“Did you know, Piemur,” Shonagar went on, a note of excitement lightening his tone, “that this is potentially the most remarkable time you’ll ever experience in your life?” He raised both brows and smiled again as he placed one hand gently on Piemur’s shoulder. Piemur hadn’t a notion what Shonagar was talking about and his confusion must have been evident on his face, for the Voicemaster continued without waiting for a response.
“It is now, at this time, for a very brief while, that you will undergo more changes than at any other time in your life. Don’t be daunted by the prospect, Piemur. Relish every new thing! Go find all the possibilities awaiting you and forget about what you knew—or what you could do—when you were that younger boy. It’s not half as exciting as what’s ahead of you, my man!”
Now, remembering that speech and the zest with which Shonagar had spoken it, Piemur looked across the room at his old Master and smiled. Shonagar had been a fine voice teacher and mentor for all those Turns, and now, Piemur mused, it seemed that Sebell had assumed that role. And honestly, he reckoned, he couldn’t have asked for anyone better to fill Shonagar’s shoes. He turned his smile to Sebell.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a drum in my hands, Sebell. I bet I’m going to be as rusty as an old nail.”
“Take it all in your stride, Piemur,” Sebell offered, smiling.
With the flat drum in one hand and the sticks in the other, Piemur crossed the room to a group of drummers who’d assembled at a table positioned in an alcove. It was the perfect place for drummers to play so their measures wouldn’t overwhelm the other harpers. He took a seat next to a young apprentice of about eleven, who was happily tapping out a rhythm on the table, instead of a drum, using two short wooden sticks. He kept hitting the table in the same series of taps, a look of deep concentration on his face, obviously having just mastered the new sequence. Piemur rested the edge of the round drum on one knee and looked around the room at the other harpers. Tonight he just felt like following their lead.
Sebell stood up from his seat and scanned the Hall for a moment before nodding at the young apprentice seated next to Piemur. That simple nod was Sebell’s cue to everyone in the room that the young apprentice’s rhythm was to be the starting point for the music to come.
Clever Sebell, Piemur mused: He was making use of the existing beat, and at the same time he was giving the young apprentice an enormous boost of confidence. As a few of the other, older drummers at his table joined in, adding the sound of their drums to the simple measure the young apprentice was playing, Piemur instinctively picked up his beater. Rather than tapping out the measure on the skin of the drum, he played the beat on its wooden edge, which made a very pleasing staccato sound that served as an accent to the other drums.
Maintaining the simple rhythm with unthinking ease, Piemur looked across the room toward Sebell, who had moved to sit on the tabletop so the other harpers could see him. The journeyman masterharper nodded once, never looking down at his gitar as he strummed out a line, and the other gitar players added their instruments to the refrain Sebell was playing.
All around the room, the different musical groups—harpists, flautists, fiddlers, drummers, pipers, percussionists, and singers—tentatively added their sounds to the basic rhythm the apprentice was playing, building on it subtly so the music grew in a complex layering of sounds. A chill ran up Piemur’s spine as he heard the music grow, everyone adding their distinct part to fit neatly into the whole; from time to time an instrumentalist would break free from his or her group and play in counterpoint, before coming full circle again to play along with the others. This free-form music lasted a long time as the harpers toyed with the sound until, with yet another single nod of Sebell’s head, the assembled players brought the music back to the original melody, which they maintained for several bars.
At the beginning of the next bar, an alto voice sounded out in the room, not with words but with simple scales of notes, la-las, da-das, and ululations. It was almost a primal sound, and when two other voices, a soprano and a mezzo-soprano, rang out, their song resonated through the room. Piemur looked around for the source and found it just behind Sebell’s table. Menolly, seated with a group of pipers and harpists, had initiated the choral part of the composition. She sat comfortably at the table, a harp lying idly in her lap as she sang. She didn’t have the highest, the finest, or even the purest voice Piemur had ever heard, but there was a timbre and a quality to Menolly’s singing that was deeply pleasing to the ear. She seemed to have an innate knack for using all the right heart-notes to subtly tug at the listener’s emotions.
Soon other singers added their voices, building up a harmony. Then the wind instruments joined the composition, and after a time Menolly stopped singing, allowing other voices to pick up where she had left off; everyone seemed to know exactly when to join the composition and when to exit.
Sebell stood up and played a counter-harmony in the higher register of his gitar, and then resumed the original piece of music, nodding twice, which was his signal to the room that they were to play two more bars and then finish. As the last bar was sounding, Sebell dropped one hand, and as it came up again, right on cue, all the harpers ceased making music.
It was a profound silence that followed, broken only by a spontaneous eruption of applause a moment later. Every last person in the room was smiling, laughing, or stamping their feet as they clapped. A wonderful buzz of energy filed the huge Hall as everyone felt united by what they had experienced together.
This, Piemur thought as he looked around the room at the other harpers, this is one of the things I miss, this union of sound and the feeling of completeness it bestows on everyone, even on those who are simply listening.
When the applause had died down and the room hummed with the gentle sounds of amicable chatter, one of the drummers at Piemur’s table started drumming out the notes of a reel. Soon fiddle players at a nearby table joined in. Not everyone accompanied this impromptu piece; some chose, instead, to stand and stretch or talk among themselves.
Piemur looked over to the head table where Lord Groghe sat with the Masterharper. There was a smile on the Lord Holder’s face, and although he was notoriously tone-deaf he clapped along in time to the reel. A yawn suddenly overcame Piemur and he realized that it had been a very long day, indeed. With one hand he rubbed tired eyes, the grittiness in them all too apparent as he blinked away fatigue. He’d best turn in before he fell over from exhaustion. With drum and sticks in hand, Piemur crossed the room to where Sebell was standing with his arm around Menolly, carefully placing the borrowed drum on a nearby table.
“Thanks, Sebell, that was fun,” he said, smiling. “I’m going to call it a night and get some sleep.”
“I’m pleased you joined in, Piemur. We haven’t heard you play in an age.”
“To be honest, Sebell, I wasn’t sure if I could do it anymore. Or enjoy it,” Piemur replied. “But I’d forgotten how much fun it is to make music.” He smiled then and, with a wave of one hand, walked out of the Hall bound for sleep.
When J’hon brought Piemur and Sebell to a secluded spot about a kilometer from Nabol Hold, the morning sky was a dull gray and rain fell on them in steady sheets. Nabol seemed cursed with either wet and damp, or humid and hot conditions; never somewhere moderately in between the two. It wasn’t a particularly cold day in Nabol, but the air was laden with an insidious dampness, and as the rain easily seeped and soaked through their clothing it quickly chilled them to the bone. Almost as bad as the cold of between, Piemur mused.
Sebell’s queen fire-lizard, Kimi, and Piemur’s Farli flew with them from Fort, broadcasting their excitement at this unusual expedition. But the two queens were less than happy when Mirth and J’hon departed, both broadcasting to Piemur and Sebell their feelings about flying in the persistent rain. Piemur tried to mollify Farli, who, he suspected, was ready to make a mating flight. Ki
mi, on the other hand, seemed put out solely because of the rain and perched on Sebell’s shoulder, chittering irritably in his ear when he wasn’t rubbing her head. Suddenly Sebell stopped walking and brushed Kimi off his shoulder with one hand. The little queen flew into the air with a squawk and then pivoted on her tail and flew away.
“Go off, then,” Sebell called after the retreating form of his queen, a scowl on his face as she flew on ahead toward Nabol. He looked at Farli, who was resisting all of Piemur’s attempts to coax her to land on his arm. “And you can follow her, too, if you don’t want to behave yourself. It’s bad enough being soaked through with rain but having a pair of peevish fire-lizards grousing in our ears is just too much!” He flapped a hand at Farli, who squeaked once and then flew off after Kimi. Piemur could hear her chitter her disapproval as she flew away, broadcasting to him an image of his own face looking grumpy and cross.
“I am not grumpy,” Piemur muttered under his breath.
“We’re better off without them for the time, Piemur. I sent Kimi to roost near the eastern ramparts at Nabol. I suggested that she should wait there with all the other fire-lizards in Nabol as company until she’s less put out—or more amenable.”
Piemur shrugged, relieved not to have his high-strung fire-lizard distracting him from the task at hand when he and Sebell needed to have all their wits about them. Following a path he’d traversed before, he led Sebell to the cluster of five cotholds where Marek lived, trying his best to avoid puddles, steer clear of deep ridges in the path, and dodge the slippier parts of the route.
A young lad, no more than a dozen Turns in age, sullen and shabbily dressed, was banging a long stick on the ground when the two harpers approached the group of cotholds. Sebell knocked on Marek’s door, and moments later it was opened by a tiny old woman with pewter-colored hair piled high on top of her head in a frothy corona. Piemur had never seen her before.
“Good day to you—” Sebell began, but the old woman flapped a hand at him and leaned her head out beyond the threshold. She was watching the sullen young lad as he banged his stick against the corner wall of her cothold. Flapping in his direction, she made an unpleasant guttural sound that sent the boy scurrying away. She muttered a few harsh words under her breath as she watched his retreating back, and when he was out of sight, she ushered Piemur and Sebell inside with a warm smile.
“Ah, cummin, cummin, Harper Sebell,” she said when the door was firmly closed, and beckoned Piemur and Sebell to follow her to the hearth, where a glowing fire burned.
“I was visitin’ my niece when your juryman was here to stay, so I never got to meet ya.” She reached for Piemur’s hand and pumped it vigorously, still smiling. “Cummin, cummin, youse are both well come.”
Piemur had actually never been inside Marek’s home; during his last visit to Nabol, he’d slept in the herdbeast shed and spent the rest of his time snooping around the Hold for information. Now, as he enjoyed the warmth of the fire, he looked around.
Although the room was small and in need of a fresh coat of whitewash, it was warm and dry. A kettle of water sat on a trivet to one side of the flames, steam piping in lazy wisps from its spout, and hanging over the center of the fire on a hook and chain was a large stewpot. On one side of the room, a small settle sat against the wall, covered in lumpy seat pads that were stitched together with odd pieces of material and stuffed with goodness knew what. Hanging on another wall was a tapestry depicting the scene of a harvest and obviously sewn by amateur hands, new to the craft of textiles. The old woman took a seat on a stool next to the fire and stirred the contents of the pot with a long-handled spoon.
“Marek’ll be back soon. Youse just sit there now te wait on ’im. We’ll see ya roight. Feckin’ rain has youse soaked roight through,” she said, her voice quivery with age as she grinned at them through her wrinkled face, tapping the side of her nose with one gnarled finger in a conspiratorial manner. She helped them take off their coats and hung them up on hooks on the wall next to the fireplace.
As Piemur and Sebell took seats to one side of the fire, the woman removed two cups from the shelf over the mantel and blew into them loudly before setting them down, then tipped water from the simmering kettle into each. Then she took a small nub of gray root from her tunic pocket and wiped it clean with a quick scrape of a knife. She laid it flat on a piece of board, which she rested on her knees, and holding her knife so the blade was placed flat-side down over the root, she gave it a quick bang with the heel of her hand. When the knife was removed, Piemur could see that the root had been neatly squashed and moisture slowly oozed from its flattened sides. Then the old lady deftly cut the root in half lengthwise and plopped a piece into each of the cups.
“G’wan then,” she said, gesturing for Piemur and Sebell to drink. “Tha’ll take the chill off a’ yer pins and make ye roight.” She beamed broadly at the two harpers.
“Many thanks, Laida, this’ll do the trick.” Sebell smiled warmly as he blew on the contents of the cup before taking several tentative sips. Piemur, however, had never seen the root that Laida had used before and was more reticent in his approach than Sebell. He had bad memories of being forced to down noxious drafts by his foster mother, Ama, when he was a young lad. He blew on the cup several times, reluctant to commit to the first sip. The old woman peered at him from under frowning brows.
“Woan bite-cha, lad. ’Sgood for ya,” she said, gesturing with one gnarled hand for Piemur to drink up.
Piemur closed his eyes and sniffed the brew; the earthy aroma was not at all unpleasant. Feeling only slightly assured, he took a little sip, allowing the liquid to settle on his tongue briefly, fearful it would release a foul taste as he swallowed it. But it was fragrant and sweet, spicy and aromatic—all in all, a satisfying surprise to the senses. Piemur blew on the cup a few more times, trying to get it to cool sufficiently so he could drink down the draft. When he’d swallowed every last drop, a contented “aah” escaped his lips, and it was with true regret that he allowed Laida to take the empty cup away. Laida chuckled and, without another word, tramped from the room through a small side door, leaving the harpers alone.
In the silence that followed, Piemur found his eye drawn to the mantel, on which were perched various odds and ends: a small paring knife next to a thimble, a square-shaped woven basket filled with dried summer flowers tied together with a strip of soft fabric, and in the very center a small picture, painted on a piece of wood, depicting a nightbird, wings furled and one bright, beady eye eternally watching the room.
Intrigued, he rose from his stool and reached for the little picture. He studied it briefly, admiring the skill of its creator, then showed it to Sebell before carefully replacing it and resuming his seat by the fire.
They waited in silence for a little longer, and at last Marek stomped into the cothold through the front door. Droplets of rain dripped from his thick, dark hair, and a strong animal odor surrounded him.
“How’sa goin’ there, Sebell?” Marek asked warmly, and his voice seemed to boom around the little room as, hand outstretched, he closed the distance to Sebell. His heavily callused palms were black with ingrained dirt.
“Piemur,” Marek said, offering a hand to him in greeting, as well. Piemur thought he would never get used to the way Marek’s typical Nabolese accent stressed the second syllable of his name rather than the first: Pie-mur. He had to force himself to refrain from correcting him.
“I got your message ’bout those lads, Jerrol and Jentis. Cousins they are. Serra runs ’bout wit ’em. Surly git, he is.” Marek nodded, poking the fire with a stick as he spoke. “What can I do fer ya, Sebell?”
“Piemur overheard them talking two nights ago,” Sebell began, and Piemur suddenly felt surprised: It seemed much longer than two days since he’d been here in Nabol, what with everything that had happened in between then and now.
“Ah, they bin meetin’ toget
her a lot these past few months after they came back home. Can’t help themselves but rock the boat till someone takes note and gives ’em what they want.”
“After they came home, Marek, where were they?” Sebell asked.
“They mooched ’round fer a spell after the old Lord died, an’ then they got the bright idea to make a go of it on their own down south. Didn’t look like they made much of a go, from what I saw, ne’er mind that they were gone fer Turns. When they got home, they were in a woe-geous state, their tails well tucked twixt their legs. And they bin sulkin’ ever since!”
“Hm,” Sebell said, resting an index finger against his lips as he thought. “That would explain why they’re stirring things up so long after Lord Meron’s demise.”
Piemur raised a brow at Sebell and then returned his attention to Marek. “They said they were going to meet at Jerrol’s hold tonight, Marek, and we want to hear what they have to say. I don’t know how we can do that, though—I’ve seen Jerrol’s cothold,” he said. “It’s small so it’s not as if we can hide inside it to eavesdrop on their plans.”
“Lemme see what I can do ’bout it. Skal’s bin makin’ a new cider, an’ if the lads hear there’s drink goin’ fer free, they’ll be down at his brewhouse like hot snots off a shovel. Leave it wit’ me, Sebell. I’ll get word ta ye when I know they’re headin’ out. ’Sprobly better if ye wait near Skal’s, then when ye see the three of ’em ye can follow ’em in behind.” Marek’s deep voice rumbled up through his chest like a slow, booming drum. Here was a man, Piemur thought, who would never be good at whispering.
“Thank you, Marek, you’ve been a great help,” Sebell said. “We’ll be off now.”
“I’m happy to have helped ya, Sebell. I’ll be leavin’ early tomorrow, up north toward Crom. I’ve had m’eye on baggin’ a wild boar for a long while, and my cousin says he knows where I can find one.”
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