Master Zist put his hand on Kindan’s shoulder, a gesture more approval than rebuke.
“It enabled us to rescue the others,” Natalon said.
“So, a watch-wher is your hero?” D’gan added.
To everyone’s surprise, the dragon dropped his head toward their cluster and made a funny snort. It sounded a bit like a noise Dask might have made.
“He was, I gather, just doing his duty.”
Stung, Kindan replied. “Had he rested, he would have lived. He did not rest while miners were trapped in a dark cave-in.”
D’gan made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You have only convinced me that Telgar’s previous Weyrleader was far too accommodating. Asking a dragon to give transport to collect a watch-wher.” He snorted again and smoothed his hair back. “Thread is coming again, as you should know, Harper. Do not presume on Interval courtesies anymore.”
With that, D’gan turned and flung himself onto his dragon’s back. In two chilling beats of its wings, the dragon was airborne and, in another, between.
Natalon turned questioningly to Master Zist, but the old Harper was too busy swearing to offer him any advice.
“What shall we do now?” Kindan asked after having learned enough new oaths from the angry Harper to dine on for a week.
Master Zist paused in his swearing, aware that Kindan had been listening intently. “You’ll remember that I believe that any youngster who swears should have his mouth washed out with soap. And I shall remember not to swear in your presence.”
“You were quite justified,” Natalon said from behind them. “I have never met a dragonrider before—”
Zist held up a hand. “Do not say anything against dragon-riders until you’ve had a fair sample.”
“And how will I get that?” Natalon snapped back.
“I have my ways,” Master Zist answered. He looked at Kindan. “Put out the beacon and lower the flag. When you’re done, meet me at the drums.”
When Kindan had completed his tasks, Master Zist had presented him with a message to beat out on the drums. The message had been simple: “Zist requests M’tal.” Kindan had had to spell out both “Zist” and “M’tal,” so the drumming was longer than he was used to. He waited until he got an acknowledgment from the two nearest drums and then reported to Master Zist.
“What are you doing here?” Zist bellowed when he saw the boy. “Get back up to those drums and wait for a response.”
“Master?”
“What?” Zist bellowed again, clearly in a rare anger.
“Could someone send me some breakfast?”
The Harper drew breath for another bellow, saw the pale look of the lad, and let his breath out again. “Very well. And take this sweetroll up with you.”
“Thanks!” Kindan answered, and trotted off back up the hill with the sweetroll in his tunic.
“I’ll send some proper clothes for you, as well,” Zist boomed after him. Unseen in the early morning light, Kindan turned bright red as he realized that he’d met his first dragonrider in his pajamas.
Later in the day, Master Zist trudged up to the drum heights with another young lad beside him. Blond and brown-eyed, the lad was happy to hand his bundles to Kindan—Kindan’s day clothes. Asking the Harper to carry such a bundle up to the heights by himself would be tantamount to insult.
Kindan tried not to look embarrassed as he took his clothes from the other boy and slid into them under his cloak but Master Zist must finally have noticed his discomfort for he charitably asked, “So, Kindan, what did you think of your first look at a dragon?”
The other boy gave Kindan a look of awe, but it was Master Zist who was surprised by Kindan’s offhand answer: “Oh, they’re pretty enough, but you’d never fit one in a mine.”
Someone shook Kindan awake and he jumped up with a start, aware that he had fallen asleep on watch. It was deep night. The beacon burned bright, still fueled by the last logs Kindan had piled on it earlier, so he figured he couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour, two at most.
The person who shook him was dressed in leather—a dragonrider.
“My Lord,” Kindan said, sketching a quick bow. Behind him he heard a gentle snort from way up high. Turning, he saw the dim outline of a dragon, its great eyes peering down at him with interest. “I am Kindan. Master Zist asked me to keep watch—”
The dragonrider smiled. He was nearly as old as Master Zist, Kindan judged. His hair sparkled with silver strands in the night. His eyes were amber, and he was all that Kindan had ever imagined a dragonrider to be—except, perhaps, older.
“Well, Kindan, please tell Master Zist that M’tal has responded to his request,” the dragonrider said.
“No need,” a voice called from the darkness, startling Kindan. “And do stop jumping, Kindan, you’ll wear yourself out.”
“He seemed quite worn out already,” M’tal remarked.
Master Zist stepped into the light. “I’d noticed,” he said lightly, “which is why I decided to keep him company for a bit.”
“You were here, too?” Kindan asked in aggrieved tones.
The two men laughed.
“It’s a habit of leadership, youngster,” M’tal remarked. “It’s always a good idea to check up on a sentry from time to time.”
With a frown, the dragonrider turned his attention to Zist. “When I got your summons, I had expected to find you at the Harper Hall. I was sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Thank you,” Master Zist replied gravely. With a flick of his hand, he changed the subject. “Thank you for coming here. I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”
M’tal’s eyebrows creased in curiosity. “This—” He stopped with an inquiring wave around the campsite.
“Camp,” Zist supplied helpfully.
M’tal nodded. “This Camp looks to Telgar, does it not?” He looked at Kindan.
“It does, my Lord,” Kindan said.
“Weyrleader D’gan did not consider our request a good use of his resources,” Master Zist explained.
M’tal lips thinned as he considered Master Zist’s response. “Ah, and what was your request?”
“Miner Natalon requested transport for himself, me, and Kindan here to meet with Aleesa the WherMaster,” Zist replied.
“Kindan?” M’tal repeated, surprised.
“Miner Natalon has promised a winter’s supply of coal to the WherMaster if she will give Kindan the chance of a watch-wher’s egg,” Zist said. Seeing the dragonrider’s interested look, he added, “Kindan’s father was the camp’s previous wherhandler.”
“I see,” M’tal replied. “And when is this meeting to take place?”
Master Zist’s reply was an angry mutter. “Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Natalon repeated in astonishment later in the morning, banging his fists down hard on the table in the camp’s main dining hall. “Yesterday? I’ve pledged a whole winter’s supply to someone for a deal that ended yesterday?”
M’tal had lifted his mug of klah from the table at Natalon’s first word, but Kindan and Master Zist were not as prescient—klah spilled from their mugs onto their tunics and ran to the floor below. At a wave from Master Zist, Kindan rushed off and found a couple of rags with which to wipe up the spill.
“There are certain Harper songs—” Master Zist began, only to splutter to a stop at the sight of Miner Natalon’s face.
“My miners say they won’t work if we can’t get a watch-wher for them,” Natalon said in dejected tones. “We’ve had two more near-disasters in the mines. Tunnel snakes have raided our stores. And I’ve promised a winter’s supply of coal for—”
“For a chance at a watch-wher,” M’tal broke in. “And you shall have that chance.”
“How?” Natalon asked in disbelief.
“There are some old Harper songs,” Master Zist began again.
Kindan’s eyes danced, remembering their conversation several nights back.