren,” he replied, but he eyed the girl hopefully. After Tenim, Halla was the best hunter. Astride his shoulders, little Nalli stirred.
“I’ll take her for a while,” Halla said, holding up her arms to grab the toddler.
Although he still wore a backpack, Moran’s step grew more energetic after Halla had taken Nalli from him. After a few more steps carrying Nalli, Halla could see why—there was so little in their packs that the weight of an undernourished toddler more than doubled the load. Little Nalli, who had roused slightly during the transfer, soon fell back to sleep, resting her small head on Halla’s and providing warmth for the back of her neck and shoulders.
At a sound from behind them, Moran stopped and turned.
“Perri,” Moran said in a tone that was equal parts exhaustion and worry.
Halla half turned and warned, “There’s no more feverroot.”
Moran rushed back to the fallen youngster. Perri had been bitten by a tunnel snake when he was playing at the outskirts of Hold Balan—or that’s what Halla guessed, for the toddler had never been much of a talker and refused to say anything about his injury. The wound had festered in the past several days, and he’d walked through the night in a half-fever.
Some noise or sigh caused Halla to stop and turn all the way back to the others. Instead of trudging after her, they were grouped in a semicircle. Moran was kneeling in the center.
As soon as Moran lifted his head up and looked at Halla, she knew. She sighed, too tired for anything else, wordlessly passed Nalli back to Moran, and grabbed at the handle of the shovel that hung down from her backpack. She was getting too good at digging graves.
A half hour later they trudged on, Halla more grimy than she liked, and only a few withered yellow flowers for the mound she left behind. She’d liked Perri, he’d just started to smile.
They look to you, Moran thought to himself as he led the group of children away from yet another grave, and you let them down.
How many graves did that make? He wondered idly and realized with dull relief that he couldn’t remember. This isn’t how things were supposed to be, Moran told himself. I was to find the Shunned, to set up meetings, to help them, Moran recalled. He had always wanted to make a difference, have ballads composed about him, make up for his unknown origins. Instead, somehow, he’d found himself only surviving one crisis to fall into another, never seeming to find the right place, the right answers, and always coming up with more complications. Every time he’d sworn that he’d locate the next harper, report in to the Harper Hall, something had happened to change his mind. He wanted to report his success; he could not bring himself to report failure. And so the Turns had passed. Turns, and Moran’s dreams had gone from saving the Shunned to simply finding food enough for those waifs he’d found along the way. Worse still, at times he’d squandered their spare marks for drink, or an evening’s
comfort. Always, at the time, Moran had told himself that he deserved it—the drink or the warm company—and after, seeing the mute looks of the hungry children, had sworn never again. But again and again, he would give in to his base desires. With such dismal failures, how could he face Murenny or Zist?
He shifted Nalli on his back, looking hopefully back at Halla in hope of a trade. Her face was streaked with tears.
Moran swore at himself for his selfishness and trudged on.
“Egg hatched—green,” were the words written on Pellar’s slate as he met with Aleesa and the rest of the wherhandlers when he arrived at the wherhold that evening.
“So did ours,” Arella replied. “She was a green, too.”
A small form butted its head up from under her skirt. Chitter flittered down to the young watch-wher and gave it a polite chirp. The watch-wher sniffed back at the fire-lizard, then ducked behind Arella’s skirt once more.
“You’ll be first watch come morning,” Jaythen told him. “There’s a bit left in the pot, so get some food and get some rest. Aleesk will wake you.”
Pellar nodded once more, stifled a yawn, and wandered over to the cooking fire. Polla smiled at him as he found a clean dish and served himself.
“I’ll bet you’re glad to be home, aren’t you?” she asked, her grin more gap than teeth.
Again Pellar nodded but his heart wasn’t in it, any more than his stomach was enticed by the smell of his dinner. He ate quickly, spread out his bedroll in his old place, and quickly fell asleep. Tomorrow he would see about looking for reeds or wood for a new pipe.
When Arella came to bed later, she set her roll apart from his.
The next day was no different; neither the next sevenday, nor the next month. Pellar found himself overcoming the difficulty of teaching others to read when he could not speak, Aleesa grew proudly proficient in her abilities and took to writing a journal, the watch-whers grew older, and the camp slowly found its supplies dwindling once again to their old meager levels.
Pellar grew and thickened up. The last of his childish looks sloughed away; his chest grew wiry from his work with trap, drum, and knife. He improved his tracking, always remembering his encounter with Tenim, now several months past.
Polla had flirted with him, but he’d ignored the older woman, just as he and Arella found themselves ignoring each other—although with increasing difficulty. Some of the older girls Pellar had been teaching had started flirting with him, too. Pellar politely redirected their attention, while he worried about what might occur the next time Aleesk rose to mate. His best hope was to be far away before then.
Halla didn’t like Conni or her daughter, Milera, but Moran had decided to accept them into their band when they passed through the meeting of the three rivers between Telgar and Crom Holds.
Halla didn’t need for Conni to part her hair to guess at the big blue “S” that had been painted there with bluebush ink. Young as she was, Halla had a good idea of what had caused Conni to be Shunned by her Lord Holder, and she liked neither the way that Conni looked at Moran—like a tunnel snake ready to pounce on its prey—nor, worse, the way Milera slavishly emulated her mother. And while Conni might be a few Turns past her prime, Milera had just gone from child to woman.
Halla had been around Moran too long not to guess that there was more to the harper’s acceptance of the two than just the kindness of his heart. Even with the death of Perri behind them by a sevenday there were still too many mouths to fill and nothing with which to feed them, despite Halla’s best efforts with her traps.
And Conni’s offer to share her food did not warm Halla to the pinch-faced, sharp-eyed woman with her long straggly hair, nor to her simpering doe-eyed daughter.
Conni’s food lasted no more than a meal. A meal, Halla had noted, which fed Conni and Milera more than the rest of the troop put together. That meal had been three days since, and still Conni and Milera always seemed to get the best or the most of what meager pickings Moran’s band acquired.
Conni, Halla decided, would be better matched with Tenim than with Moran. Although, Halla conceded, perhaps Conni would find herself losing out to the younger Milera in winning Tenim’s affections.
Whichever way it was to be, Halla was certain that neither Conni nor Milera would have tolerated Halla or anyone of the littler ones were it not for their ability to gather food, either by trapping it or stealing it from local cotholders.
Although she preferred hunting and trapping, it never bothered Halla much to steal from a wealthy holder or crafter, but none of the holdings they’d seen in the last sevenday were wealthy; Halla was certain that their thefts had meant empty bellies for the rightful owners. It bothered her to steal from those who worked as hard for their food as she did.
Her line twitched and she tugged at it. Another bite. She gently played the line with her free hand, gauging the size of the fish by its heft on her line.
It had been Conni or Milera who had secured their passage on the small riverboat. Halla was not sure which and didn’t want to think long on it—both because she hated being beholden to either in any fashion, and because of the satisfied smirk both had displayed the morning after they’d spent the night in the little cabin below deck with Moran and Geffer, the grizzled old man who owned the boat.
Halla finished her battle with the hapless fish at about the same time as she finished her thoughts about the night before. She deposited the fish in the bucket where two more vainly circled. There, that was enough for a good meal. She looked forward to gutting the fish, a smellier task than dressing land animals, but all the better to wash the stench that the presence of Conni and Milera lent their party.
“That one’s too thin,” Milera’s whiny voice piped up just behind Halla. “You ought to throw it back—it’s as skinny as you are.”
Halla did not betray her surprise that she had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Milera’s approach. She merely threw her line back over the side of the boat and trawled it out carefully.
“The sun’s just barely past nooning; I didn’t think you’d be up,” she said carelessly, keeping her attention on the line.
“I get up when I’m hungry or bored,” Milera answered. “I’m both now. Moran says that you’re to feed me.”
“I’ll share my catch,” Halla replied, “when the time comes.”
“The time’s for Moran to say,” Milera snapped.
“Yes,” Halla agreed, with a slight incline of her head. “Until he does, I’ll go on fishing.”
“And I told you that Moran said to feed me,” Milera returned venomously. “The two big ones ought to do. You can fish for more when you’ve finished cooking mine.”
Halla’s eyes flashed and she set her jaw, prepared to give Milera a piece of her mind when she heard footsteps climbing up from the cabin.
“Are you getting fed, Milera?” Geffer called as he approached. He cackled. “Wouldn’t want you to lose your strength, would we?”
Halla felt her whole face turn red with anger, embarrassment, betrayal, and a sense of shame.
“Halla’s just about to gut the fish,” Milera purred back. “She’s only caught three, but I suppose that’s as good as she can, being still a child.”
Halla turned back to her fishing to hide her anger.
“She’s a good fisher to get three in such a short time,” Geffer allowed.
“It’s good that she’s got so many talents,” Milera agreed. “A plain girl’s got to have some craft to trade on.”
Geffer laughed agreeably. “Will you come back down when you’re finished eating?”
“Whatever you want,” Milera replied.
Geffer laughed again and Halla heard him pat the girl, mutter something that caused Milera to giggle, and then turn back to go below.
Milera was silent only until Geffer was out of earshot, when, in icy tones, she declared, “I’ll take my fish now.”
Halla bit her tongue and nodded sullenly. Times had changed; the
y would change again.
It took another fortnight for Halla’s predictions to come true, though not in the way she’d imagined. When the boatman, Geffer, pulled in to the wharf at the highest part of the River Crom, Milera remained behind, much to Conni’s evident disgust. “You can do better than that.”
At least that’s how it seemed—until Milera met up with them on the far outskirts of the small river hold, her cheeks red with exertion and face bright with mischief.
“I got his money,” she crowed to her mother when she found the group. “Just waited until he fell asleep, is all.”
“That’s my girl,” Conni said, patting Milera on the back and holding out her hand. “How much did you get?”
“All of it, of course,” Milera said, pulling out her purse and gleefully emptying it into Conni’s hands. “You know I can’t count.”
“Thief!” a voice—Geffer’s—shouted.
Other voices took up the cry. “Thief!” “Thief!”
Milera’s gloating look dissolved into one of worry, then outright fear as Conni clenched her hands and scarpered off, calling over her shoulder, “Fool! He wasn’t supposed to wake up!”
“Scatter!” Halla told the other youngsters. She took her own advice, dissolving into the crowd and then circling far around to come up behind their pursuers.
But someone grabbed Halla before she could slip away, a tall man with bad breath and a strong grasp. “There’s one!”
“She was with them,” Geffer said, as the crowd gathered around. “She didn’t steal nothing—’twas the prettier one.”
Halla flushed.
“Put an ‘S’ on her just so others know, then,” someone in the crowd shouted.
“Yes, Shun her!”
“Shun the thief!”
Halla struggled against her captor, kicking and squirming futilely until she collapsed into a pathetic heap, sobbing silently with uncontrollable terror and despair.
“She didn’t steal nothin’,” Geffer shouted over the crowd. “It was the other one, the tart, that did it.”
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