As Piemur turned it in his hand, its texture, despite the stains of age, was somehow soapy. The leaves fell open to clever illustrations so humorous that he smiled; he glanced at the words beneath them—short sentences all, and the letters, while recognizable, were absurdly big and bold. Master Arnor would never have let Harper Hall apprentices waste so much space; he taught them to write in small but legible letters, so that more could be crammed onto each page of hide.
“Clearly a youngster’s book,” he agreed. “But no teaching song I’ve ever read.”
“I can’t imagine what these were,” Ara said, holding up some flat rectangular objects, fingerlength and fingernail thin. “Even if they are numbered. And this…” She drew out a second, slimmer lesson book.
“I don’t know how much figuring a harper has to do,” Jayge said, “but it’s far beyond a trader’s need.”
Piemur recognized the combinations as equations, far more complicated than those Wansor had managed to drum into his head for use in figuring distances. He grinned, anticipating the expression on the Starsmith’s face when he opened that book.
“I know someone who might like to look at that,” he said casually.
“Take it with you,” Jayge replied. “It’s no good to us.”
Piemur shook his head regretfully. “I’d be afraid to lose it in my travels. If it’s lasted this long, it can wait here awhile longer.” Then he made a show of examining the box itself, which was made of more of that strange and durable material, without joins at its corners. “Master Fandarel is going to drive himself crazy trying to duplicate this material. How far have you gone inland and along the coast?” he asked Jayge.
“Three days west and two east.” Jayge shrugged. “More coves and forests. Before he took sick, Scallak and I followed the river, oh, four or five days, to where there’s a deep bend in its course. We could see mountains in the distance, but the river valley was much the same as it is here.”
“And no one else,” Ara added.
“You’re lucky I came!” Piemur spread out his arms, smiling mischievously to lighten their somberness.
On his second night he brought out his reed flute and the multiple pipes he had made, copying Menolly’s design, to cheer his lonely evenings. Jayge and Ara were grateful to hear music, Jayge mumbling along in a raspy light baritone while Ara lilted in a clear, sweet soprano. He showed them both the rudiments of playing and made them pipes.
Piemur made an outline of their holding, noting the positions of the restored house and each of the ruins. He knew exactly how far a man could walk the coast in a day and marked out an appropriate border on each side of the river. An inland boundary would have to wait, but he mentioned Jayge’s bend. He witnessed the sketch and wrapped it apart from his other records, to keep until he had a chance to discuss it with Master Robinton. If the Harper proved still too estranged from Benden, then he would speak to T’gellan about Jayge and Ara. If necessary, he would stand witness for them with Toric and the Weyrleaders himself.
He made Farli memorize the unique landmarks so that she could find her way back to the Paradise River Hold. Observing that exercise, Ara and Jayge asked him about his fire-lizard. They had Impressed eight between them—two queens, three bronzes, and three browns—but they had not trained them to any particular duties, apart from watching out for Readis’s cry. So on the fourth day, Piemur helped them with the most basic training. They were amazed at how well the creatures responded.
On the fifth morning, when Piemur went to the spacious beasthold to feed Stupid, he found Meer and Talla perched on Stupid’s back. Meer had a message from Sharra strapped to his bronze leg.
“They can even carry messages?” Ara asked, surprised.
“Useful that way, though they have to know where they’re going.” Piemur’s reply was somewhat distracted, for the message told him that Jaxom was gravely ill with fire-head at the Masterharper’s Cove. How Sharra knew where that was, Piemur could not guess. He himself had been hunting for that particular cove for the past three months. “I’ve got to leave. A friend needs me,” he added. “Look, Farli now knows who you are and where you are. As soon as I can, I’ll send you a message by her. When you’ve got it, just tell her to find Stupid—who isn’t.”
He gave Jayge a friendly clout on the back, made bold to hug Ara, and tweaked Readis’s chin, making the little fellow giggle. Then he started off in an easterly direction, wondering why Jayge did not come after him, demanding what he expected to find in that direction.
11: Southern Continent, PP 15.08.28-15.10.15
SANETER HAD NEVER felt so ineffective, though since coming to Southern, Toric had given him a good deal of practice. The old harper fervently wished that Piemur was not somewhere tramping through the eastern wilds; that Sharra, who was always clever at diverting her older brother, was not who-knew-where nursing Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold. Only the previous day her bronze had arrived with a message reporting that she could not yet leave her patient. Toric had irritably demanded to know how long it took to recover from the disease.
The current catastrophe added insult to Toric’s list of aggravations. T’kul on Salth and B’zon on Ranilth were both missing from the Southern Weyr. The remaining dragons, despite their frailty, were creating the most dreadful din, making everyone uneasy and certainly exacerbating the volatile Southern holder. Furthermore, every fire-lizard in the hold had streaked off, just when Toric urgently needed one.
“How,” Toric demanded, kicking at the furniture in his workroom, “can I get word to Benden Weyr when there isn’t a fire-lizard to send?”
“They never fly off like that for very long,” Saneter suggested hopefully.
“Well, they’re gone now, and now is when I need to inform Benden of this development. It may be critical. Surely you realize that.” With a savage scowl, Toric kicked a chair out of his way. He whirled on the elderly harper, pointing a thick forefinger at him. “You must bear me witness in this! I had no means to send an urgent message, and that wretched journeyman is gone when I need him most! My hold may depend on informing Benden! How, Saneter? How?” Toric bellowed.
For one horrified second, Saneter heard an echo of that shout. Only it was not precisely an echo of Toric’s bellow. It was the sort of noise that lifted the hair on the back of the neck, the keening that Saneter was all too familiar with: dragons announcing the death of one of their kind.
“Who?” Toric demanded of the walls at the top of his voice. He wheeled to Saneter, then obviously remembered that the old harper was unable to run any errands and charged from the chamber in search of an answer.
Toric was halfway down the path between hold and Weyr when a bronze dragon, giving a consoling bugle, swooped in over his head to land before the Weyrhall. Toric did not recognize the rider when he stripped off helmet and flying gear and stood looking around him. The keening of the resident dragons, however, had dropped to a bearable moan, and the unfamiliar bronze changed his tone to something that sounded, even to Toric, like encouragement.
“Dragonrider, I’m Toric of Southern. Which dragon died?” The Southerner strode across the clearing, taking the measure of the older man. Despite his fury and frustration, Toric found some reassurance in the confident manner in which the dragonrider awaited him.
“D’ram, rider of Tiroth, formerly Weyrleader of Ista. F’lar has asked me to assume the leadership of Southern. Other young riders have volunteered to help and will arrive shortly.”
“Who died?” Toric demanded again, impatience getting the better of courtesy.