“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 extracting 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 unforgivable. 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.’ ”
The kindly note in his tone was almost too much for Piemur, who could more easily have borne blows and a tirade for his transgressions. He made his way to the door as fast as his leaden legs could bear him.
“Piemur!” Robinton’s voice checked him as he fumbled for the latch. “You did handle yourself very well at the Minehold. Only do,” and the Harper sounded as resigned as Master Shonagar often had, “do please try to guard your quick tongue!”
“Oh, sir, I’ll try as hard as I can, really I will!” His voice cracked ignominiously, and he spun around the door so that the Harper wouldn’t see the tears of shame and relief in his eyes.
He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, intensely grateful that it was empty at this time of day as he conquered dismay at his untimely insolence. The Harper was so right: he had to learn to think before he spoke; he never should have blurted out that unfortunate criticism of dragonriders. He’d’ve rated a right sound beating from any other Master. Domick wouldn’t have hesitated a moment, nor even languid Master Shonagar, whose hand he’d felt many a time for his brashness. But how had he dared criticize dragonriders, even Oldtimers, to Master Robinton? Certainly that took the prize for impudence, even from him.
Piemur shivered and vowed fervently to mind his thoughts and, even more carefully, his tongue. Particularly now, when he did know something of real significance. For he had been aware, previous to his imprudent comment, that the appearance of the Oldtimers at the mine, not to mention their errand, was unwelcome news to the Harper.
Besides, what could have been done about the Oldtimers’ illegal return to the North?
Piemur gave his own ear a clout that made his eyes swim and then started down the corridor. Now, how was he to find out the drum code for Oldtimers? Under the circumstances he couldn’t just ask Dirzan outright without having to explain why he needed to know. Nor could he ask one of the other apprentices. They were annoyed enough with him and his quick studying. There’d be a way, he was sure.
Then he wondered why Master Robinton had asked him to find out. Was it a code he’d need? Did that mean the Harper expected this wouldn’t be the first such visit by the Oldtimers? Or what?
The speculations on this subject occupied Piemur’s mind off and on for the next few days until he did have the chance to check the code.
Somewhat to Piemur’s disgust, Dirzan treated him as if he had deliberately protracted his errand to avoid the drums. This was his first task, and because Piemur couldn’t polish when the drums were in use, it dragged on until the midday meal.
That afternoon Piemur began to participate in another activity of the drumheights, since he had unfortunately learned the drum measures so well. All apprentices were supposed to stop and listen when messages came in and write down what they heard, if they could. Then Dirzan checked their interpretations of the message. It seemed harmless enough, but Piemur soon learned that it was one more road to trouble for him. All drum messages were considered private information. A bit silly to Piemur’s way of thinking, since most journeymen and all masters had to be adept in drum messages. A full third of the Harper Hall would understand most of a drum message booming across the valley. Nonetheless, if word of something especially sensitive became common knowledge about the Hall, it was deemed the fault of a gossipy drum apprentice. Piemur was twigged for that role now!
When Dirzan first accused him of loose talk, a day or two after he started writing messages, he stared in utter astonishment at the journeyman. And got a hard clout across the head for it.
“Don’t try your ways on me, Piemur. I’m well aware of your tricks.”
“But, sir, I’m only in the Hall at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then.”
“Don’t answer back!”
“But, sir…”
Dirzan fetched him another clout, and Piemur nursed his grievance in silence, rapidly trying to figure out which of the other apprentices was making mischief for him. Probably Clell! And how was he going to stop it? He certainly didn’t want Master Robinton to hear such a wretched lie.
Two days later a rather urgent message for Master Oldive was drummed through from Nabol. As Piemur was on duty, he was dispatched with it to the Healer. Mindful of a possible repeat accusation, Piemur noted that no one was about in court or hall as he delivered his message. Master Oldive bade him wait for a reply which he wrote on a then carefully folded sheet. Piemur raced across the empty court, up the stairs to the drumheights and arrived out of breath, shoving the note into Dirzan’s hand.
“There! Still in its original folds. I met no one coming or going.” Dirzan stared at Piemur, his scowl deepening. “You’re being insolent again.” He raised his hand.
Piemur stepped back deliberately, catching sight of the other apprentices watching the scene with great interest. The especially eager glint in Clell’s eyes confirmed Piemur’s suspicion.
“No, I’m trying to prove to you that I’m no babble-mouth, even if I did understand that message. Lord Meron of Nabol is ill and requires Master Oldive urgently. But who’d care if he died after what he’s done to Pern?”
Piemur knew he’d merited Dirzan’s blow then and didn’t duck.