Dragon Harper (15 page)

The Masterharper motioned for him to continue.

“Well…,” Kindan said consideringly, “it seemed rather odd that he would ask to have someone else trained in the drum codes.”

“Ah, you thought so, too,” Murenny said.

“And why would he want to know about bronze fire-lizards?”

“Why do you think, Kindan?” the Masterharper asked softly.

Kindan frowned sourly. He was afraid he knew exactly why. He remembered with a mixture of fondness and anger the Impression of Valla and Koriss nearly half a Turn back.

He remembered the looks of outrage and horror when Koriana’s newly hatched Koriss frightened away the two last hatchlings—both males—that her brothers would have Impressed, as though the little queen had not wanted to mate with bronzes owned by her own owner’s brothers. Kindan was amazed by the fire-lizard’s actions, but not entirely surprised at her reasoning: The intense emotions of fire-lizards mating were shared by their human partners just as dragons shared their mating lust with their riders.

Kindan’s own reaction to the beautiful Koriana had been enough to cause him many sleepless nights. Even now he sometimes woke with the smell of her hair or shards of her half-wistful, half-joking smile lingering from his dreams.

“Is Lord Bemin afraid that Koriss might mate with Valla?” Kindan asked anxiously.

“Koriana is of an age to be married,” Murenny agreed indirectly. “It would not do for there to be any indiscretions on her part.”

“That’s not fair!” Kindan shouted. “I fought Vaxoram because it’s wrong for a woman to be judged—”

“Kindan,” Murenny’s voice was so soft it demanded Kindan’s instant attention. “Consider her choices.”

“She could do anything,” Kindan said. “She’s good at making beads, she made a harness for Koriss and one for Valla here,” he said, pointing to Valla’s brilliant bead harness marking him as belonging to an apprentice of the Harper Hall. He’d been thrilled and a little apprehensive when she’d presented the pretty harness to him during their fire-lizard training together—he hoped he would fulfill her expectations of him. Everyone had assumed that Kindan would know all about fire-lizard training, seeing as he’d had a watch-wher.

“Do you think that she would be content, who has known servants and finery, to exist on the income of a simple harper?” Murenny asked him seriously.

Kindan sat in silence, mulling over the question. Finally he asked in despair, “Are you saying that she has no choice?”

Murenny shook his head. “No, not at all. I am merely pointing out that for her some choices will be easier than others.”

“Don’t her parents want her to be happy?”

“I think they do,” Murenny said. “And I think that she would be happiest living the life to which she has grown accustomed.”

“A broodmare for Holders?” Kindan snapped, shaking his head and all the while wondering at his outraged words to the Masterharper. He’d never felt so angry and so out of control before.

“A Lady Holder, a symbol of grace, beauty, and kindness,” Murenny replied calmly. “Her children would be only a part of her legacy, though possibly the most enduring.”

“But there has to be more for a woman!” Kindan protested.

“Perhaps you are mistaken about what you believe a mother should be,” Murenny replied. “I think that being a parent is the greatest challenge and greatest joy of all occupations.”

“I—” Kindan cut himself off, thinking. Wasn’t he something of a big brother to Kelsa and Nonala? And even Verilan. Their well-being meant a lot to him. He could never imagine himself as a father, that prospect was Turns away and more, but perhaps he could see…

“It just seems so unfair,” Kindan ended lamely.

“I understand,” the Masterharper said. Kindan glanced up at him sharply. Was the rumor true? Had the Master once been in love with Sannora?

“Why doesn’t Lord Bemin trust harpers?” Kindan asked, feeling emboldened.

Murenny took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh. “Let us just say that Lord Bemin wishes he had more control over the Harper Hall and leave it at that.”

Kindan nodded, not feeling any more enlightened than he’d been before he asked his question.

“Now,” Murenny said, changing the subject, “what I need you to do is keep an eye on young Conar; teach Koriana the drum codes without”—he wagged a finger at Kindan and raised a bushy eyebrow warningly—“upsetting her mother; and help her with her writing.”

Kindan nodded. Fortunately, Koriss and Valla were probably still too young for a mating flight; that would certainly qualify as “upsetting her mother.” Then a thought struck him, sparked by Master Murenny’s mention of writing. “What would make it difficult for people to read in dim light?”

Murenny cocked his head thoughtfully and frowned for a moment before responding, “There are several things that could do that. The person could have poor eyesight—not as bad as your friend Nuella’s, obviously, but poor all the same.” Kindan nodded in understanding. “Or the person could have difficulty in reading altogether,” Murenny continued. He glanced up at Kindan. “Do you know this person well?”

Kindan nodded. Murenny glanced at him for a moment longer, giving Kindan a chance to supply him with a name, but when it was not forthcoming, the Masterharper continued, “One way to check on this is to see if the person has trouble distinguishing between b’s and d’s or u’s and n’s, m’s and w’s. Another way is to see if the person has difficulty with the same word on a different Record.

“Such a difficulty is not uncommon and often indicates a great degree of intelligence and ability,” the Masterharper said. “People who have difficulty reading often find it difficult to remember tables of multiplication and addition but find it easy to remember songs, particularly those with catchy tunes, no matter how difficult the words.” He pursed his lips as he trolled his memory, then brightened as he recalled, “Some of these people are great song-writers or artists.”

“Conar brought some colored pencils with him,” Kindan offered suddenly.

“Did he?” Murenny replied. “Perhaps we should encourage him in drawing.”

“But I thought harpers were supposed to sing, teach, and write,” Kindan protested.

“‘Harpers master many instruments,’” Murenny reminded him with another wagging finger. “We are not above adding more to our cache. Who knows when a drawing might prove vital to the safety of Pern.”

Kindan gave the harper a look of incredulity, quickly erased as he recalled to whom he was speaking—if anyone could, the Masterharper would be the one to dictate what was acceptable in a harper.

“But most of all, Kindan,” the harper said, returning to the original topic, “you must discover what you can in the Records.”

Kindan nodded emphatically in agreement, then frowned. Murenny gestured for him to speak. “What about my classes?”

“I think we can safely excuse you from song and instrument making for the moment,” the Masterharper said with a slight grin. Kindan looked crestfallen and Murenny held up a hand. “Not forever, mind you! Sometimes a change is all that’s needed for a fresh perspective.”

Murenny’s words must have provoked some new thought, for the Masterharper frowned for a moment before continuing.

“Indeed, I think I’ll ask that you spend time with Healer Lenner as well.” Before Kindan could protest, Murenny continued, “I know you’ve learned a lot from Mikal and I think it wouldn’t hurt at your level of experience to learn some more traditional lore.”

“I don’t want to be a healer,” Kindan said.

“And you don’t have to be,” Murenny replied. “But all harpers know a bit of healing and you already know more than most. It would be foolish not to add to your store, especially as it may aid you in your search of the Records.”

“Yes, Master,” Kindan agreed, accepting the Masterharper’s points. “And what if this flu spreads?”

“That’s why your search of the Records is vital,” Murenny replied. “We must know what to expect.”

CHAPTER 7

When sickness comes to craft and hold
It is the healer, oh so bold
Who spends his hours in endless toil
Working for illness and death to foil.

H
ARPER
H
ALL

I
t’s just a lot of useless old Records!” Conar complained, sniffling mightily as he flounced around in the small room designated as their work area. “Honestly, Kindan, I’ll fall asleep going over them.”

“Don’t,” Kindan told him. “Master Resler has a quick hand for those he finds slouching.”

“He does,” Vaxoram agreed, stretching in his chair and bending back to his Record. Kindan noticed that once again, Vaxoram’s eyes hadn’t moved from the top of the Record. He made it a point every day to surreptitiously check on the older apprentice’s work, not having figured out yet what to do with his knowledge of Vaxoram’s problem. But that was for later, Kindan reminded himself.

Kindan bent more closely over his Record, ignoring the older boy. Resler had already berated him twice for slackness and Kindan could think of no way to tell the Master that
he
had been working, particularly when half his time had been spent either listening to Conar moan or cajoling the older Vaxoram to work.

“You’ll want to take slices from each of the various Hold Records,” Verilan had told him when they’d started. Verilan had stayed only long enough to get them properly started before Resler had put him onto the task of recopying the Records that had been so inauspiciously destroyed by Kindan’s earlier accident.

The Archive Room was a huge cavern dug into the base of the cliff that overlooked the Harper Hall, crammed full of Records. Glows provided light for the room, although it seemed to Kindan that there were never enough to clear out the darkest shadows. Even as huge as the room was, Kindan had been surprised that the Harper Hall had so many of the Holds’ Records.

“Of course we do!” Verilan had snorted in surprise when Kindan had mentioned it. “Harpers usually make copies and send them to us as a matter of course,” Verilan had explained, surprised that he even needed to explain the procedure. “Holders rarely keep Records for more than fifty Turns, so they send us those, too,” Verilan had continued, adding with a shake of his head, “when they remember.” Kindan gave him a quizzical look and Verilan explained in a horrified tone, “Sometimes they actually
destroy
their old Records.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Conar had asked sourly, punctuated with another cough. “They’re nothing but useless old relics.”

“They’re
Records,
” Verilan had replied, offended to the very depth of his being. “How would anyone know what had happened in previous Turns without them?”

Conar had given Verilan a scornful look and turned away.

Now, a sevenday after they’d been given the assignment, Kindan could partly agree with Verilan—and partly with Conar. The Records were a collection of the most boring things he’d ever read coupled with tantalizing sections that made Kindan wish for more. Why, for example, when the Lord Holder of Igen had first discovered that his wells were running dry, hadn’t he started planting hardier, more drought-resistant crops instead of foolishly reducing his acreage and ultimately starving his entire Hold? What had happened that caused the traders to start charging Bitra Hold—and only Bitra Hold—a surtax on all goods delivered?

Neither of those questions had come from a strict reading of the Records but from Kindan’s memory and interpolation. He remembered reading about the lowered water levels and then about the reduced plantings; he noticed suddenly that there were entries in the Bitra Hold Records regarding the trader surtax and noticed that there was no mention of them in the Records of Lemos nor Benden.

“Well, how do you know that Lemos and Benden hadn’t been paying the tax for Turns already?” Conar objected when Kindan had mentioned his findings. “And why wouldn’t the Lord Holder of Igen keep planting his best crops? How could he know that they were in a drought?”

Kindan, torn between astonishment at Conar’s obtuseness and his desire to press on with their work—and avoid Resler’s complaints—replied noncommittally, turning to a new Record.

Conar set aside the Record he’d been perusing and began noisily to examine the next.

“Huh! Someone left a scribble, here!” Conar exclaimed. “And here! Neither look like proper Records.” He turned to Kindan. “I can’t see how you expect to find anything from Records when the Harper Hall keeps the works of children.”

Kindan’s initial angry look dissolved into a frown as he recalled that Conar was going through the old Benden Hold Records. He got up from his workdesk and strode over to Conar’s.

“We’ll switch off,” he said, gesturing for Conar to change seats with him.

Conar rose eagerly, happily seating himself in front of Kindan’s much smaller pile. With a frown, he warned, “You’ll want to catch up before Master Resler returns.”

Kindan nodded in agreement, turning to the Records. Conar was right, the writing of the Records was very poor. He turned back two Records and saw that the writing was far more legible: a fairly large print that Kindan could read easily by the light of the glows surrounding his new desk.

He looked at the top of the page for the author’s marks: Harper Bellam, Benden Hold, Second Month, year 389 After Landing.

The next page had no marks. Kindan frowned and turned to the page after it. It had author’s marks: Lord Kenex, Benden Hold, AL390.5.

Lord Kenex? Kindan thought.

“Conar, look at this,” he called. Conar jumped up and stood behind Kindan, peering down at the Record.

“Could you imagine a Lord Holder with such poor handwriting?” Kindan asked. He knew already that Conar’s writing was not very good, but even it was far better than the scrawling on the page in front of him.

“That
is
odd,” Conar agreed. He traced some of the writing with his finger. “It looks like either the person had a bad stylus or they weren’t very used to it.” He cocked his head to one side. “A child?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Vaxoram chimed in from his stack. “That’s written on paper, right? That’s too expensive to let a child have.” There was an awkward silence; Conar had been allowed to use paper for his drawings. Vaxoram noticed it and added, “I mean for writing, of course.”

“What does it mean?” Conar asked.

Kindan shrugged. “I’ll see what it says,” he replied, peering down at the Record.

Conar returned to his own table, but a moment later he let out an exclamation. “There’s bad handwriting here, too!”

“What year?” Kindan asked.

“Year?” Conar repeated blankly, then looked down. Once again, he snorted. “There isn’t a year.”

“What about the Record before?”

Conar gave him a dirty look but turned back to the previous page, scanning the top quickly. “Journeyman Metalar, Bitra Hold, Third Month, year 389 After Landing,” he read. He looked up at Kindan and shrugged. “So?”

But Kindan was already moving to the desk that Verilan had abandoned when called away by Master Resler. Piled on the desk were the records from Lemos Hold. Kindan turned quickly until he came to entries from the year 389 After Landing.

“What are you doing?” Conar demanded, craning his neck around to watch Kindan. “Master Resler will know which stack you were working on.”

“It’s not working,” Kindan returned tetchily, “it’s researching.”

“‘It’s makework, best left to unemployed drudges,’” Vaxoram said, quoting Resler’s sour opinion.

Kindan ignored him, turning through the Records carefully. Harper Lorkin had good handwriting; his marks were clear and easily read. Kindan scanned the pages—389, 389, 389, 389, 390—what?

Kindan peered down at the entry in surprise. The author’s marks read: Harper Lorkin, Lemos Hold, AL 390.5. Frowning he turned back to the previous Record: Harper Lorkin, Lemos Hold, Fourth Month, year 389 After Landing. What had caused the harper to so change his style? And why did he not leave any Records for a whole Turn? Kindan peered down to the contents of the Record itself.

“I write this with great regret: We are a sadly reduced Hold,” read the first line. “Fields lie fallow, huts are still empty, or, worse, home to carrion that feed on unburied bones.”

Kindan tore his eyes from the Record and sat back, stunned.

“Kindan!” Master Resler’s voice called from the entrance. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be reading the Benden Records!”

“I think I’ve found the plague,” Kindan replied, his voice sounding loud and irreverent to his ears. He gestured to the Records. “I think I know when it started and maybe where.”

“You were supposed to be reading the Benden Records,” Master Resler repeated angrily, advancing into the Archive Room, grabbing Kindan by the ear and lifting him out of his seat. “Can’t you just do what you’re told?”

“Sorry, Master,” Kindan apologized, ducking out of Resler’s grasp and turning to face him, “but I thought I was told to find any Records of a plague.”

“In the Benden Records!” Resler growled in response, gesticulating wildly to the stack beside Conar.

“I found it there, too,” Kindan said. He gestured over to the Bitra Records. “And in Bitra, too, but the Lemos Records seem the best so far.” He turned and snagged the Record from his table. “Listen to this: ‘Fields lie fallow, huts are still empty—’”

“That’s a Record of a plague?” Resler snorted angrily. “A proper Record would have dates, and times, and—”

“I don’t think they had the time,” Kindan interrupted as politely as he could. He gestured to the Record in his hand. “I think they were so shorthanded afterward that they could only press on with their lives.”

“That’s not the way of a harper!” Resler exclaimed. He glanced down angrily at Kindan. “Have you learned nothing since you left your mine?”

Kindan could feel his cheeks burning. “The Records of Benden were kept by the Lord Holder after the plague,” he said. “I think that shows that the times were such that—”

“Lord Holders don’t keep Records!” Resler chided prissily, his jaw jutting and eyes glaring.

“The Record was marked—”

“Such impudence!” Resler roared. “Go! Get out of my sight!”

“Does that include me?” Conar asked, rising to his feet.

“Yes,” Resler replied, “it includes you. It’s time for lunch.”

Conar left but waited at the entrance for Kindan who was followed, as always, by Vaxoram.

“You aren’t much of a harper, you know,” he said as he fell in step with Kindan. “You’d think you’d know how to handle a Master by now.” He cocked his head at the silent boy. “However do you think you’ll manage a Lord Holder?”

“Maybe I won’t,” Kindan replied sourly, brushing past Conar and racing to catch up with Verilan, whom he spied at the entrance to the Dining Hall.

Catching sight of Kindan’s morose look, Verilan asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I think I found the plague,” Kindan told him, “but Master Resler doesn’t believe me.”

As if he was listening, Master Resler, who had been following behind them, called out, “Verilan! A word with you, please.”

Verilan gave Kindan an apologetic look, then headed back to his Master.

“Something bothers me,” Vaxoram said as he finished chewing on a roll. Kindan gave him a questioning look. “Well, perhaps Bitra, Lemos, and Benden were hit by this plague, but what about Benden Weyr? Why didn’t the weyrfolk help?”

“That’s a good question,” Conar said, frowning thoughtfully.

“We’ll look at their Records next,” Kindan declared.

“What about Master Resler?” Conar asked, glancing in the direction of the irritable Archivist. “It sounds like he never wants you near him or his precious Records again.”

“He’s not the Masterharper,” Vaxoram said, glancing at Kindan to see his reaction.

“But Conar’s right,” Kindan objected, “I have to learn how to work with him as well as the other Masters.”

“Maybe you could—” Vaxoram began, but a faint booming sound silenced him, as it did everyone in the Harper Hall. It was a drum message.

Emergency! Sickness in Keroon. Please help.

“It’s spreading,” Conar declared in a flat voice. No one contradicted him.