Anne McCaffrey: Dragondrums

“Glutton! Greedy maw! Don’t claw me, that’s bare skin, not padding! I’m feeding you as fast as I can! Zair! Behave yourself! I’m perishing for a taste of my klah, but I’m feeding you first. Good morning, Piemur. You’re adept at feeding fire lizards. Pop sustenance into Zair’s mouth so I can get some in mine!” The Harper shot a look of desperate entreaty to Piemur.

He whipped around the long worktable and, grabbing up several chunks of meat, attracted Zair’s gaze.

“Ah, that’s more the thing!” exclaimed Master Robinton after he’d had a long gulp of his klah.

Absorbed in his task, Piemur wasn’t at first aware of the Harper’s scrutiny, for the man was applying himself to his own food with his free right hand. Then Piemur saw the keen eyes on him, lids narrowed as if weighty from sleep. He could tell nothing from the Harper’s expression, for the long face was quiescent, slightly puffy about the eyes from sleep, the grooves from the corners of the mobile mouth pulled down with age and accumulated fatigue rather than displeasure.

“I shall miss your young voice,” said the Harper with a gentle emphasis on “young.” “But, while we’re waiting for you to settle into an adult placement, I’ve asked Shonagar to release you to me. I’ve a suspicion that you won’t mind too much”—and a smile twitched the Harper’s lips—“doing the odd job for me and Menolly and my good Sebell.”

“Menolly and Sebell?” Piemur gawked.

“I’m not sure I care for that emphasis,” said Menolly in a mock growl, subsiding as the Harper threw her a quieting glance.

“I’d be your apprentice?” Piemur asked the Harper, holding his breath for the answer.

“Indeed, you’d have to be my apprentice at that,” said Master Robinton, his voice and face turning droll.

“Oh, sir!” Piemur was stunned at such good fortune.

Zair squawked petulantly in the little silence, for Piemur had paused in his feeding.

“Sorry, Zair,” and Piemur hastily resumed the task.

“However,” and the Harper cleared his throat while Piemur wondered what disadvantage to this envious status was about to be disclosed (there had to be one, he knew), “ you will have to improve your skill in scribing—”

“We must be able to read what you write,” said Menolly, sternly.

“—learn to send and receive message drum accurately and rapidly…” He looked at Menolly. “I know that Master Fandarel is very keen to have his new message-sender installed in every hall and craft, but it’s going to take far too long to be useful to me. Then, too, there are some messages that should remain privy to the Craft!” He paused, staring long at Piemur. “You were bred on a runner beast hold, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. And I can ride any runner anywhere!”

Menolly’s expression indicated disbelief.

“I can, too.”

“You’ll have ample chance to prove it, I fear,” said the Harper, smiling at his new apprentice’s stout claim. “What you will also have to prove, young Piemur, is your discretion.” Now the Harper was in solemn earnest, and with equal solemnity, Piemur nodded assurance. “Menolly tells me that despite your incorrigibility on many other counts, you’re not given to indiscriminate babbling. Rather,” and the Harper held up his hand as Piemur opened his mouth to reassure him, “that you keep close about incidental information until you can use it to your benefit.”

“Me, sir?”

Master Robinton smiled at his wide-eyed innocent expression. “You, sir, young Piemur. Although it does strike me that you’ve exactly the sort of guile—” He broke off, then continued more briskly, leaving unsaid words to tantalize Piemur. “We’ll see how you get on. I fear you may find your new role not as exciting as you think, but you will be serving your Craft, and me, very well indeed.”

If he couldn’t sing for a while, thought Piemur, being the Master’s apprentice was the next best thing. Wait’ll he told Bonz and Timiny; wouldn’t they just choke!

“Ever sailed?” asked Menolly with such a piercing look that Piemur wondered if she’d read his thoughts.

“Sailed? In a boat?”

“That’s the general method,” she said. “With my luck you’ll be a seasicker.”

“You mean, I might get to the Southern Continent, too?” asked Piemur, having rapidly added up assorted pieces of information and come to a conclusion; all too hastily spoken, he realized belatedly.

The Harper lost all semblance of lassitude and sat bolt upright in his chair, causing his fire lizard to protest vehemently.

Menolly burst out laughing.

“I told you, Master,” she said, throwing up her hands.

“And what makes you mention the Southern Continent?” asked the Harper.

Piemur was rather sorry now that he had.

“Well, sir, nothing special,” he said, wondering himself. “Just things like Sebell being gone for a couple of sevendays midwinter and coming back with a tanned face. Only I’d known he’d not been in Nerat or Southern Boll or Ista. There’s been talk, too, at the Gathers that even if dragonriders from the north aren’t supposed to go south, some of the Oldtimers have been seen here in the north. Now, if I was F’lar, I’d sort of wonder what those Oldtimers were doing north. And I’d try to keep them south, where they’re supposed to be. And there’re all these holdless men, looking for someplace to live, and no one seems to know how big the Southern Continent is and if…” Piemur trailed off, daunted by the keen scrutiny of the Master Harper.

“And if…?” Master Robinton urged him to continue.

“Well, I’ve had to copy that map F’nor made of the Southern Hold and Weyr, and it’s small. No bigger’n Crom or Nabol, but I’ve heard from weyrfolk at High Reaches who were in the south before F’lar exiled the worst of the Oldtimers, and they said they were sure the Southern Continent must be pretty big.” Piemur gestured broadly.

“And…?” The Harper’s encouragement was firm.

“Well, sir, if it were me, I’d want to know, ’cause sure as eggs hatch, there’s going to be trouble with those Oldtimers south” —he jerked his thumb in that direction– “and trouble with the holdless men in the north,” he turned his thumb back. “So when Menolly talks about sailing, I know how Sebell got south without being taken by a dragon. Which Benden Weyr wouldn’t permit ’cause they promised that northern dragons wouldn’t go south, and I don’t think Sebell could swim that far. If he can swim.”

Master Robinton began to laugh, a soft chuckle, and he slowly swung his head from side to side.

“I wonder how many more people have put the same pieces together, Menolly?” he asked, frowning. When his journeywoman shrugged, he added to Piemur. “You’ve kept such notions to yourself, young man?”

Piemur gave a snort, realized he must be more circumspect with the Master of his Craft and said quickly, “Who pays any attention to what apprentices think or say?”

“Have you mentioned these notions to anyone?” The Harper was insistent.

“Of course not, sir.” Piemur tried to keep indignation from his tone. “It’s Benden’s business, or Hold business, or Harper business. Not mine.”

“A chance spoken word, even by an apprentice, can sift through a man’s thoughts ’till he forgets the source and remembers the intent. And repeats it inadvisedly.”

“I know my loyalty to my Crafthall, Master Robinton,” said Piemur.

“I’m sure of your loyalty,” the Harper said, nodding his head slowly, his eyes still holding Piemur’s. “I want to be certain of your discretion.”

“Menolly’ll tell you; I’m not a babblemouth.” He looked at Menolly for her support.