Aniz's story began the moment she was able to blink her eyes and look about. That is to say, when she was born. Though there was no meaning to the splashes of color presented to her eyes, or to the voluminous noises her tiny brown ears heard, Aniz incredible brain digested and remembered it all.

Even now, thirteen turns later. Sometimes when the nights are softly lit and there is little to be done before turning in to sleep, Aniz casts her memories back. Her first turning day celebration - when the cook made a special carrot cake that she had always adored. To her fifth, when she recieved her lovely flitter Sage.

But who could forget a day like that, eh? Especially since the damnable thing was still hooked into her hair half the time? A perfect, flawless memory, is what Aniz was gifted with at birth.

Sometimes a horrifying defect as well. The day she fell from the weyr's ledge and broke her ankle. The pain - permanently embedded within her mind. When her father Z'mor was never brought back from Threadfall, and her uncle L'zar came only to her to cry his grief at losing his brother and comfort her her own loss. She knew that her cousin Zazil, L'zar's son, was jealous of that just a bit, but he never mentioned it. But like Zazil, she was born and raised in a Weyr, a place that couldn't afford to grieve too long, lest it lose even more riders.

Because she was so adept at memory tricks, Aniz had long been relied upon by the Headwomen or even the Weyrleaders to recall dates, times and appointments. But also to be a storage house for the history and the events of their Weyr itself. She was given a better intellectual education than many at a Weyr - because the scribe knew a good thing when he saw it.

For not only was this girl gifted with a powerfully clear memory, she - like her cousin Zazil - was keenly intelligent and sharp of wit.

By the time she was merely eight, the Weyr scribe had officially taken her on as an Apprentice, with the approval of his Crafting masters. She recalled (with a smile each time) when he told her, "now, you know that most girls don't even learn to read in Holds nor Weyrs, so don't disappoint!"

And she never did. While her shorthand notes were atrocious at best, she of course could then later on decode her quick jotted writing and transcribe long speeches without missing a beat.

It was almost scary for the Scribe to learn that she didn't really need to use her shorthand either - she did it to please him. But even then, at age ten, he told her, "do not try and please anyone but yourself now, girl, because even though you're trying to fit in and be normal, you're always going to be far and away better than the rest of your peers."

So since then, she did. She excelled in every endeavor she tried - mental and philosophically speaking. Physically? She's still a clutz apt to break a dish let alone another bone... Her fingers are far more used to putting pen to paper and enscribing a permanent record of the Weyr, than to go out and till the soil - or heavens forbid, to rough-house and play dragonrider games!

Not that she's "above" that... She knows her limits though, and remembers even though she wishes she could forget, how much the pain of true injury hurts...

***

"So while Zazi goes around impressing everyone with his talky-face," one of the girls said in passing, "Aniz is over there scribbling away recording it. You'd think she'd have a little more drive to become something."

"Wasn't her father a rider too?" Asked another weyrbrat, as they passed in a corridor near the scribe's hall. She heard their voices fade. Obviously they were far more impressed by her cousin's annoying stewardly duties, than they would ever be with the history and lineage of the Weyr itself. They could just as well be in any Weyr, Aniz decided, because their thoughts were probably echoed in every single habitation that had a scribe and a handsome steward.

She did care, but not enough to go rushing outside and yelling at the girls. They were both older and bigger than she anyway, so if she confronted them it would have to be with the Weyr Scribe at her back.

He'd been getting on in years, when he picked her up as an Apprentice. Now that she was a senior Appy - at a younger age than most children were even found by the Craft - Aniz knew that he'd have to be replaced some day. She dreaded that day, here at the Weyr, because she knew that his words were true. If another Scribe didn't think much of a girl learning the craft, she'd be out - no questions asked.

That galled her fiercely. Even here in Dragonhope, where things were a bit different, she knew that the craft halls could decide who learned and who was removed from the rosters.

Perhaps....

Aniz put her pen down. The tactics class that she'd been asked to sit in on would wait in her mind until another time. She knew she'd never forget the last fifteen minutes of her cousin's speech - he was actually quite brilliant at such things, and gave him the credit he deserved. But for the moment, perhaps she'd visit the aging Scribe in his quarters, to ask him a very important question about her own future.

She was careful with her supplies, and put them away before exiting the large now-dark room. The lighting, provided by some arcane technology, could be dimmed and brightened here in paricular, where bright light was best for writing and reading. Her feet walked a well-practiced few yards away, into the smaller corridor leading to the resident Crafters housing.

They all lived near one another, though their workshops were disparate and often rather farther away than the Scribners'. They seemed to enjoy being here, though, all packed away into a hall with brighter atmosphere and strange rank markings on everyone's doors. She marched herself off to the door marked with a quill pen and a scroll painted upon it's placard. Clapping at the door, she waited for WeyrScribe Tulanek to answer.

She heard him reply, his voice was weaker today than it had been just a fortnight ago. That made her stomach sink even farther. Aniz entered and saw that the place was quite dim and somewhat somber.

"Master Tulanek," she chided him in a guarded manner, "you ought to put the lights on, it's so dark in here you could hardly read your daily scrolls."

"I'm not really reading those right now," Tulanek said, waving a liver-spotted hand toward the pile of obviously unread scrolls in a basket by the door. Every few days either Aniz or one of the other resident scribes would write out an informative scroll of what had happened that week or day, and what might be coming up on the Weyr. It was quite hard work getting all the copies of it made in time to deliver! If only there were better ways of printing many copies of something fast...

Aniz breathed in deeply and thought she smelled something a bit rotten. Was it food? Or, her throat tightened, was it the man himself, who was clearly in a final stage of life? He had been able to walk and bathe himself even just a few weeks ago, but ... perhaps he'd been sitting here longer than just this morning. That thought disturbed Aniz greatly.

"Sir, you should stand and stretch a bit, if you can. It's very stuffy in here, I'll open the grate for some fresh air. It's not cold right now, so there should be no chill." She turned to see him watching her, "if that's all right?"

She waited for a moment, and saw the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes come back. His yellowed teeth bore open in a smile. "Aniz, I told you years ago, you do not need to impress me with any formalities. If you think I need the air, why, I probably do."

Aniz heard him chuckle to himself while she opened the forced-air ventilation in the room. Again, some arcane and highly technical device did this service to the Weyr, keeping its inner rooms airy and fresh. Finally done, and with a bit of light into the room as well, Aniz then appraised her Master.

He was ... quite old. Friendly looking still, but now his hair had all but gone, and his skin was spotted with age marks. His mind was still sharp, but his body failed him more and more often. Because he would chide her again if she did otherwise, Aniz stood before him and asked a bold question.

"Sir, if I may have your recommendation, I would like to walk the tables and become a Journeyman Scribner. I'm worried that if ..." here she choked briefly, but recovered because she had practiced this speech in the past many times already. "If you are replaced by a less fair Weyrscribe, I may never be given the chance to do so. I know that I could easily pass this Journeman's exam, I've practiced it. My script is sure, and my memory of course, is... well, my memory."

Tulanek seemed to ponder for a moment, pulling his bony fingers up to his jaw and stroking it in thought. "Yes, I think ... that would be a good move, just about now. You are wise beyond your years, young Aniz. If we wait much longer I fear I would not be able to watch you do it. And I do so wish to pin your Journeyman's badge upon your collar myself..."

Swelling with pride and eager to move on, Aniz smiled and straightened herself. "Well, I could send word to the Masters at the craft hall that you're not well and should not go there to any ceremony. Would it be appropriate for a selection of Masters to... come here?"

"Hrm," Tulanek nodded again. "Well they do need to pick among themselves for a suitable replacement for me, if one hasn't been chosen already." He winked. "And if I do not have a say in that, well, then I'll have to dwell on a bit longer with you until I do." He beckoned with his wavering hand, to sit near him. Aniz did, and realized how frail he really was when he put his arm around her shoulder. "Aniz, you've been a light in a dark tunnel for me. I wasn't sure that I could find anyone to really press our field forward - but then you come along and prove me wrong. Those singers and ballad writers are all very fine and well, but they always change the history they sing. We endeavor to recall everything the way it really happened, eh?"

She nodded. "I do, sir, and I know you do. Your scrolls are even more accurate than mine sometimes." He was going to say something, but she shook her head. "No, sir, because I have a perfect memory I can recall things verbatim, but... You have a gift with the descriptions and the language that I don't think I could ever have. I could immitate you, but... You've always told me to be myself!"

They laughed, and Aniz helped him get into a more comfortable position by his reading lights. While he helped himself to the various scrolls by his table, Aniz went off to pen the letter she hoped would change her life forever.

***

"Well we've seen some interesting things in our travels," said one Master Harper, "but this beats them all." He was late middle-aged, with sharp eyes and a balladeer's voice. And he was the friendliest of the bunch.

"When I asked Aniz to write to the Hall for her judging," Tulanek said with a faint sigh, his voice and demeanor growing weaker by the day, "I was not expecting a harper to be here with the scribners she - and I - requested."

"Well with all due respect, master Tulanek," that harper replied with a stiff grin, "the Scribners hall is merely an extention of the Harpers', kindly do inform your ... pet project here, of that."

The foursome of Masters were about to turn and leave. Aniz had tears in her eyes. She'd written directly to the scribner master at their Hall, but apparently something happened. There was but one Master Scribe among this contingent, the others all Harpers who expected songs and flute playing. Perhaps it was just bad luck, or perhaps something else was changing among the crafthalls.

But they were not going to replace the weyrscribe - they were going to simply remove the post and put in a 'proper Harper' for the weyr instead.

Effectively cancelling Aniz's entire career. She was distraught, and full of anger and more emotions than she'd felt in ages. Her work with writing and recalling kept her calm, relaxed, focused. But this ... This was a disaster that she could not take. And poor Tulanek there was actually growing too weak to even raise his voice to chastise the much younger Harper. Though Aniz knew Tulanek would want to be there to comfort her, she instead simply bolted away through the halls of the weyr, oblivious to where she was headed. Sage flapped hopelessly behind her, not understanding why her human would be so up in arms when there was food to be had or a patch of sunlight to lay in. The tears in her eyes clouded her direction sense, but her feet knew full well where they were running.

Somehow she'd wound up running directly into the Weyrleader's offices. How in the world would she explain herself now? In tears, she pulled up short when she saw the tall and very dark man glance away from the other riders in the room, and focus on her.

She could hardly see, and didn't see his expression. S'xon pushed his eyebrows together, and the frown pulling on his lips was there for a reason. She didn't know that he had been 'informed' of the Harper Hall decision already.

"Aniz," he said simply, "come on in, please sit down. Opal, would you?" The one woman, his daughter Opal, helped Aniz to a seat and tried to wipe away some of her tears. Opal was barely older than Aniz, perhaps by three turns at most, and she recalled clearly this stage in her life.

Not as clearly as Aniz would, when she was older... This trauma would be with her forever. Now that she had a moment to think on it too, Sage was being affected strongly. The green hissed at Opal and batted her wings at the white rider, but Opal insisted on helping the girl anyway.

"I'm not certain that our conversation can be continued properly, at this point," S'xon said to the other riders, "but I will continue anyway. Especially," he looked back to Aniz with a strange nod, "since she is concerned."

"You - you were talking about me?" Aniz asked, voice wavering. She'd never have made a good harper - not with that tremble of emotion in her voice. That's what the Harpers told her not twenty minutes ago, anyway.

"Of course," S'xon said. "This issue about our weyr Scribe is ... not pleasing."

Aniz straightened up. She looked so mature for a girl her age, suddenly. S'xon could see the spark of life in her yet, and pressed on.

"I don't want a harper here, at least," he added with a smile flashing his brilliant teeth behind his dark lips, "not one in charge of any kind of historical account of my weyr."

"Our weyr," Kira the tiny blond-black haired Weyrwoman announced from the other door, having arrived on notice between dragon minds. "And I agree. While I enjoy having a good song or dance party... they're just not practical for our purposes. Aniz, you're our scribe whether they want you to be or not."

S'xon actually looked deflated a bit - obviously he wanted to be the one to tell her that.

"Should I chase the harpers away, then?" S'xon asked of Kira - Aniz had seen them behave silly like this before, but she really thought they ought to be a bit more serious at this moment.

Well that was a stunningly egocentric thought for a girl who'd rarely concentrated on herself for more than a decade. She cleared her throat. Then realized that she had no idea what she was going to say to them.

"... Thank you," she said, "if... If you're going to send the harpers away will they ... stop me from becoming a Journeyman forever? I ... I want to--"

"I know you want that badge," S'xon said, "and you deserve it too. I've sent for Tulanek and the others, they're on their way here now. We're going to have to just sort this out. I can't have this sort of distress in the weyr. It's very ..."

"Distressing?" Aniz said with half a grin. Her eyes were still filling with tears moment by moment, but now at least she had gained a grip on her emotions. The other riders chuckled and nodded - Kira stood beside her husband-weyrleader, and they waited. Opal tended to Aniz's tear stained face, and then they heard the approach of the group of Master crafters.

Aniz stiffened up, but Opal held her hand tightly. "It'll be all right. Father and mother are... really hard to argue with. Especially when they agree on something."

"Thanks," Aniz whispered, and turned to the doorway. The group of them - Tulanek being escorted carefully by two healers (as he had for the last few days) and the others walking annoyed behind them. They were so ... arrogant. Aniz had rarely seen such arrogance even on bronze riders in the weyr! They thought themselves better simply because they were good at their craft. Placing such emphasis on one over another was hardly the way of a Weyr.

Aniz bit her lip. The glare coming from the one Harper was so hard and cold that she thought she'd been between. The others were more passive, but seemed so anxious to just leave that she wondered how they could ever possibly decide among themselves, who would become a weyrharper let alone know how to choose such a thing.

"It has come to my attention," S'xon said, "that the Harper Hall has declined the request we sent to have a proper scribe placed here to replace Master Tulanek when he is unable to perform his duties."

"Yes of course," the harper said, "that is true. You've also clearly been informed of the new process we would like to impliment here."

"Well," Kira said, looking at her hard, well-kept nails, "we disagree with your decision, and would have you reconsider." She looked up at them with hard eyes, "and if not, we will simply no longer require the presence of a Harper in our weyr."

Before the other harpers got a chance to say even their first word of comment, S'xon continued where his wife left off. "It is the position of this weyr, that is to say myself and my wife as weyrleaders, to have a proper scribe to record in permanent fashion the events that transpire here."

"That's preposterous," said the elder of the three Harpers, one whose crooked nose and sagging eyebrows almost had made Aniz laugh when she first saw him. "A Harper does that perfectly well."

"A Harper does not record anything, they merely repeat on request," Kira said.

That did it - Aniz was about ready to bolt out any available opening from the room. Opal held her firmly, though, and she had to sit and watch. The single Scribe master who'd come along - apparently as a token to judge the apprentice - hesitated a bit before straightening himself up a little notch. The Harpers on the other hand were livid.

"Well that certainly shows what little even a weyrwoman knows about our craft," muttered the one Harper.

Opal hissed very quietly, "oh no you did not just insult my mother," and held on to Aniz's hands as much as Aniz did hers.

Aniz was so proud to be a resident of a weyr which would go so far to protect the non riders. Kira let off a stream of insults so colorful and even demeaning that Aniz wasn't sure even she'd be able to remember them without blushing. She asserted in a series of clipped angry statements, that scribners came to this weyr with a position of great respect - that harpers had never once proven their worth to the weyr in its whole history, and there had been quite a few harpers through here. Their recordskeeper - the green rider Ilina - was a scribe and a Journeyman at that. Harpers, in the weyr's opinion, were for entertainment. Scribes and recordskeepers on the other hand, were faithful and more over, useful to the weyr.

"And if you can prove to me how a harper who requires warmup time, sixteen different kinds of instruments, paperwork to record their schedules, talent for singing," Kira completed with what appeared to be a disgusted snort, "which you have to recall not everyone has, is somehow better than someone who can be trained at an early age and practically in one session to: listen, observe and record without bias, read and write, add and keep track of things just by looking at a paper, then... By all means, do try."

Their last ditch effort? "Paper? Paper's hardly a quantity we have anywhere near in good supply! The world simply doesn't have enough-"

"It does here," S'xon said, leafing through a stack of it brought from the rich forests that his wing often protected from Threadfall. "And it could, if you'd simply allow us to do the job that we are required to do. We do that," he looked toward Aniz and then to the ailing Master Tulanek, "by keeping records that we can refer to quickly and completely - not by consulting a long convoluted story from a harper's mouth."

"Without a proper Scribe," Tulanek put in, "this weyr is shackled to a way of doing things that have doomed others. Surely you know that, Master Hilpom? Oh - wait. You wouldn't. Because the harper didn't survive to get out and tell anyone. And, left no records permanently..."

The rolling of his eyes toward the ceiling made half the others in the room chuckle, he still had it.

"Harper hall will have nothing more to do with this weyr then," Hilpom began.

"Then we will request that the one qualified Scribner master you brought with you, judge our new scribe on the merits of her abilities in her field." S'xon gently indicated Aniz. "Since you Harpers are on your way out. Scribner Wholfax will be our guest if he wishes to remain."

Aniz noticed the bulging of Wholfax's eyes, as the weyrleader asserted this. She knew, even now, that if he made the wrong move, he'd certainly never be able to hold a proper position in his own craft - even though he was a Master himself.

So she stood up, and cleared her throat.

"Weyrleader, Masters," she said, losing the shake to her hands as well as her voice, as she did so. "I don't think it's really fair of any of us to place this kind of ... decision, on Master Wholfax - we all know what the consequences toward him might be if he were to say or do the 'wrong' thing." She emphasised that by holding her fingers in little quote-mark signs - oh wait, Harpers wouldn't know that. She didn't care. "Please just consider that this weyr does perfectly fine without a Harper, and with a scribe. It's a very honorable position - and when I was taken on as an apprentice, the Scribners Hall agreed to it fully." She pulled in a breath, "I would imagine that the same Masters who agreed to that only just under six years ago, are not the same who are in charge today. That is a bit of a shame... I ..."

She pulled on her fingers, looking at them and then back up at the surprised looks on the Harpers faces. "I would just like to walk the tables in scribe craft, and become a journeyman. If I am made such, I could be placed here as the resident Scribe. It's all I've ever wanted in my life. I can't think of anything I would ever want to do more than help this weyr do its job. That's what we are here for anyway, aren't we? Pern needs the weyrs - but weyrs need a staff that get along with one another, and work in ways that help everyone else. We can't do that if you don't allow a proper scribe to work here."

"You have my attention," Wholfax announced, with a bit of relief. He wanted the spotlight off himself, that was certain. "I've read your work, seen your completed writings. Is it true that you've got an eiditic memory?"

"Is that the word for it? Yes," she said. "We weren't sure... Dictionaries are hard to come by."

Wholfax gave off a chuckle. He turned to Tulanek, whose breathing had become a bit labored from this all. "Master Tulanek, I know you've wanted this too. I can't see any reason to stop you from announcing your new Journeywoman." He bowed deeply and turned away from the harpers, to watch.

With a shaking hand, Tulanek did indeed get to pin the journeyman badge upon his single prize student. Within two more days, he had passed away. Within two more days, the Harper hall released a notice that relieved close contact between scribner hall and itself - it was all fairly local though. The halls were feuding, and would always be, but it wouldn't affect who got put in weyrs.

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