down on the field and crushing the coal. They support the weight. If you work your pillars—”
“Then you run the risk of crushing the whole field?” Master Zist guessed.
Kindan smiled at the Harper. “Exactly!” he agreed.
“So when would it make sense to work your pillars?”
Kindan shrugged. “I don’t know everything about mining, Master Zist,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Just give me a guess, then,” the Harper allowed.
“Well . . . I can think of two times: when you need to get coal out in a hurry and you’re not going to keep mining; and when you’ve mined everything else and you’re willing to build up new pillars to bear the load while you work the coal pillars,” Kindan said.
“So either way, it’s the end of the mine, is it?” Master Zist asked.
“Yes,” Kindan agreed in a troubled tone. If the mine were to close, he thought, what would happen to him?
Master Zist must have guessed his thoughts, for he punched Kindan lightly on the shoulder. “Harpers can work anywhere, lad.” He looked at the window. “And speaking of work, we’ve both chores to get started.”
Classes with the MasterHarper were different, too. They had been different before from those with Harper Jofri, but now, as a fostering in the Harper’s cottage, Kindan was aware of his unique position. He found himself backing Master Zist’s gruff ways out of his strong sense of loyalty, when before he would have done his stubborn best to undermine the Harper’s discipline.
Dalor noticed it and said nothing; Cristov noticed it and taunted him about it. Tarik’s son had always lorded his position over the other children in the Camp, but now he took special pains to rub Kindan the wrong way, taking every opportunity to remind Kindan that he was now sleeping in
his
room and how nice Kindan’s old house was.
Kindan took the abuse as long as he could, until one day he caught Cristov leaving the hold on his way back to his house for lunch. One deft hook of his leg and Cristov was sprawled in the mud and snow that was the pathway between Miner Natalon’s hold and the rest of the camp.
“You need to watch your feet,” Kindan said to him roughly. “As well as your tongue.”
Cristov jumped to his feet, but before he could do any more, a huge hand grabbed Kindan by the ear and dragged him back into the hold.
“I’ll deal with this,” Master Zist’s deep voice said. Cristov’s opened mouth closed into a sly grin as he watched Kindan being hauled away.
“Wipe your feet,” the Harper told Kindan when they reached the entrance to the hold. Kindan complied, still smarting at the grip on his ear, and followed the Harper back into the classroom.
“Sit,” Master Zist ordered, indicating a seat at one of the long tables. Kindan sat and raised a hand to rub his injured ear.
“Leave it alone, you earned the pain,” Zist told him. “Now I want you to tell me what you did wrong and what you should have done.”
Kindan furrowed his brow and tried to ignore his sore ear. “He’s been saying—”
“Remember that you’re training to be a harper,” Master Zist reminded him. “Words are supposed to be
your
trade.”
“But—”
Master Zist held his hand up, and Kindan stopped. “Tell me three good things about Cristov,” the Harper ordered.
Kindan closed his mouth and thought. “Well, he’s strong.”
Master Zist raised one finger and gave Kindan an encouraging look.
“His mother likes him.”
“That’s a good thing about his mother,” Master Zist said wryly.
“Aren’t harpers supposed to be trained at the Harper Hall?” Kindan asked, hoping to change the topic.
“A Master may take an apprentice wherever he is,” Master Zist responded, “and send him on to the Harper Hall later.” He raised his hand with the one finger extended. “But you have not finished.”
“Um, well . . . he’s not good at figures . . . or writing—”
“Those are
faults
, not virtues,”
“Then you run the risk of crushing the whole field?” Master Zist guessed.
Kindan smiled at the Harper. “Exactly!” he agreed.
“So when would it make sense to work your pillars?”
Kindan shrugged. “I don’t know everything about mining, Master Zist,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Just give me a guess, then,” the Harper allowed.
“Well . . . I can think of two times: when you need to get coal out in a hurry and you’re not going to keep mining; and when you’ve mined everything else and you’re willing to build up new pillars to bear the load while you work the coal pillars,” Kindan said.
“So either way, it’s the end of the mine, is it?” Master Zist asked.
“Yes,” Kindan agreed in a troubled tone. If the mine were to close, he thought, what would happen to him?
Master Zist must have guessed his thoughts, for he punched Kindan lightly on the shoulder. “Harpers can work anywhere, lad.” He looked at the window. “And speaking of work, we’ve both chores to get started.”
Classes with the MasterHarper were different, too. They had been different before from those with Harper Jofri, but now, as a fostering in the Harper’s cottage, Kindan was aware of his unique position. He found himself backing Master Zist’s gruff ways out of his strong sense of loyalty, when before he would have done his stubborn best to undermine the Harper’s discipline.
Dalor noticed it and said nothing; Cristov noticed it and taunted him about it. Tarik’s son had always lorded his position over the other children in the Camp, but now he took special pains to rub Kindan the wrong way, taking every opportunity to remind Kindan that he was now sleeping in
his
room and how nice Kindan’s old house was.
Kindan took the abuse as long as he could, until one day he caught Cristov leaving the hold on his way back to his house for lunch. One deft hook of his leg and Cristov was sprawled in the mud and snow that was the pathway between Miner Natalon’s hold and the rest of the camp.
“You need to watch your feet,” Kindan said to him roughly. “As well as your tongue.”
Cristov jumped to his feet, but before he could do any more, a huge hand grabbed Kindan by the ear and dragged him back into the hold.
“I’ll deal with this,” Master Zist’s deep voice said. Cristov’s opened mouth closed into a sly grin as he watched Kindan being hauled away.
“Wipe your feet,” the Harper told Kindan when they reached the entrance to the hold. Kindan complied, still smarting at the grip on his ear, and followed the Harper back into the classroom.
“Sit,” Master Zist ordered, indicating a seat at one of the long tables. Kindan sat and raised a hand to rub his injured ear.
“Leave it alone, you earned the pain,” Zist told him. “Now I want you to tell me what you did wrong and what you should have done.”
Kindan furrowed his brow and tried to ignore his sore ear. “He’s been saying—”
“Remember that you’re training to be a harper,” Master Zist reminded him. “Words are supposed to be
your
trade.”
“But—”
Master Zist held his hand up, and Kindan stopped. “Tell me three good things about Cristov,” the Harper ordered.
Kindan closed his mouth and thought. “Well, he’s strong.”
Master Zist raised one finger and gave Kindan an encouraging look.
“His mother likes him.”
“That’s a good thing about his mother,” Master Zist said wryly.
“Aren’t harpers supposed to be trained at the Harper Hall?” Kindan asked, hoping to change the topic.
“A Master may take an apprentice wherever he is,” Master Zist responded, “and send him on to the Harper Hall later.” He raised his hand with the one finger extended. “But you have not finished.”
“Um, well . . . he’s not good at figures . . . or writing—”
“Those are
faults
, not virtues,”
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