Anne McCaffrey - Dragondrums

“Who’s been…” Dirzan came striding into the room, finger and thumb pinching his nose against the odor.

Piemur said nothing, he merely let the soiled clothing unroll and held the furs up so that the light fell on the long, damp stain. Dirzan’s eyes narrowed, and his grimace deepened. Piemur wondered what annoyed Dirzan more: that Piemur’s unexpectedly long absence had made the joke more noisome than necessary, or that here was proof positive that Piemur was being harassed by his roommates.

“You may be excused from other duties to attend to this,” said Dirzan. “Be sure to bring back a sweet candle to clear the odor. How they could sleep with that…”

Dirzan waited until Piemur had cleared the noxious things from the room, and then he slammed the door with such force that the journeyman on watch came to see what was the matter.

With everyone scattered for work sections, Piemur managed to get to the washing room without being stopped. He was so furious he wouldn’t have trusted himself to answer properly if anyone had asked him the most civil of questions. He slapped the furs, hair side out into the warm tub, sprinkling half the jar of sweetsand on the slowly sinking bedding. He shook the half-hardened stuff out of his clothing into the drain, and then, with washing paddle, shoved and prodded the garments to loosen the encrustations. If there were stains on his new clothes, he’d face a month’s water rations but he’d pay them all back, so he would.

“What are you doing in here at this time of day, Piemur?” asked Silvina, attracted by the splashing and pounding.

“Me?” The force of his tone brought Silvina right into the room. “My roommates play dirty jokes!”

Silvina gave him a long searching look as her nose told her what kind of dirty jokes. “Any reason for them to?”

In a split second Piemur decided. Silvina was one of the few people in the Hall he could trust. She instinctively knew when he was shamming, so she’d know now that he was being put on. And he had an unbearable need and urge to release some of the troubles he had suppressed. This last trick of the apprentices, damaging his good new clothes, hurt more than he had realized in the numbness following his discovery. He’d been so proud of the fine garments, and to have them crudely soiled before he’d worn some of them enough to acquire honest dirt hit him harder than the slanders at his supposed indiscretions.

“I get to Gathers and Impressions,” Piemur drew a whistling breath through his teeth, “and I’ve made the mistake of learning drum measures too fast and too well.”

Silvina continued to stare at him, her eyes slightly narrowed and her head tilted to one side. Abruptly she moved beside him and took the washpaddle from his hand, slipping it deftly under the soaking furs.

“They probably expected you back right after the Igen Gather!” She chuckled as she plunged the fur back under the water, grinning broadly at him. “So they had to sleep in the stink they caused for two nights!” Her laughter was infectious, and Piemur found his spirits lifting as he grinned back at her. “That Clell. He’s the one who planned it. Watch him, Piemur. He’s got a mean streak.” Then she sighed. “Still, you won’t be there long, and it won’t do you any harm to learn the drum measures. Could be very useful one day.” She gave him another long appraising look. “I’ll say this for you, Piemur, you know when to keep your tongue in your head! Here, put that through the wringer now and let’s see if we’ve got the worst out!”

Silvina helped him finish the washing, asking him all about the Hatching and Mirrim’s unexpected Impression of a green dragon. And how did he find the climate in Igen? It was as much a relief for him to talk to Silvina without restraint as to have her expert help in cleaning his clothes.

Then, because she said nothing would be dry before evening, she got him another sleeping fur, and a spare shirt and pants, commenting that they were well-enough worn not to cause envy.

“You’ll mention, of course, that I tore strips out of you for ruining good cloth and staining fur,” she said with a parting wink.

He was halfway out of the Hall when he remembered the need for a sweet candle and went back for it, bearing her loud grumbles to the rest of the kitchen with fortitude.

Afterward, Piemur thought that if Dirzan had ignored the mischief the way Piemur intended to, the whole incident might have been forgotten. But Dirzan reprimanded the others in front of the journeymen and put them on water rations for three days. The sweet candle cleared the quarters of the stench, but nothing would ever sweeten the apprentices toward Piemur after that. It was almost as if, Piemur thought, Dirzan was determined to ruin any chance Piemur had of making friends with Clell or the others.

Though he did his best to stay out of their vicinities, he was constantly having benches shoved into his shins in the study room, his feet trod on everywhere, his ribs painfully stuck by drumsticks or elbows. His furs were sewn together three nights running, and his clothes were so frequently dipped in the roof gutters that he finally asked Brolly to make him a locking mechanism for his press that he alone could open. Apprentices were not supposed to have any private containers, but Dirzan made no mention of the addition to Piemur’s box.

In a way, Piemur found a certain satisfaction in being able to ignore the nuisances, rising above all the pettiness perpetrated on him with massive and complete disdain. He spent as much time as he could studying the drum records, tapping his fingers on his fur even as he was falling asleep to memorize the times and rhythms of the most complicated measures. He knew the others knew exactly what he was doing, and there was nothing they could do to thwart him.

Unfortunately, the coolness he developed to fend off their little tricks began insidiously to come between him and his old friends. Bonz and Brolly complained loudly that he was different, while Timiny watched him with mournful eyes, as if he somehow considered himself responsible for Piemur’s alterations.

Piemur tried to laugh it off, saying he was drum happy.

“They’re putting on you up in the drumheights, Piemur,” said Bonz glowering loyally. “I just know they are. And if Clell—”

“Clell isn’t!” Piemur said in a tone so fierce that Bonz rocked back on his heels.

“That’s exactly what I mean, Piemur!” said Brolly, who wasn’t easily intimidated by a boy he’d known for five Turns and still topped by a full head. “You’re different and don’t give me that old wheeze about your voice changing and you with it. Your voice is settling. You haven’t cracked in days!”

Piemur blinked, mildly surprised at the phenomenon of which he’d been unaware.

“It’s too bad. Anyhow, Tilgin’s got the part down…finally, and it wouldn’t sound the same with you as baritone,” Brolly went on.

“Baritone?” Piemur’s voice broke in surprise and, when he saw the disappointment on his friends’ faces, he started to laugh. “Well, maybe, and then, maybe not.”

“Now you sound like Piemur,” said Bonz, shouting with emphasis.

Isolated as he’d been in the drumheights, Piemur had easily managed to forget the fast approaching feast at Lord Groghe’s and the performance of Domick’s new music. Two sevendays had passed since the Benden Hatching, and he’d been too engrossed with his own problems to give much attention to extraneous matters. His friends now underlined the nearness of the Feast, and he was sure that he couldn’t escape attending it and wondered how he could. He’d prefer to be out of Fort Hold altogether on the night of the performance because, sure as eggs cracked, he’d have to go to it.