“Nor lose any more watch-whers,” Natalon added. Zenor hid a grin as he saw Kindan’s father nod in fierce agreement.
“Watch-whers aren’t much use,” Tarik growled. “We’ve made do without them before. And now we’ve lost two, and what’ve we got to show for it?”
“As I recall, watch-wher Wensk saved your life, Tarik,” Danil answered, his voice edged with bitterness. “Even after you refused to heed his warnings. And I believe that your abusive behavior is what decided Wenser to leave with his watch-wher.”
Tarik snorted. “If we had enough shoring, the tunnel wouldn’t have collapsed.”
“Ah!” Natalon interrupted. “I’m glad to hear that you agree with my reasoning, then, Uncle.”
Tarik glowered. Then, to change the subject, he snapped at Zenor: “How many drays were there, boy?”
Zenor screwed his eyes shut in concentration. He opened them again when he had his answer. “There were six—and four wagons.”
“Hmmph!” Tarik snarled. “Well, Natalon, if the boy’s right, then those Traders have two drays less than we’ve got coal to trade.” He fell to muttering darkly. “And all the time we’ve been spending working ourselves to the bone to get out that coal when we should have been building a proper Hold. What’ll happen when Thread comes?”
“Miner Tarik,” a new voice chimed in, “Thread’s not due to fall for another sixteen Turns. I imagine we’ll have time to correct the problem before then.”
Zenor looked behind him as a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. It was Jofri, the Camp’s Harper. Zenor smiled up at the young man who had taught him every morning for the last six months. Harpers were the teachers on Pern—as well as the archivists, news sources, and, sometimes, judges—and Jofri was as good a teacher as he was a musician.
Jofri was a journeyman Harper. He was due to return soon to the Harper Hall to complete his Mastery. When he did, he’d probably be too senior to return to a small Camp like this one. Instead, Zenor was sure that he’d be posted to a great Hold—perhaps even Crom—there to supervise not just the major Hold’s children but all the journeyman Harpers dispatched to the small cots and Camps that spread out from the large Hold as its inhabitants expanded their territory.
Of course, maybe a new Harper would know more about Healing than Jofri, who had come to accept that in matters of Healing, Kindan’s eldest sister, Silstra, was the Master and not he. Zenor swallowed when he remembered that the caravan approaching bore Silstra’s future husband. And that, as a wife of a Smith, Silstra would leave Camp Natalon forever.
“Time or not,” Tarik replied with a sneer, “you won’t be here.”
“Uncle,” Natalon said, breaking up what he feared would be another nasty exchange of words, “whatever the result, it was my decision.”
Natalon turned his attention back to Zenor. “Run down to the women at the cookfires and inform them that our guests are approaching.”
Zenor nodded and took off gladly, not wanting to listen to more of Tarik’s snippety As he left, he heard Danil’s voice above the others, “Do you suppose your replacement is also in the caravan, Jofri?”
Oh, no! Zenor wailed to himself. Not a replacement for Harper Jofri so soon!
Back up in the watch-heights, Kindan followed Zenor’s movements until he was lost in the crowd of elders. Nervously he waited until his friend exited the crowd and then he heaved a sigh of relief—Zenor wasn’t in trouble and neither was he. He watched Zenor head down from the plateau toward the buildings and fields below and guessed that he had been ordered to let the rest of the Camp know that the caravan had been sighted. Tonight there would be a welcoming feast.
Kindan saw Zenor slow down as he approached the Harper’s cottage. He was surprised to see Zenor stop and then dart around to the front of the cottage—out of Kindan’s sight—and, presumably, inside. What was Zenor doing? Kindan guessed that he had stopped because someone inside the cottage had called to him. Kindan made a mental note to find out.
Then the first sounds of the arriving caravan distracted him and he turned his attention to it.
The faint smell of pine sap came into the Harper’s cottage on the breeze. Pine sap and something else, some subtle smells that made Nuella think instantly of—“Zenor, is that you?” she hissed.
The sounds of a runner stopping suddenly and skidding came through the window, followed by Zenor’s voice in a whisper, “What are you doing here?”
Nuella frowned, irritated at his tone. “Come inside and I’ll tell you,” she answered testily.
“Oh, all right,” Zenor grumbled. “But I can’t be long, I’m Running.” Nuella heard the capital “R” in his voice and knew that he was using kid-shorthand for “I’ve got the job of runner.”
She held her next question until she heard his feet on the front steps. She made her way from the kitchen in the back down the hallway to the front door. A breeze, scented with the lake’s moisture, wafted in as Zenor entered.
“I thought Kindan was the runner and you had watch,” Nuella said.
Zenor sighed. “We switched,” he said. Then, his tone brightening, he added in a rush, “He’s going to let me help wash the watch-wher!”
“When?”
“Tonight,” Zenor answered. “The caravan’s arrived—”
“I heard,” Nuella said with a frown. “Do you know if the new Harper’s come? I wanted to meet him.”
“Meet him? What will your father say?” Zenor demanded.
“I don’t care,” Nuella answered frankly. “If I’ve got to be cooped up all the time, at least I can learn something from the Harper. Work on my pipes some more—”
“But what if people find out?”
“The caravan’s coming, right? There’ll be a feast tonight, won’t there? You’re going down to tell them at the square, right?” Nuella asked, and then continued immediately, “So tonight, I’ll dress up in bright and dark colors—trader clothes—and no one will know.”
“The traders will,” Zenor protested.
“No, they won’t,” Nuella said. “They’ll think I’m just a miner dressing up to flatter them.
“What about your parents, or Dalor?”
Nuella shrugged. “You’ll have to keep me away from them, that shouldn’t be hard. Especially as they won’t be expecting me.” But—
Nuella reached out, caught his arm, turned him around, and pushed him toward the door. “Go on now, or someone will be asking why you’re so slow.”
By the time Kindan’s relief arrived hours later, he had forgotten about Zenor’s detour, his stomach rumbling with anticipation at the great smells of spice-roasted wherry rising up from the huge outdoor cooking fires below.
Usually, every family at Camp Natalon ate in their own quarters. Tonight, there were huge fires burning in the pits placed at the center of the square, and long wooden tables with benches had been drawn around them to provide seating for everyone, camper and caravanner alike.
Harper Jofri and several other musicians were playing lively music while the crowd ate happily.
Kindan managed to find food and a quiet seat far away from any further chores. Munching happily on the spiced wherry meat—his favorite of his sister’s excellent recipes—and drinking fresh berry juice, Kindan nevertheless kept his eyes and ears roaming, both to avoid any interruptions, like work, and to strain for any interesting gossip.
At the head table, in the center of all the tables, Kindan spied the head of the caravan and his lady but his eyes fixed most on his own sister and her fiancé, Terregar. The smith was, of medium height but well-muscled. He wore a short, close-trimmed, dark beard that always seemed to be split by a smile made all the brighter by his twinkling blue eyes. Kindan had liked him from the first moment he’d met him.
Terregar and Silstra—their names had a good ring to them. But to him, and indeed all of Camp Natalon, his sister would always be Sis. Kindan wondered if there was a “Sis” in the Telgar Smithcrafthall already. Perhaps she was marrying someone from out of the Smithcraft and they were looking for a replacement. He wondered if Camp Natalon would ever find a replacement for his Sis.