Dragon Harper

CHAPTER 5

It seemed to Kindan at the start of his third year at the Harper Hall that everything went wrong. He blamed it on the food at first. If they hadn’t fed him so well, he wouldn’t have grown so quickly.

If he hadn’t grown so quickly he wouldn’t have been moving so awkwardly, nor, come to think of it, having to beg for new clothes so frequently. If he didn’t move so awkwardly he wouldn’t be knocking over everything in his path. If he hadn’t outgrown his clothes so quickly, he wouldn’t have found himself in oversized clothes—“with room to grow in, you’ll need that”—which exacerbated his awkwardness by making it hard to find the ends of things, like sleeves.

If there was an accident waiting to happen in the Harper Hall it only needed Kindan’s presence to complete it. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t see the latest stock of dyes as he blundered through the Archive room overladen with Records. Someone else, it was admitted later, shouldn’t have placed them there. But, miraculously, it was his fault that he tumbled over them, breaking the dyes all over the newer Records and rendering so many permanently illegible.

“You’re to work with the instrument maker, Kindan,” Master Resler said. He sighed as he retrieved and classified the last of the legible Records.

***

“Just because you’re now taller than me doesn’t mean I can’t handle you,” Caldazon grumbled in warning the moment Kindan presented himself to the small instrument maker.

“You duck your head and don’t knock any of the woods that are curing above you,” Caldazon continued, pointing to the various lumps of wood hanging down from the cavernous instrument maker’s room.

“Of course, Master,” Kindan replied, bobbing his head—and accidentally bumping it against a stout beam of wood when he straightened.

Caldazon wheezed a dry laugh. “Maybe the wood’ll knock some sense into you.”

Kindan certainly hoped so, particularly as the days went by. He worked with the other apprentices and made a passable drum, but he’d been making those Turns before he’d left Camp Natalon to become a harper. He had less luck with pipes—the spacing of his holes made them awkward to play.

“A waste of wood, that,” Caldazon grumbled, tossing Kindan’s first effort onto the scrapheap. “Luckily it’s bamboo; the stuff grows like crazy down Boll way.”

Kindan knew that until he could master the making of pipes, he’d never be allowed to use the precious wood required to make a guitar. Still, he showed a skill at sanding and polishing.

“Those big muscles of yours are good for something,” Caldazon opined, assigning all the sanding to Kindan. Kindan didn’t grumble—he knew better—but he went to bed with sore shoulders every night for two sevendays.

Even so, he was learning and he knew it. By sanding the work of others, Kindan started to get a feel for the wood and how to work it.

“You’re to help make glue and polish today,” Caldazon barked at him one morning not long after. As he made to leave, he added, “And be certain you don’t confuse the two.”

It was as though the Master’s words were a prophecy. The light in the room was not the best, even though Kindan had brought in extra glows, and—he could never figure it out—he somehow managed to mix the wrong ingredients into both mixtures.

“This is not glue!” Caldazon swore when he examined the bubbling pot after lunch. He turned to the pot that was supposed to contain finish and found that he couldn’t even lift the spoon. “And this! This has hardened! Whatever it is, it’s ruined now.”

He glared at Kindan, who hung his head.

“I guess I got muddled,” Kindan explained. “The light was—”

“It wasn’t the light,” Caldazon broke in. He pulled the first pot off the heat and gestured to the second pot. “You’ll clean this one out first, and mind you don’t damage the surface or the pot’ll be useless forever. When you’re done, you can find someplace to empty that”—he jerked his thumb to the other pot—“and clean it out as well.” With a final glare, Caldazon stalked off.

“Master?” Kindan called after him, not trusting himself alone with his disasters.

“I need to talk with Harper Murenny,” Caldazon replied grumpily. “And maybe take a nap.” He glanced again at Kindan and amended, “A long nap.”

“I could clean it,” Vaxoram offered quietly. Kindan was surprised to see him; he must have come straight from his last class and, Kindan guessed, had caught the last of Caldazon’s railings.

In the past ten months, the relationship between Vaxoram and Kindan had grown deeper, more complex, yet still no less perplexing to both of them. It was as though the older apprentice was sometimes Kindan’s older brother, other times his apprentice. Yet it worked, and Vaxoram was now an accepted member of the “outcasts,” as he had once named Kindan and his friends.

“No,” Kindan replied, shaking his head. “I made this mess, I should clean it up.”

Vaxoram nodded. Kindan hid a grin and turned to his messes.

Cleaning the failed glue out of its pot was easy and, to bolster his spirits, Kindan did that first. It was probably just as well because, try as he might, Kindan could not clean out the hardened polish without chipping Master Caldazon’s prized pot. In the end, just short of tears, Kindan returned the two pots to the instrument maker’s room only to find it empty; the Master was obviously still ensconced with the Masterharper.

Somewhat relieved, Kindan decided to honor the old adage of “leave sleeping Masters lie” and made his way to his afternoon voice lesson with Master Biddle.

Twenty minutes into his lesson, Master Biddle lowered his baton and looked straight over the heads of the other apprentices to Kindan.

“I’d say, Kindan, that today is not a good day for you to be using your voice,” Biddle told him politely.

Red-faced, Kindan could only nod. It was not just a bad day, it was a horrible day, and it was clear that it was going to be the first of many more—for Kindan’s voice seemed determined to settle at neither bass nor tenor, but merely to crack indeterminately whenever he tried even the slightest range.

“Perhaps,” Biddle suggested kindly, “you’d care to conduct?”

Kindan’s eyes widened with excitement. If there was one thing that Kindan truly enjoyed, it was conducting others in the making of music. At Biddle’s insistent gestures, Kindan made his way down to the front of the class and, with a nod of thanks, took the baton from the Voice Master.

Perhaps the day would get better.

He had just raised it to start the choir singing when a voice barked out, “Kindan!”

It was Master Caldazon. The color drained out of Kindan’s face and he reluctantly turned the baton back over to Master Biddle.

Perhaps the day would get worse.

***

“It’s only because you’re growing,” Nonala consoled him at the evening meal. At thirteen Turns she was still half a head taller than Kindan, but that was far less than the full head’s difference between them only a Turn before.

“You’ll find your height,” Verilan added staunchly. Kindan smiled at him but couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous—Verilan was assured a place in the Harper Hall; his skill at copying alone would guarantee it.

“Just try to stay out of trouble,” Kelsa added sagely, looking up from the slate on which she was writing.

“Eat, Kelsa,” Kindan and Nonala said in unison. The others all shared a private smile as Kelsa gave them a startled look and wistfully pushed her slate away. Kelsa was always writing. The dark-haired girl was another who Kindan was certain would find a place in the Harper Hall, even if the Hall was traditionally a man’s world; Kelsa’s songs were so original that none could forget them, and she herself had a perfect memory for not only words but notes as well.

Play her a song once and she’d know it forever; start a melody and she’d write a whole new piece from it. It was dangerous to whistle near Kelsa, for she’d often lurch to a sudden stop—to the consternation of all behind her—and start writing.

Kelsa and Pellar had an amazing affinity for each other whenever the mute Harper visited from his Fire Hold; she seemed able to take his merest notions and put them to music. Surprisingly to Kindan, Halla, Pellar’s mate, never seemed to mind the way Kelsa and Pellar acted around each other. In fact, she seemed to encourage it, when Kindan would have preferred that she be jealous and keep Pellar away from Kelsa. Despite his recent understanding that he didn’t feel that way about Kelsa, Kindan still wanted the hope that if he ever did, he’d stand some chance.

He shook his head self-deprecatingly and, noticing that Kelsa had once again dropped her fork in favor of her stylus, cocked his head at her warningly. Nonala noticed his movement and growled at Kelsa.

“Shards!” Kelsa groaned. “It’s only food.”

“But you need to eat,” Verilan told her. “Not even you can tune on an empty stomach.”

“I’m not a workbeast,” Kelsa snarled, glancing at Kindan. “I don’t need so much food that I blunder about all day.”

“Kelsa!” Nonala said in admonishment and the others all looked at Kelsa angrily.

Kindan’s face drained of all color; there was no way he could pretend that the remark hadn’t hurt.

“Well,” Kelsa said in a lame defense of her words, “maybe if you didn’t eat so much—”

Kindan rose stormily and loudly pushed his plate across the table in front of Kelsa.

“You eat my portion then,” he snarled as he rushed out of the dining hall.

***

It wouldn’t have mattered so much except that Nonala, Kelsa, and Verilan were his only friends at the Harper Hall—except also perhaps Vaxoram, but that relationship was so odd Kindan didn’t know quite what to call it.

When he had arrived at the Harper Hall three Turns back, Kindan had joined a group of apprentices who had already been together for half a Turn, some as much as a full Turn, and all his attempts to fit in with the others had failed. Out of the other forty apprentices at the time, only Verilan had shown any signs of friendliness. Eventually, Kelsa and then Nonala had joined their ranks, and now striding into the large courtyard in the center of the Harper Hall, Kindan realized that he had become the leader of the group. Perhaps it was because he was older, or perhaps it was because of his defeat of Vaxoram, or perhaps it was because he wasn’t as intensely focused as the other three, he couldn’t say, but there it was. Or perhaps—

A noise from above him caused Kindan to look up and raise an arm—not for protection but as a perch. With a contented cry, the small bronze fire-lizard alighted on Kindan’s arm.

“I haven’t got anything for you, Valla,” Kindan said as he reached with his other arm to stroke the fire-lizard’s cheek. Valla chirped in understanding and Kindan’s foul mood evaporated.

Perhaps that was the other thing that marked Kindan apart from the rest of the apprentices, even his own small group of friends; he was on intimate terms with two Weyrleaders and countless dragonriders.

There had been a time when that would have been enough for Kindan: To be a harper and to be friendly with the Weyrleaders of Pern had seemed an impossible goal when he was Turns younger.

Well, Kindan mused, that’s what I thought I wanted.

Valla, alert to Kindan’s feelings, cocked his head and crooned inquiringly.

“It’s all right,” Kindan said soothingly, his lips turning up affectionately at the fire-lizard. “I was just woolgathering.”

The sound of footsteps behind him indicated the approach of Vaxoram. Kindan turned and nodded at him and the older apprentice nodded in turn, then Kindan looked forward again feeling oddly reassured that Vaxoram was nearby.

Valla cocked his head suddenly, peering upward and then, with a happy cry, launched himself into the air above the courtyard, climbing swiftly over the top of the Harper Hall. Craning his neck to follow Valla’s flight, Kindan was not surprised to see the dragon burst into view in front of the Harper Hall from between.

Kindan raced across the courtyard and under the arches out of the Harper Hall to the clearing beyond.

A bronze dragon was just settling on the ground, his head canted up toward Valla hovering close by.

Kindan paused at the end of the archway, squinting. The dragonrider leapt down from his dragon and reached up to help another smaller person down.

A new apprentice? Kindan mused. He hadn’t heard anything about a new apprentice. Nor had he heard any drum messages recently, nor was there any gossip about a new arrival.

“Kindan!” the dragonrider called, gesturing for Kindan to come over, still bundled up in riding gear, his face obscured by a warming scarf.

“M’tal?” Kindan murmured to himself in surprise, trotting over immediately.

“I see that Valla is doing well,” the Benden Weyrleader said affably once Kindan got close. M’tal gave Kindan a scrutinizing look and said, “And harpers’ food seems to agree with you!”

Kindan smiled and nodded, but his attention was on M’tal’s passenger, a young boy who looked to have no more than ten Turns at best. The boy had pale hair and a sickly complexion, but perhaps, Kindan reflected, that was from the cold of between.

“This is Conar,” M’tal said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s the youngest of Lord Ibraton.”

Kindan nodded to the youngster quickly, then looked back to M’tal. The dragonrider’s tone was disturbing and Kindan noticed that M’tal looked weary.

“Valla,” Kindan called, “tell Master Murenny we’ve got guests.”

The little fire-lizard chirped once regretfully toward Gaminth, the bronze dragon, then disappeared between.

M’tal shook his head in wonder. “You’ve trained him that well? Master Murenny will know that we’re coming?”

Kindan smiled. “Well, he’ll know that something’s up.”

Kindan noticed a large bag beside Conar and reached for it. “Let me carry that for you.”

Vaxoram grabbed the bag before Kindan could get a hand on it and hefted it up easily. Kindan nodded in thanks.

By the time the three of them arrived in the Harper Hall’s courtyard, the area was thronged with curious students.

“M’tal!” Masterharper Murenny called as he spied the Benden Weyrleader. “Good to see you.”

“And you,” M’tal said. He closed the distance between them and whispered urgently, “I need to talk with you in private.”

Murenny nodded, then raised an eyebrow toward Conar.

“He’s Ibraton’s youngest,” M’tal explained. “I’d like him to stay here.”

“Of course,” Murenny said, as though the request were not at all unusual. He waved to Kindan, asking, “Can you get him settled in?”

The duty of welcoming a new apprentice to the Harper Hall should, by long tradition, have fallen to the newest apprentice, which would have been Kelsa. However, Kindan had noticed that Master Murenny had disregarded that tradition with the last two newcomers, assigning the duty to Kindan instead. Kindan had noticed the change but had not commented on it because, after dealing with the first newcomer, he understood the Masterharper’s reasoning: that most apprentices would be affronted and embarrassed to be introduced to the Harper Hall by a girl.

“I’ll see right to it,” Kindan said, gesturing with his free hand toward the entrance to the Apprentice Dormitory and telling Conar, “We’re heading that way.”

“And make sure he gets fed!” Murenny called after him.

Kindan nodded in acknowledgment as he veered right to the stairway leading up to the Apprentice Dormitory, Vaxoram trailing steadily behind them. The dormitory was a huge room, split lengthways by a wall and further subdivided by thick curtains hung strategically throughout.

“Usually the apprentices are grouped by Turn,” Kindan explained as they walked past several bunk beds. “But as long as the Masters don’t mind, we can move around as much as we like.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to be an apprentice,” Conar said, speaking for the first time. His voice was piping and his accent was soft, different from the standard speech of Fort Hold or the muted tones that all harpers learned. It reminded Kindan more of a High Reacher than of M’tal’s Benden sound.

Kindan turned and grinned at him. “If you weren’t, Master Murenny wouldn’t have sent you with me.”

“I think Father sent me just to get me out of the way,” Conar said with a frown.

“But surely your harper recommended you?”

“Our harper is dead,” Conar said. “That’s why Father wanted to send me away.”

“What?”

Conar nodded. “We heard just this morning, he was away in the southern part of the Hold.”

“Was he very old?” Kindan asked. “How’d he die?”

“They say it was the flu,” Conar said. “But I had the flu months back—”

“So did I.”

“And so did Harper Alagar,” Conar said, looking bleak. “Mother didn’t want me to go because I’m the youngest, but Father insisted, saying that our bloodline must survive.” His lips trembled as he asked, “Do you think they’re going to die?”

“No,” Kindan said, shaking his head firmly. “No one dies from the flu, they just wish they could.”

“But what about Harper Alagar?”

“It might have been something else,” Kindan told him, shrugging, and adding with a smile, “I think you might have misjudged your father’s intentions, maybe he just wants a good harper in the family!”

“But I’m not good at anything,” Conar protested. Then he added reflectively, “Except drawing, perhaps.”

“Drawing?”

“Well, doodling, I suppose,” Conar corrected himself self-deprecatingly. “Father always complained that I was always drawing on something, but Harper Alagar said that I showed promise.”

“Well, if Harper Alagar said so—”

“But harpers don’t draw.”

“Harpers do many things,” Kindan told him. “And sometimes we add new skills.” He gestured to one of the cloth partitions and pulled up a corner. “This is where my friends and I sleep,” he said, dropping Conar’s bag. “We’ll leave your stuff here until they decide where to put you.”

“Your friends?”

“Verilan, Nonala, and Kelsa,” Kindan said, pointing in turn to the bottom bed of the nearest bunk, and then to the bottom and top beds of the farther bunk.

“Who sleeps there?” Conar asked, pointing to the top bed of the nearest bunk.

Kindan smiled and pointed at himself. “But if you wanted to sleep with us, you could bunk with Vaxoram here.” Kindan winked at the older harper as he said to Conar, “But he snores.”

“My brothers snored,” Conar said, eyeing Vaxoram thoughtfully. “Is he your servant?”

“Yes,” Vaxoram said quickly.

“He lost a duel,” Kindan explained. “And he’s an apprentice like the rest of us here.”

“A duel?” Conar repeated, his curiosity piqued. He saw the scar under Vaxoram’s eye. “What for?”

“He insulted a girl,” Kindan said, unwilling to dredge up all the details.

“Nonala and Kelsa sound like girls’ names,” Conar said, looking questioningly at Kindan.

“They are.”

“You sleep with girls?” Conar asked in astonishment.

“Yes,” Kindan replied. “We treat each other with respect and don’t peek, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Kindan was surprised to see how Vaxoram accepted this statement. It underlined how much the older apprentice had changed in the past ten months.

Conar blushed and shook his head hastily. “I just—I slept in my own room.”

“That must have made cleaning it awfully difficult,” Kindan said.

“I never cleaned it, the help did.”

“Well here, at the Harper Hall, there is no help,” Kindan told him. “We do everything ourselves.” He walked over to a cabinet and opened it, pulling out a broom and handing it to Conar who grabbed it awkwardly. “In fact, I made this broom myself. It’s my second-best broom.”

“Harpers make brooms?” Conar repeated in shock, looking down at the example in his hands.

“Harpers have to know what other people do, and the best way to learn is to do,” Kindan told him. “So we make a broom, clean our own quarters, mend our own clothes.”

Conar looked at him with eyes wide in surprise. “Was it hard, making a broom?”

Kindan smiled and nodded. “That’s why I made two.” He pointed to the bristles of the broom. “See how tightly I’ve woven the string through the bristles?” he asked. “That keeps them from falling out.”

“I don’t know where we get our brooms,” Conar confessed to Kindan. Kindan smiled, delighted to see that the young son of Benden’s Lord Holder would consider such an issue; many Lord Holders’ sons considered themselves above any work. Kindan smiled also because he’d been told countless times by Kelsa and Nonala that going on about making brooms was, as Kelsa had said, “Boring, Kindan, I don’t know why you always blather on about it.” Even Verilan, who was often willing to appear interested in Kindan’s latest fancies, had trouble feigning interest in broom making.

“Are you hungry?” Kindan asked Conar. “It’s lunchtime here.”

“It was nearly dinnertime when I left,” Conar replied, looking confused.

“That’s because Fort Hold is on the other side of the continent and sees the sun six hours later than you do at Benden,” Kindan explained. He lengthened his stride, calling over his shoulder, “Hurry up, lunch will be over soon.”

But Conar didn’t catch up. Turning back to see what was keeping him, Kindan saw that Conar was doubled over, gasping for breath. Kindan raced back to him. “Are you okay?” he asked, bending down to peer at the pale boy.

“Can’t keep my breath,” Conar said as he gulped for air. “’Never could, really, but it’s been worse since the flu.”

“Shards, I wish you’d’ve told me.”

Conar shook his head. “Didn’t want to be a bother.”

Kindan nodded, understanding the boy’s feelings all too well. “I could carry you.”

Conar gave him a look of horror.

“Okay, catch your breath,” Kindan said, silently hoping that there would still be something to eat when they got to the Dining Hall.

They were still waiting when Murenny and M’tal appeared, heading back to the landing meadow beyond the Harper Hall.

“Kindan,” Murenny called, “just the lad we wanted to see!” He paused as he caught sight of Conar. “You’re not trying to race him to death?”

“No, Master,” Kindan replied. “I didn’t realize Conar had short breath.”

“He should see the Masterhealer,” Murenny said, gazing thoughtfully at the small boy, then turning his gaze toward M’tal with a questioning look. M’tal nodded in reply. Murenny frowned for a moment before saying to Kindan, “We’ve got another project for you.”

“It doesn’t involve the Records, does it?” Kindan asked fearfully.

“I’m afraid it does,” M’tal told him, smiling sympathetically at Kindan’s apparent discomfort. “But you’ve done so well—”

“By now,” Murenny cut in with a twinkle in his eyes, “I suspect Kindan understands the reward for a job well done.”

Conar, who had recovered his breath, looked up curiously at Kindan.

“Another job,” Kindan said, his tone just short of a groan.

“Do you want to wait while I explain your fears to Kindan?” Murenny asked the Benden Weyrleader.

M’tal frowned thoughtfully, then nodded.

“And I suppose you haven’t eaten yet?” the Masterharper said to Kindan, who nodded. “Well,” Murenny said, turning back to the Dining Hall, “why don’t we eat and talk there.”

Kindan’s eyes widened for an instant before he could school his expression. Eating with the Masterharper was certain to be noticed and resented by the older apprentices, but he couldn’t see any way to avoid the invitation.

As they walked, Murenny fell in beside Conar, asking the smaller boy, “Did Kindan tell you about his broom?”

Kindan turned bright red, to the accompanying chuckles of the Masterharper and Weyrleader. M’tal clapped him on the shoulder, saying, “You have a right to be proud of your accomplishments.”

“It’s only a broom,” Kindan groaned.

“Dragonriders at Benden make their own harnesses,” M’tal told him. Kindan gave him an interested look, so the Weyrleader continued, “Our lives depend on them, we have to trust them.”

“Well, my life doesn’t depend on a broom,” Kindan murmured.

“Best not let Selora hear you say that,” Murenny warned him. “Or she’ll prove you wrong.”

“Selora does the cooking,” Kindan explained to Conar.

“She does much more than that,” Murenny corrected.

“She keeps this whole Hall running,” Vaxoram said in agreement. Murenny smiled in agreement.

As they entered the hall, Kindan noticed that Kelsa stopped mid-sentence when she saw him, with a what-have-you-done-now expression on her face. Kindan smiled and shrugged.

“Can we find some space for the Weyrleader and my guests?” Murenny asked the other Masters politely when they arrived at the large round Masters’ table. It was obvious from Resler’s expression that he would rather not have Kindan at the table. He slowly rose, but Murenny gestured him to sit back down. “You’ll want to hear this, Resler.”

Resler’s look made it clear that the Master Archivist thought otherwise, but he sat down again anyway.

“I’ve got classes to prepare for,” Master Biddle said, rising and nodding to Kindan and the Weyrleader.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Murenny said to Master Biddle. He gestured to Conar. “This is Conar, the youngest of Lord Ibraton of Benden. Alagar recommended him as an apprentice.”

Biddle nodded an acknowledgment to Conar before leaving.

“I’ll talk with you later,” Murenny called after him, “and fill you in.”

The Voicemaster waved a hand in response as he walked out the door toward his classroom.

“Alagar, really?” Resler asked with interest, ignoring the byplay with Master Biddle. He examined Conar curiously. “And what talent led Master Alagar to recommend you to the Harper Hall, young Conar?”

Conar dropped his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Resler continued crisply, “I’m sure Alagar will tell us in his own good time.”

“I’m afraid not,” Murenny said shaking his head. “Master Alagar succumbed to the flu.”

Masterhealer Lenner sat back in his chair. “I suppose I should stay as well, then.”

“Yes, you should,” Murenny agreed. He said to the other Masters, “I’ll give the rest of you the news later.”

He gestured to M’tal. “For now, though, we are imposing on the Weyrleader’s time.”

The other Masters hastily rose, nodding respectfully to M’tal. “Weyrleader,” they said in chorus before departing with pointed looks at the apprentices and journeymen still seated at the other tables. Immediately, the students finished their conversations, took their last bites of lunch, and rose to bring their trays down to the kitchen.

“I hadn’t intended to empty the place,” Murenny remarked drolly as he scanned the departing bodies. “But perhaps it’s just as well.”

“What happened to Alagar?” Lenner asked as the noise of the departures faded away.

“We have no idea,” M’tal said. “Ibraton received Alagar’s fire-lizard late one night and had just retrieved the note it bore when the fire-lizard screamed and went between.” Before the others could say anything, he continued, “Neither my Gaminth nor Selina’s Breth could contact her.”

“What did the note say?” Lenner asked, leaning forward intently.

“One word: flu,” M’tal replied. He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes wearily. With his eyes still closed, he continued, “Alagar had gone down to one of the smaller holds, no more than three or four families but a holding that Lord Ibraton had deemed ‘promising.’ Gaminth and I flew over the hold the next day. We saw no one.”

“What about the cattle?” Lenner asked.

“I saw a few cattle,” M’tal said, leaning forward and opening his eyes again. “Why?”

“Sometimes cattle can spread an illness to people,” Lenner said. He gestured to Master Resler, adding, “At least so the Records tell us.”

“Would Alagar know that?” M’tal asked attentively.

“I don’t know,” Lenner replied after a moment’s thought.

“I doubt it,” Resler said. “He was never much of a healer.”

“Benden Hold is without a healer,” Lenner remarked, shaking his head. “And I’m afraid that there is no likely replacement soon,” he added, glancing at Conar.

“Which is why all harpers are taught some healing,” Murenny said, “like poor Alagar.”

“And just as healers learn some harpering,” Lenner agreed.

Murenny snorted. “They’d have to learn some, just because of their duties.” When Conar looked confused, Murenny explained, “They learn tact, at the very least, and something about record-keeping.”

“I wish they were taught more,” Lenner said, glancing challengingly at Master Resler.

“They have the worst handwriting,” Resler complained, casting a meaningful look toward Kindan. “And they keep sloppy Records at best.”

The Masterhealer looked ready to argue but shook himself, and gave M’tal an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

M’tal dismissed the apology with a wave of his fingers. “As I said, I saw no one,” M’tal continued. “I didn’t land but returned to Lord Ibraton and told him my news.” Here M’tal paused and glanced toward Conar consideringly before continuing, “Lord Ibraton told me that Alagar had just recently recommended Conar for a harper but that he had decided against it, particularly given the wishes of Conar’s mother.”

Kindan and the other harpers were surprised.

“She wanted to keep the boy with her?” Lenner guessed. M’tal nodded.

“And Ibraton was willing to go along with her to avoid discord,” Murenny surmised.

“Now he feels that the suggestion has merit,” M’tal continued.

“Why?” Murenny asked.

“Because this minor hold wasn’t the only one of his that had suddenly gone silent,” M’tal said. He nodded toward Conar. “So Ibraton now thinks it best to send this one away just in case.”

“How many holds went silent?” Lenner inquired.

“Was there a pattern?” Kindan added. Resler shot him a quelling look, reminding Kindan firmly that “apprentices should be seen, not heard.”

“Good question,” Lenner murmured encouragingly to Kindan.

“I don’t know,” M’tal said with a grin and a nod to Kindan. He turned to Lenner, saying, “Three other minor holds had gone silent in the last fortnight.”

“Three in a fortnight?” Lenner murmured. “And no one has gone to check on them?”

“Alagar was supposed to, according to Ibraton,” M’tal replied.

“Didn’t we just have the flu come through here not six months back?” Resler asked Lenner. “And doesn’t that mean that we’re immune?”

“Benden Hold had the flu about eight months back,” Conar piped up.

“Did it?” Lenner said. “I recall no report.”

“But—oh!” Conar turned bright red. “Master Alagar had asked me to write it up,” he confessed miserably.

“No matter,” Lenner told him kindly. “I’d had reports from Lemos and Bitra and, of course, we had it here ourselves.” He shook his head mournfully. “Several oldsters succumbed.”

“And some babies,” M’tal added somberly. Lenner shot him an inquiring look, to which the Weyrleader replied, “The flu affected the Weyr, too.”

“My Records show that dragonriders are immune from normal disease,” Resler commented, glancing sharply—nearly challengingly—at M’tal.

“Yes, dragonriders are immune,” M’tal agreed. “But not all our weyrfolk are.” He sat back in his chair and glanced up thoughtfully. “We lost seven babies, including a newborn.”

“Out of how many?” Lenner asked quietly.

“Not more than fifty,” M’tal replied. “Didn’t K’tan send a report?”

“He might have,” Lenner replied vaguely. “But I know your Weyr is without a harper and it would usually fall to him to make the report.”

M’tal glanced at Kindan suggestively. “The Weyr is willing to wait until there is a suitable candidate.”

“Tenelin and Issak are available,” Resler suggested, not catching M’tal’s look. “Both have quite acceptable writing.”

“It’s important that the Weyrleader have a good rapport with his harper,” Murenny remarked. “And I suspect that while both your recommendations are suitably skilled, they lack a certain—flexibility.”

“You and your flexibility,” Resler responded sourly. “A harper’s job is well known—”

“That is neither here nor there,” Murenny cut across him, turning back to M’tal. He looked at Lenner. “Alagar’s note said ‘flu’—could he be right?”

“To incapacitate so many minor holds,” Lenner began, shaking his head doubtfully, “I would expect some more deadly disease.”

“I recall,” M’tal said, speaking carefully, “a time in my youth when we had a flu that was quite nasty.” He grimaced. “My mother and younger sister died from it. But while I was recovering, our Weyr Healer at the time—”

“That would have been Selessekt, I believe,” Resler murmured. M’tal nodded and continued.

“—said that there had been a much worse flu when he was young; a flu that had killed many.” He turned to Lenner, “Do you recall that?”

Lenner shook his head. “My hall is besieged with so many requests every day that it is very hard to research into the past, except when immediate needs drive us.” He glanced at the Masterharper. “There are fewer healer apprentices than I’d like.”

“I quite agree with you,” Murenny responded. “However, as you and I have discussed, finding suitable healer candidates remains a problem.”

“Why is that?” M’tal asked.

Lenner made to brush the question aside but Murenny gave him a restraining gesture, and turning to M’tal, said, “Since the end of the Second Pass, we Pernese have been expanding all over our continent.

“Now that we’re nearing the next Pass, holders and crafters are eager to expand as much as they can, growing spare crops and setting aside materials in preparation.”

M’tal nodded; none of this was news to him.

“So holders and crafters want to keep their best and ablest with them, not caring to lose them to the Harper Hall or even the Healer Hall,” Murenny continued. “Particularly the Healer Hall, as training to be a healer takes longer than the training for a harper.”

“So there’s a dearth of suitable healer candidates,” M’tal surmised. “But surely the holders and crafters must realize…?”

“So one would think,” Murenny agreed. “However, in practice each holder and craftmaster believes that the needs for new healers should be met out of some hold or craft other than their own.”

“Perhaps the Weyrs could help,” M’tal suggested and then immediately shook his head ruefully. “I see your problem, just thinking about our weyrfolk. We’ve barely enough youngsters coming along to meet our needs for new dragonriders and weyrfolk.”

“We’ve managed to survive because we insist on training our harpers in some of the healing arts,” Murenny noted. “But if there were any disaster—”

“Thread will be enough of a disaster, and less than twelve Turns away,” M’tal said. He glanced down at his hands, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then looked up at Murenny. “Have you thought to bring it to the Conclave?”

“I have,” Murenny replied. “And I have.”

M’tal cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

“And the Lord Holders have suggested that I ask the Weyrs or the Crafts,” Murenny responded, his tone just short of bitter.

“I could become a healer,” a small voice piped up hesitantly. The others turned to Conar in surprise. “But I don’t know if I would be very good. My writing is not the best.”

“There are some,” the Masterhealer replied with a pointed glance at the Master Archivist, “who feel that’s a failing among most healers.”

“Didn’t you say you could draw?” Kindan added, trying to bolster both Conar’s credentials and his spirits. When the boy nodded, Kindan turned to Lenner. “Wouldn’t drawing be useful for a healer?”

“Well,” Lenner temporized, “traditionally there hasn’t been much call for it, but that may only be because we haven’t had anyone with the ability.”

“While this is all very interesting, we are off the issue at hand,” Murenny said.

“I think I was responsible,” M’tal said spreading his hands in apology. “My question stands, however: Do we know if there ever was such a plague of a flu?”

Lenner shook his head and glanced at the Records Master. “I don’t recall any, perhaps Master Resler…?”

Resler sighed. “I can only do so much with the staff I have. I, too, must deal with current demands, many of which have to do with our current expansion.” He glanced at Conar thoughtfully. “I have many requests for copies of maps, for example—I suppose they’re much like drawing.”

M’tal nodded in acceptance of Resler’s answer, then said to Murenny, “Could I ask that the Records be searched for any such references?”

“My lord,” Resler protested, suddenly all formal, “perhaps you didn’t hear me, my staff is already overworked.” He shook his head regretfully. “Besides, such a search is highly technical and I doubt my apprentices would be suited—”

“I can think of one apprentice up to the task,” M’tal interrupted gently.

“Who?” Resler demanded in surprise.

“Someone who’s already demonstrated an ability to ferret through the Records for forgotten tidbits,” M’tal said, his eye falling on Kindan.

Kindan sat bolt upright, his face flushed with surprise at the same time as Resler noticed the Weyrleader’s glance and exclaimed, “Oh, no! You can’t mean him!”