“This is what you were sent for. Tend your beast while I tend these unexpected arrivals.”
Piemur’s trained ear did not miss the apprehension in the Miner’s tone nor the implicit command that Piemur was to remain out of sight. He made no comment, stuffing the small sack in his belt pouch while the Miner watched. The man left as Piemur vigorously pumped water into the trough for his thirsty beast. As soon as the Miner reached his cot, Piemur changed his position so that he had a clear view of the one reasonably level area of the minehold where dragons could land.
Only the bronze did. The two blues settled on the ridge above the mine opening. Sight of the great beast that backwinged to the ground told Piemur all he needed to know to understand the Miner’s grimness. Before their exile south, the Oldtimers from Fort Weyr had made few appearances, but Piemur recognized Fidranth by the long sear scar on his rump and T’ron by the arrogant swagger as he strode up to the minecot. Piemur didn’t need to hear the conversation to know that T’ron’s manner had not altered in his Turns south. With a very stiff bow, the Miner stepped aside as Tron, slapping his flying gloves against his thigh, strode disdainfully into the cothold. As the Miner followed, he glanced toward the shed. Piemur ducked behind the runner.
It needed little wit now to realize why the Miner had thrust the sack at him. Piemur investigated the contents: only four of the blue stones that spilled into his hand had been cut and polished. The others, ranging from one the size of his thumbnail to small uneven crystals, were rough. The blue sapphires were much prized by the Harper Hall, and stones as large as the four cut ones were mounted as badges for Masters of the Craft. Four cut stones? Four new masters walking the tables? Would Sebell be one of them? Piemur wondered.
Piemur thought a moment and then slipped the cut stones carefully, two and two, into his boots. He wiggled his feet until the stones settled, sharp lumps against his ankles but they’d not slip out. He hesitated as he was about to stow the sack in his pouch. He doubted T’ron would stoop to searching a lowly apprentice, but the stones made a suspicious bulge. Checking the leather to make sure it bore no miner’s mark, he wrapped the thong on the backpad ring beside his drinking flask. Then he took off his jacket, folding the harper badge inside before he slung it over the pump handle. Trail dust had turned his blue pants to a nondescript gray.
A clink of boot nails on the ridge stone warned him and, whistling tunelessly, he picked up the beast’s feet in turn, checking for stones in the cleft hooves.
“You there!”
The peremptory tone irritated Piemur. N’ton never spoke like that, even to a kitchen drudge.
“Sor?” Piemur unbent and stared around at the Oldtimer, hoping his anxious expression masked the anger he really felt. Then he glanced apprehensively at the Miner, saw a harsh wariness in the man’s eyes and added in his best hillhold mumble, “Sor, he was that sweated, I’ve had a time cleaning him up.”
“You’ve other work to do,” said the Miner in a cold voice, jerking his head toward the cothold.
“A day too late, am I, Miner? Well, there’s been yesterday’s work and this morning’s.” The Oldtimer superciliously gestured the Miner to precede him toward the open shaft.
Piemur watched, keeping a dull expression on his face as the two men disappeared from sight. Inwardly he was right pleased with his dissembling and was positive he’d seen an approving glint in the Miner’s eyes.
By the time he had finished grooming the runner from nose to dock, Tron and the Miner had not yet reappeared. What other work would he have to do if he were a genuine miner’s apprentice? It would be logical for him to stay far away from the shaft at the moment, for he’d be scared of the dragonrider if not of his master. Ah, but the Miner had indicated the cothold.
Piemur pumped water into a spare pail and lugged it back to the cothold, ogling with what he hoped was appropriate fear the blue dragons ensconced on the ridge, the riders hunkered between them.
The minecot was divided into two large rooms, one for sleeping, the other for relaxing and eating, with a small portion curtained off for the Miner’s privacy. The curtain was open, and plainly the disgruntled dragonrider had searched the press, locker and bedding. In the kitchen area, every drawer was open and every door was ajar. A large cooking pot on the hearth was boiling so hard its contents frothed from under its cover. Not wishing what might be his meal in the ashes, Piemur quickly swung the pot away from the full heat of the fire. Then he began to tidy the kitchen area. No lowly apprentice would enter the Master’s quarters, however humble, without direct permission. He heard voices again, the Miner’s low comments and T’ron’s angry reproaches. Then he heard the sounds of hammers against stone and ventured to look cautiously through the open window.
Six miners were squatting or kneeling, carefully chipping rough dark stone and dirt from the blue crystals possibly within. As Piemur watched, one of the miners rose, extending the palm of his hand toward the Miner. T’ron intercepted the gesture and held the small object up to the sun. Then he gave an oath, clenching his fist. For a moment, Piemur thought that the Oldtimer was going to throw the stone away.
“Is this all you’re finding here now? This mine produced sapphires the size of a man’s eye—”
“Four hundred Turns ago it did indeed, Dragonrider,” said the Miner in an expressionless voice that could not be construed either as insolent or courteous. “We find fewer stones nowadays. The coarse dust is still good for grinding and polishing other gems,” he added as the Oldtimer stared at the man carefully brushing what seemed like glistening sand into a small scoop, which he then emptied in a small lidded tub.
“I’m not interested in dust, Miner, or flawed crystals.” He held up his clenched fist. “I want good, sizable sapphires.”
He continued to stand there, glaring at each of the miners in turn as they tapped cautiously away. Piemur, hoping that no larger sapphires would be discovered, made himself busy in the kitchen.
By the time the sun was westering behind the highest of the ridges, only six medium to small sapphires had rewarded T’ron’s afternoon vigil. Piemur was not the only one to watch, half-holding his breath, as the Oldtimer stalked to Fidranth and mounted. The old bronze showed no faltering as he neatly lifted in the air, joined by the two blues. Only when the three had winked out between did the miners break into angry talk, crowding up to the Miner, who brushed them aside in his urgency to get to the minecot.
“I see why you’re a messenger, young Piemur,” said the Miner. “You’ve all your wits about you.” Grinning, he extended his hand.
Piemur grinned back and pointed toward his backpad and the sack with its precious contents, looped in plain sight to the ring. He heard the Miner’s astonished oath, which turned into a roar of laughter.
“You mean, he spent all afternoon facing what he wanted?” cried the Miner.
‘I did put the cut gems in my boots,” Piemur said with a grimace for one of the stones had rubbed his ankle raw.
‘As the Miner retrieved the sack, the others began to cheer, for they’d had no chance to learn that the Miner had managed to save the product of several sevendays’ labor. Piemur found himself much admired for his quick thinking as well as his timely arrival.
“Did you read my mind, lad,” asked the Miner, “to know that I’d told the old grasper I’d sent the gems off yesterday?”
“It seemed only logical,” Piemur replied. He’d taken his boots off just then, examining the scratches the sapphires had made. “It would’ve been a crying shame to let old T’ron get away with these beauties!”
“And what are we going to do, Master,” asked the oldest journeyman, “when those Oldtimers come back again in a few sevendays and take what we’ve mined? That placer’s not played out yet.”
“We’re closing up here tomorrow,” said the Miner.
“Why? We’ve just found more—”
The Miner signaled silence abruptly.
“Each craft has its privacies,” said Piem
ur, grinning broadly. If the Miner felt an apprentice required no apology for such curtness, he would not be admonished for impertinence for repeating a well-known rule. “But I shall have to mention this to Master Robinton, if only to explain why I’m so late returning.”
“You must tell the Masterharper, lad. He’s got to know if no one else. I’ll tell Masterminer Nicat.” Then he swung about the room with a warning look at each of his own craftmen. “You all understand that this matter goes no further? Well and good. T’ron got only a few flawed stones—you were all very clever with your hammers today, though I deplore cracking good sapphires.” The Miner sighed heavily for that necessity. “Master Nicat will know which other miners to warn. Let the Oldtimers seek if it amuses them.” When the older journeyman laughed derisively, the Miner went on, raising an admonishing finger at him. “Enough! They are dragonmen, and they did help Benden Weyr and Pern when aid was badly needed!” Then he turned to Piemur. “Did you save any of our stew, lad? I’ve the appetite of a queen dragon after clutching.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT DAY HELD one more event! At sunset, as Piemur was helping the apprentice bring in the miners’ runners from the pasture, he heard the shrill cry of a fire lizard. Glancing up, he saw a slender body, wings back, drop with unnerving speed in his direction. The apprentice dropped to the ground, covering his head with his arms. Piemur braced his legs, but the bronze fire lizard did not come to his shoulder. Instead, Rocky spun round his head, berating him, his jewel-faceted eyes spinning violently red and orange in anger.
It took Piemur a few minutes to talk Rocky into landing on his shoulder and even more time to soothe the little creature until his eyes calmed into tones of greeny blue. All the time the miner apprentice watched, eyes bugged out.
“There now, Rocky. I’m all right, but I have to stay the night here. I’m all right. You can tell Menolly that you’ve found me, can’t you? That I’m all right?”
Rocky gave a half-chirp that sounded so skeptical Piemur had to laugh.
“Is that fire lizard yours?” asked the Miner curiously as he approached Piemur, eyeing Rocky all the time.
“No, sir,” said Piemur with such chagrin the Miner smiled. “This is one of Menolly’s, Master Robinton’s journeywoman. His name is Rocky. I help Menolly feed him mornings, because she’s got the nine and they’re a right handful, so he knows me pretty well.”
“I didn’t think the creatures had enough sense to find people!”
“Well, sir, I have to say it’s the first time it’s happened to me,” and Piemur couldn’t suppress the smug satisfaction he was feeling that Rocky had been able to find him.
“Now that he’s found you, what good will that do?” asked the Miner with a revival of his skepticism.
“Well, sir, he could go back to Menolly and make her understand that he’s seen me. But it would be much more useful if you’d let me have a bit of hide for a message. Tied on his leg, he’ll take it back, and they’ll know exactly. . . .”
The Miner held up his hand admonishingly. “I’d rather nothing in script about the Oldtimers’ visit.”
“Of course not, sir,” replied Piemur, offended that he needed to be cautioned.
A terse message was all he could scribe on the scrap of hide the Miner grudgingly produced for him. The hide was so old, had been scraped so often for messages, that the ink blurred as he wrote. “Safe! Delayed!” Then it occurred to him to add in drum measures, “Errand completed. Emergency. Old Dragon.”
“You’ve a way with the little things, haven’t you?” said the Miner with reluctant respect as he watched Piemur tying the message on Rocky’s leg, an operation the fire lizard oversaw as carefully as the Miner.
“He knows he can trust me,” said Piemur.
“I’d say there were not many,” replied the Miner in such a dry tone that Piemur stared at him in surprise. “No offense meant!”
Piemur had to concentrate just then on imagining Menolly as strongly as he could in his mind. Then, lifting his hand high, he gave a practiced flick to send Rocky into flight.
“Go to Menolly, Rocky! Go to Menolly!”
He and the Miner watched until the little fire lizard seemed to disappear in the dimming light to the east. Then the apprentice called them to their meal.
As he ate, Piemur wondered what the Miner had meant by that remark. “Not many that fire lizards could trust?” “Not many people that trusted Piemur?” Why would the Miner say a thing like that? Hadn’t he saved the miners’ sapphires for them? It wasn’t as if he’d told any lies to do so. Further he’d never taken any real advantage of his friends in bargaining at a Gather or failing to keep a promise. All of his friends came to him for help. And, Shells, wasn’t the Masterharper entrusting him with this errand? And knowing about Harper Hall secrets? What had the Miner meant?
“Piemur!” Someone shook him by the shoulder.
Abruptly the young harper realized that he’d been addressed several times.
“You’re a harper! Can you not give us a song?”
The eagerness of the request from men isolated for long periods of time in a lonely hold gave Piemur a genuine pang of regret.
“Sirs, the reason I’m messenger is that my voice is changing and I’m not allowed to sing just now. But,” he added seeing the intense disappointment on every face, “that doesn’t mean I can’t talk them to you. If you’ve something I can drum to give the rhythm.”
After several attempts, he found a saucepan that did not sound too flat, and while the men stomped their heavy boots in time, he talked the newest songs from the Harper Hall, even giving them Domick’s new song about Lessa. The Shell knew when they’d hear it sung, though no one was supposed to hear it until Lord Groghe’s feast. If the performance of the spoken song lacked much in Piemur’s estimation, Master Shonagar couldn’t hear, Domick would never know, and the men were so grateful that he felt completely justified.
He left the minehold with the first rays of the sun and made the trip back to the Harper Hall at a downhill pace that all but forced his voice back up to the treble range. At times his runner slithered unnervingly down tracks that they had laboriously climbed the day before. Piemur closed his eyes, held tightly to the saddle pad, and fervently hoped not to go sailing off the track into the deep gorges. When he returned the stolid runner to Banak, it was barely sweated under the midstrap while Piemur knew that his armpits and back were damp with perspiration.
“Safe back, I see,” was Banak’s only remark.
“He may be slow, but he’s sure-footed,” said Piemur with such exaggerated relief that Banak laughed.
As Piemur jogged into the Harper Hall court, he heard Tilgin bravely singing his first solo as Lessa. Piemur grinned to himself, for Tilgin’s voice sounded tired even if he was note-wise. None of Menolly’s fair was sunning on the ridge, but Zair was sprawled on the ledge of the Harper’s window so Piemur took the steps two at a time. While he sort of wished someone would encounter him on his triumphant return, he was also relieved that he’d have no temptation to blurt out his adventures.
Master Robinton’s greeting, however, was warm enough to make Piemur puff his chest out in pride.
“You make the most of your opportunities, young Piemur—but kindly explain your cryptic measures before I burst with curiosity! ‘Old dragon’ does mean Oldtimers, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” and Piemur took the seat the Harper indicated and began. “T’ron and Fidranth with two blue dragons came to relieve the Miner of his sapphires!”
“You’re positive beyond doubt that it was T’ron and Fidranth?”
“Positive! I did see them once or twice before they were exiled. Besides, the Miner knew them all too well.”
The Harper gestured for him to continue, and the day’s events made good telling with the best of all audiences in the Masterharper, who listened intently without a single interruption. He then asked Piemur to repeat, this time questioning a detail here, a response there, and extracti
ng from Piemur every nuance of the confrontation of Miner and Oldtimer. He laughed appreciatively at Piemur’s strategy and lauded his caution of putting the four cut gems in his boots. It was only then that Piemur remembered to hand the precious stones to the Harper. The sun sparkled off the facets as the sapphires lay on the table.
“I’ll have a word with Master Nicat myself. And I think I’ll see him today,” said Robinton, holding up one of the gems between thumb and forefinger and squinting at it in the sunlight. “Beautiful workmanship! Not a flaw!”
“That’s what the Miner said,” and then Piemur daringly added. “I gather it’s not easy to find the right blues for masterharpers.”
Master Robinton regarded Piemur, a startled expression on his face, which changed to amusement. “You will keep that to yourself as well, young man!”
Piemur nodded solemnly. “Of course, if I’d had a fire lizard of my own, you wouldn’t have had to worry about me and the stones, and perhaps something could have been done about T’ron.”
The Harper’s face altered and the flash in his eyes had nothing to do with amusement. Now Piemur couldn’t imagine what had prompted him to say such a thing. He didn’t even dare look away from the Harper’s severe gaze, although he wanted more than anything else to creep away and hide from his Master’s disapproval. He did stiffen, fully expecting a blow for such impertinence.
“When you can keep your wits about you as you did yesterday, Piemur,” said Master Robinton after an interminable interval, “you prove Menolly’s good opinion of your potential. You have also just proved the main criticism that Hall masters have expressed. I do not disapprove of ambition, nor the ability to think independently, but,” and suddenly his voice lost the cold displeasure, “presumption is unforgiveable. Presuming to criticize a dragonrider is the most dangerous offense against discretion. Further,” and the Harper’s finger was raised in warning, “you are rushing toward a privilege you have by no means earned. Now, off with you to Master Olodkey and learn the proper drum measure for ‘Oldtimer.’”
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