Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

“You may not be available,” said Master Shonagar, his face expressionless, his voice almost as neutral.

  “But, sir, who will come to you?” and again, Piemur’s voice broke. “You know you’re always busy after the midday meal . . .”

  “If you mean,” and Shonagar spoke with real amusement crinkling his eye folds, “do I plan to appoint Tilgin to the vacancy? Sssssh! I shall, of course, have to devote a great deal of time to improving his voice and musicality, but to have him lurking about on tap . . .” The thick fingers wiggled with distaste. “Away with you. The choice of your successor requires considerable thought. Not, mind you, that there are not hundreds of likely lads who would undoubtedly suit my small requirements to perfection . . .”

  Piemur caught his breath in hurt and then saw the twitch of Master Shonagar’s expressive brows and realized that this moment was no easier on the older man.

  “Undoubtedly . . .” Piemur tried to turn away on that light note but found he could not, wishing that Master Shonagar might just this once . . .

  “Go, my son. You will ever know where to find me, should the need arise.”

  This time the dismissal was final because the Master slanted his head against his fist and closed his eyes, shamming weariness.

  Quickly Piemur walked to the entrance, blinking at the bright sunlight after the darker hall. He paused on the bottom step, reluctant to take the final one that severed his association with Master Shonagar. There was a sudden hard lump in his throat that had nothing to do with his voice change. He swallowed, but the sensation of constriction remained. He rubbed at his eyes with knuckles that came away moist and stood, fists clenched at his thighs, trying not to blubber.

  Master Robinton had something to tell him about new duties? So his voice change had been discussed by the Masters. To be sure, he wouldn’t have been callously thrown out of the Harper Hall and sent in some obscure disgrace back to his herdsman father and the dreary life of a beast farmer simply because he no longer had his soprano voice. No, that wouldn’t be his fate, despite the fact that singing was his one undeniable harper skill. As Talmor said of his gitar and harp playing, he could accompany so long as his playing was drowned out by loud singing or other instruments. The drums and pipes he made under Master Jerint’s guidance were only passable and never got stamped for sale at Gathers. He copied scores accurately enough when he put his mind to it, but he always found so many more interesting things to do than spending hours cramping his fingers, to renew Records someone else could do more neatly and in half the time. Yet, when pushed to it, Piemur didn’t actually mind scribing, if he were allowed to add his own embellishments. Which he wasn’t. Not with Master Arnor looking over his shoulder and muttering about wasted ink and hide.

  Piemur sighed deeply. The only thing he was really adept at was singing, and that was no longer possible. Forever? No, not forever! He spread his fingers in rejection of that prospect and then closed them into tighter fists. He’d be able to sing all right: he’d learned too much from Master Shonagar about voice production and phrasing and interpretation, but he might not have a voice as an adult. And he wasn’t going to sing unless he did! He had his reputation. Better if he never opened his mouth to sing another note. . . .

  Tilgin flubbed another phrase. Piemur grinned, listening to Tilgin repeating the phrase correctly. They’d miss Piemur all right! He could sight-read any score, even one of Domick’s, without missing a beat or an awkward interval, or those florid embellishments Domick insisted on writing for the treble parts. Yes, they’d miss Piemur in the chorus!

  That knowledge fortified him, and he took the final step onto the flagstones of the court. Clipping his thumbs over his belt, he began to saunter toward the main entrance of the Harper Hall. Not, he reminded himself, that a lowly apprentice who has just lost his privileged position, should saunter when sent to the Masterharper of Pern. Piemur squinted into the sunlight at the fire lizards on the roof opposite. He didn’t spot Master Robinton’s bronze fire lizard, Zair, among those sunning themselves with Menolly’s nine. So the Masterharper wasn’t with the day as yet. Come to think of it, Piemur reflected, he’d heard the clear baritone voice of the Harper in the Court late last night and the noise of a dragon landing and departing. These days the Harper spent more time away from the Hall than in it.

  ‘Piemur?’

  Startled, he glanced up and saw Menolly standing on the top step of the Main Hall. She’d spoken quietly, and when he peered at her, he knew that she knew what had happened to him.

  “It was rather audible,” she said, again in that gentle tone, which both irritated and appeased Piemur. Menolly, of all within the Harper Hall, would sympathize with him most acutely. She knew what it was to be without the ability to make music. “Is that Tilgin singing?”

  “Yes, and it’s all my fault,” Piemur said.

  “All your fault?” Menolly stared at him in surprised amusement.

  “Why did I have to pick now to break my voice?”

  “Why indeed? I’m sure you did it only to annoy Domick!” Menolly grinned broadly at him, for they both had experience with Domick’s whimsical temper.

  Piemur had reached the top step and experienced another shock on this morning of surprises: he could almost look Menolly squarely in the eye, and she was tall for a girl! She reached out and ruffled his hair, laughing as he indignantly swatted her hand away.

  “C’mon, Master Robinton wants to see you.”

  “Why? What’m I going to be doing now? D’you know?”

  “Not for me to tell you, scamp,” she said, striding on her long legs across the hall and forcing him to a jog pace to keep beside her.

  “Menolly, that’s not fair!”

  “Ha!” She was pleased by his discomfiture. “You’ve not long to wait. I will tell you this: Domick may not be pleased that your voice changed, but the Master was.”

  “Aw, Menolly, one little hint? Please? You know you owe me a favor or two!”

  “I do?” Menolly savored her advantage.

  “You do. And you know it. You could pay me back right now!” Piemur was irritated. Why did she have to pick now to be difficult?

  “Why waste a favor when a little patience on your part will bring the answer?” They had reached the second level and were striding down the corridor toward the Harper’s quarters. “You’d better learn patience, too, my friend!”

  Piemur halted in disgust.

  “Oh, c’mon Piemur,” she said, with a broad swing of her arm. “You’re not a little ‘un anymore to wheedle news out of me. And wasn’t it you who warned me that you don’t keep a Master waiting?”

  “I’ve had enough surprises today,” he said sourly, but he closed the distance between them just as she tapped politely on the door.

  The Masterharper of Pern, his silvering hair glinting in the sun streaming in his windows, was seated at the worktable, a tray before him, the steam of hot klah rising unnoticed as he offered pieces of meat to the fire lizard clinging to his left forearm.

  “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 fat
igue 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 drum message 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.

  “Not normally, I’m sure. But you might be tempted to speak when taunted by others.”

  “Me, sir?” Piemur’s indignation 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 Harpe
r 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, through.”

  “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’s 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.