Dragon Harper (31 page)

He looked at Benden’s Weyrleader. “Could you send for Master Zist? He’ll be needed here.”

M’tal gave him a worried look. “Kindan,” he began, but the harper stopped him with an upraised hand.

“I sent Valla this morning,” Kindan assured him. “Master Zist is alive. As the senior Master, he becomes the next Masterharper.”

“Of course,” M’tal agreed. “I’ll have him here tomorrow.”

Kindan wanted to protest, but contained himself.

“The dragons are tired,” M’tal explained. “And so are the riders.”

Kindan smiled wanly. “It seems I heard you say those words not so long ago, at High Reaches Weyr.”

When at last the feast was over, Kindan, Kelsa, Nonala, and Verilan made their way back to the apprentice dormitory and their old beds.

“So what are we going to do?” Kelsa asked as she turned over the last glow and darkness filled the room.

“I think we should get up early,” Kindan replied.

“Why?”

“M’tal will bring Master Zist tomorrow,” Kindan told them.

“Master Zist?” Verilan repeated in dread tones. “I’ve heard stories about him.”

“All true,” Kindan replied, smiling in the dark.

Sleep came slowly to him; he was unused to the dormitory and also the night noises of the Harper Hall after so long in the Great Hall of Fort Hold. When it did come, he dreamt that Koriana was lying beside him.

When he awoke the next morning, he realized that the lump he’d felt lying by him was Valla, who chirped and chattered cheerfully to him as he got up and headed into the showers.

“You can start on clearing up the Archive Room,” Selora told them as they finished breakfast. She spread her gaze to include the rest of the apprentices. “All of you.”

“You take charge, Verilan,” Kindan said as they entered the large hall that was the Archive Room.

“No one ever sorted through all the damp stuff,” Verilan sniffed. “I think the dragonriders must have thrown it all out,” he added mournfully. Idly he picked up a Record that had fallen to the floor and reverently set it on one of the reading tables. He glanced at Kindan, as if looking for instruction. Kindan shrugged and looked back at him expectantly.

“Right,” Verilan said, hitching up his shoulders and pointing to a group of the youngest apprentices. “Pick up every Record on the floor and pile it here.” He pointed to another group. “You lot start checking the stacks nearest where the fire was. I want you to look for fire damage and water damage first. Bring any damaged Records over to that table, there. Sort through the rest of the Records and rearrange them into chronological order.”

When the apprentices started discovering damaged Records, Verilan made a third group of trustworthy scribes and set them to work transcribing the damaged Records onto new paper. Kindan noticed that Verilan sent a younger apprentice to retrieve the supplies from Master Resler’s old quarters; Kindan couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go there himself, he knew that Verilan thought highly of the late Master.

The apprentices threw themselves into the task with relish and were all thoroughly absorbed as midday approached. Kindan was so engrossed himself that at first he didn’t notice the sound of a drum.

“Kindan,” Kelsa whispered urgently, “the drums.”

Report,
the message said.

“That’s Zist,” Kindan told her excitedly.

“But he just said ‘report,’” Nonala complained. “He didn’t say who.”

“You’d better get going,” Verilan said to Kindan, looking up from his table. “It’s never good to keep a Master waiting.”

Verilan was right; Zist was tapping his thigh irritably as Kindan entered the Masterharper’s quarters.

“It took you long enough,” Zist grumbled irritably, gesturing for Kindan to take a seat. “Where’s your report?”

“Master?”

“I knew Murenny better than that,” Zist growled, “he’d expect a full report by now.” He jerked a thumb toward his workdesk. “There’s materials there, get started. And don’t leave out any details.”

Kindan was surprised at Zist’s gruff manner; he’d expected at least a polite hello before being set to writing.

“Mind you that it’s legible,” Zist warned, fingering the drum that he’d laid on the breakfast table beside him.

That was the last word the Master said for the next several hours as Kindan wrote first a rough draft and then a proper copy. Somewhere along the way—he couldn’t quite remember when—Kindan found tears starting in his eyes. He tried blinking them away, but they persisted. He paused for a moment, not wanting to mar his Record. He looked back at the Record; he had just been writing about Vaxoram.

A hand reached over him and grabbed the page from the table.

“You’re done with this one, aren’t you?” Zist asked in a soft, kind voice. Kindan nodded, he hadn’t realized that Master Zist had been reading the pages as soon as he finished them.

He was surprised a moment later when behind him Master Zist snorted and exclaimed, “You’ve a long ways to go before you’re a Master, what do you mean making Vaxoram a journeyman?”

Kindan turned to respond hotly, “Vaxoram earned the right. For all I knew, I was the last harper on Pern.” His voice cooled as tears filled his eyes once more. “It was all he wanted.”

“‘Want’ is not all that makes a journeyman,” Zist replied acerbically. In a softer tone, he added, “But
Journeyman
Vaxoram
had
earned the right.” He gave Kindan a firm nod. “And so the Records will show.”

Kindan gave him a grateful look. Zist sighed, then picked up his drum.

Songmaster report,
he rapped out. With a smile to Kindan, he asked, “Who do you think will come?”

“Kelsa,” Kindan replied instantly. “If she doesn’t die of fright.”

“Is she good?”

“She’s the best,” Kindan told him fervently.

“Are you speaking as a friend or a harper?” Zist asked him, his bushy white eyebrows low over his eyes in a frown.

“First as a harper, second as a friend,” Kindan told him honestly.

“Well, we’ll see,” Zist said as they heard footsteps coming up the stairway. He raised a finger to his lips and motioned with his other hand that Kindan should get back to work. “Listen carefully, and see what you can learn.”

When the knock came on the door, Zist drawled out a long, deep “Yes?”

“You sent for me?” Kelsa replied through the door.

“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist replied. “But you may come in.”

Kelsa opened the door and peered around hesitantly.

“Come in,” Zist ordered, his finger pointing to a spot right in front of him. Kelsa walked nervously to the indicated spot and stood, her fingers moving anxiously at her side. “And you are?”

“Kelsa, Master,” she replied with a squeaky voice.

Zist cast an amused glance toward Kindan, but as he was busy writing his Records and had his back to the proceedings, he didn’t see it. Valla, who had entered the room when Kindan had started crying and had found a perch on a bookshelf overlooking the worktable, saw the Master’s look and chirped amusedly at Kindan.

“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist said. “Why did you come?”

“The Master is dead,” Kelsa told him. “I thought I could help.”

“You did, did you?” Zist asked. He gave her a thoughtful look. “I need a song.”

“Master?”

“I need a song about the events of the plague,” Zist told her. “I need a song that is uplifting but honest, a song that tells everyone why the Weyrs stood aloof and how they came to help when they could.

“Can you write that song?”

“I can try,” Kelsa temporized.

“I did not ask if you could ‘try,’” Zist responded harshly. “This song will be sung by all the harpers on Pern. I need it by this evening.” He held up the pages of Kindan’s Records. “You can use these,” he said, handing her the papers. “Can you do it?”

Kelsa glanced at Kindan’s back, straightened her own, and declared with chin held high, “Yes, Master, I can.”

“Good,” Zist said approvingly. He gestured toward the sleeping quarters. “You’ll find instruments and a writing table in there. Get started now. I’ll bring you more Records as he”—he nodded toward Kindan—“finishes them.”

Zist waited until he could hear Kelsa’s tuning in the room next door, then stood up and went over to the desk where Kindan was working.

“Be quick,” Zist urged him, taking another completed Record from the table and sitting back down at his table to read it. A moment later he walked it through to Kelsa. Kindan could hear them conferring indistinctly and then Zist said clearly at the doorway, “Yes, yes, that’s a good choice. Keep working.”

Zist returned to his desk and sat for a while in thoughtful silence. When he moved again, it was to pick up the drum.

Voicemaster, report.

“Who will that be?” he asked.

“Nonala,” Kindan replied at once. “She’s the best.”

“Did she work with you?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Kindan answered honestly. “My voice has been a mess since it cracked.”

“Good,” Zist replied. “If you’d told me that she had worked with you, I would have sent her packing.”

Despite himself, Kindan smiled at the Master’s remark.

“Your fire-lizard is still young, is he up to taking a message?” Zist asked from behind him. Kindan glanced up at Valla, then turned to face Master Zist.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “He learns quicker than most.”

“Well,” Zist said, “hard times speed things up.” His glance remained on Kindan for a moment longer, unfathomable. “Can you have him take a message to Jofri? I want him to come here as my second and handle defense, dance, and civics.”

“He’d be good at that,” Kindan said, gesturing for Valla to hop down to him.

“I don’t recall asking for an apprentice’s opinion,” Zist said severely.

“Sorry, Master,” Kindan replied, extending a hand for the Master’s note. “Where is Master Jofri now?”

“Fort Weyr,” Zist replied. In a softer voice he added, “At least he was safe.”

“How was it in the mines?” Kindan said, asking the question he’d been dreading for a while.

Zist sighed. “It was bad, but not as bad as here,” he said. “Dalor is in charge now.”

“Dalor?” Kindan repeated in surprise.

“Master Natalon and his wife did not survive,” Zist responded. “Nuella and Zenor are all right, although it was touch and go with her, as is Renna—she’s acting as healer for the moment. While this plague affected people of all ages, all the miners between seventeen and twenty-one succumbed, much the same as here.” He turned his head toward the stairway as they heard footsteps. “Let’s see who showed up,” he said to Kindan as someone knocked on the door.

It was Nonala. She entered without permission and stood close to Zist. “You sent for me?”

“Are you the Voicemaster?”

“I’m the best in the Hall,” Nonala replied firmly.

“Good,” Zist said approvingly. He nodded his head toward the sleeping quarters. “Young Kelsa is composing a song in there. I want it sung tonight at the evening meal.”

Nonala’s eyes widened for just an instant. Then she glanced at Kindan’s back and nodded firmly. “I’ll need my own choice of singers.”

“Everyone except him and her,” Zist replied, pointing at Kindan and the doorway to the other room.

“He’s not very good,” Nonala told Zist frankly.

“His voice just cracked,” Zist replied, much to Kindan’s surprise. He remembered Master Zist as a perfectionist, not given to taking second best.

“It was never all that good to start with,” Nonala responded.

“Passable at best.”

“Ah,” Zist said approvingly, “I see that you really
are
a Voice-master.”

Nonala stood a bit taller, elated.

“Very well,” Zist concluded, “wait here while Kelsa finishes the song, then get to work.”

“Finishes?” Nonala asked, showing her first signs of fear—to take a song, one written by Kelsa and not yet finished, to its first performance in less than a day was more than a bit daunting.

“Not up to the challenge?” Zist asked with a hint of a smile.

“Have you seen the stuff she writes?” Nonala demanded, suddenly all in motion. “It’s nearly impossible!”

“If it’s nearly impossible, then it’s clearly possible,” Zist told her, smiling. Nonala started to give him an angry reply, then snorted and smiled back. Zist waved toward a spare chair, but Nonala demurred. “I think I’ll go listen in, if I may.”

With a nod, Zist waved her off to the far room. He rose again silently, and retrieved another finished Record from Kindan.

“Last one,” Zist said enigmatically when he’d finished reading Kindan’s writing. He picked up the drum and rapped:
Archivist, report.

“That’ll be Verilan,” Kindan predicted confidently. “He should have been made journeyman long ago, but he’s too young.”

“Age is not my concern,” Zist replied. “Experience and maturity are what counts.”

This time the steps came earlier, and were rushed; the knock on the door was perfunctory, and the door was thrown open before Zist could speak.

“Verilan reports,” the youngster said soberly. One hand was stained with ink, but he did not look at all abashed by it, rather treating it as part of his apparel. “The Archives will be restored by this evening.”