Masterharper of Pern (15 page)

He muffled the sobs he could not control in his pillow. And when he heard some shouting later, he pulled the pillow over his head and pushed it tight against his ears so he couldn’t hear anything except his own pulse.

He had to audition for the position of solo treble singer in front of all the masters. That made him a little nervous. The requirement had made his mother furious.

“Are you doubting my professional opinion, Petiron?” she asked when she heard what was proposed. All the windows were open, making it impossible for Robinton to avoid hearing.

“Any singer who is to be a soloist for the Harper Hall has to be auditioned,” his father had answered.

“Only if he hasn’t been heard by all the masters before,” Merelan had said, tight-voiced.

“I do not wish anyone to think that I am pushing my son into a place that another also qualifies for.”

“There
is
no other treble as qualified! Everyone but you knows very well that Robinton has a splendid treble.”

“Then there is no problem in following protocol, is there?”

“Protocol! Protocol? For your own son?”

“Of course. For him more than any other. Surely you can see that, Merelan.”

“I wish, Petiron, I do sincerely wish that I could.”

Robie flinched when he heard the outer door slam. He felt his throat tighten and then reminded himself sternly that he had no time for that right now. He was harper-trained and he’d prove—especially to his father—that he was
well
trained.

Because he was, of course, facing his auditors, he caught the little reassuring gestures they made, and his mother’s encouraging expression as she played the introduction to the music they had decided he should present first. He was to sing two songs, an optional piece and then a score he had not seen before.

“That,” his mother had said in an odd voice, “is going to be very difficult because he knows all the music.”

“There will be one he doesn’t know,” his father had said and given his head the one final nod that indicated this subject was closed.

So he sang the Question Song, and that made all the masters sit up, including his father. But the song suited his range and showed good phrasing as well as voice control, as he let the final note die away without breaking it off.

“Odd choice” was his father’s comment after the warm applause had died. Petiron handed him a double sheet. “This would have been Londik’s next solo. Not even he has seen it. You may have a few minutes to look through it.” He held out his hand to take Merelan’s gitar from her and sat on the stool, prepared to accompany his son himself.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Robinton turned his eyes down to his father’s bold notations. But by the time he had to turn the page, he felt a surge of relief. If his father thought this would show up his unsuitability, he might even get a pleasant surprise.

“I’m ready,” Robie said, turning the music back to the first page.

“You should take more time than that,” his father said.

“I’ve read it through, Father,” Robinton replied. His father didn’t know how quickly he memorized music, even the complex tempi his father liked to use and the odd intervals he was fond of putting in: “To jar the audience awake,” one of the journeymen had said in Robie’s hearing.

“Let’s not make the lad nervous, Petiron,” Master Gennell said. “If he says he’s ready, we’ll have to take him at his word.”

“I’ll play the first measure, then go back to the top,” Petiron said, as if conferring a special favor.

Robinton saw his mother’s warning finger go up so he said nothing. But he was spot perfect coming in at the top. He didn’t need to, but he kept the score in front of his eyes, not wanting to look in his father’s direction. He had no trouble singing the unusual intervals, or keeping an accurate tempo, even when it changed almost every other measure. There was one run, which would have suited Londik’s flexible voice, too, and a trill that Rob had no trouble with, either, his mother having used him to show Maizella how to deal with that sort of vocal embellishment.

“I do believe we have a more than adequate replacement for Londik,” Master Gennell said, rising and speaking over the applause. “That was very well done, Robie. Surprised you, too, didn’t he, Petiron? You’ve been working the lad hard at Benden, Merelan, and it shows. It shows.”

Petiron was looking at his son, his mouth slightly open, his right hand silencing the strings of the gitar.

“I do believe, Petiron, that you’ve forgotten that Robie turned ten while we were in Benden,” Merelan said briskly.

“Yes, I had.” Petiron rose slowly, putting the gitar carefully back in its case. “But you must read the dynamics of a new piece more carefully, son. In the fourth measure—”

Seeing Merelan’s growing ire, Master Gennell jumped in. “Petiron, I don’t believe you,” he said. “The lad did not so much as falter once, singing difficult music—for you don’t write any other kind—which he had never seen before, and you’re quibbling about the dynamics in one measure?”

“If he is to take Londik’s place, he must be accurate in all particulars,” Petiron said. “And he will be. From now on, I shall oversee his musical education. There’s a lot to be done . . .”

“Ah, but you’re in error, there, my good Petiron,” Master Gennell said in his mildest voice, his round face quite bland. “You”—he pointed his finger at the Mastercomposer—“teach at journeyman level. We must follow the protocol, you know.” And he beamed at a stunned Petiron.

Robinton heard a stifled noise and looked around at his mother, who gave him the oddest smile.

“Robinton is not old enough to be an apprentice, though as our lead treble, he is now definitely under Hall jurisdiction. But,” Gennell went on in a very satisfied tone, “I think that he would benefit from special lessons with his mother, since obviously Merelan had brought his voice along this far with her usual excellent training.” He nodded and bowed to her. “And, of course, he’ll continue his regular lessons with Kubisa, for we can’t short him on general knowledge and the basics, now can we, simply because he has a splendid treble? You did very well, Robinton.” Gennell’s beam now included Robinton and he awarded the boy a proprietary caress on his head and a final decisive pat. “Yes, and I think some of us here—I certainly—will be more than willing to oversee other elements of his training until he does reach apprentice age.” Gennell then sighed abruptly. “Of course, when his voice breaks, we’ll just have to see what his other musical qualifications are.”

Robinton blinked when Gennell, whose wide shoulders shielded him from his father, gave him a solemn wink.

“Thank you, MasterHarper, I’ll do my best not to disappoint,” Robie said in the silence that fell.

Then everyone began to clear throats or shift feet or stand up. His mother moved to his side, hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly to indicate her approval.

“Ah, Petiron, there’s a drum message request from Igen for a repeat of that program you put on for them last year,” Gennell said, taking the Mastercomposer by the arm and leading him out of the audition room. “You might make it the debut for your son. Not surprised he did so well, considering his parentage. You must be proud of him . . .” His voice trailed off down the hall.

“The MasterHarper may appear to be asleep from time to time,” Master Ogolly remarked in his dry, wispy voice, “but he doesn’t miss much, does he, Merelan? What with summer schedules and all, I’m short of apprentices when I need them most. Robie, could you give me a few hours and help me catch up on copying manuscripts?”

Robie looked up at his mother for permission and she nodded.

“He writes the clearest hand, you know, Mere. Have you some free time this afternoon perhaps?” he added wistfully to Robinton.

“I’ll be there after lunch,” Robie said, grateful to be legitimately somewhere other than his own quarters for the rest of the day. Ever since he’d been considered old enough to feed himself, he’d sat at the younglings’ table in the dining hall so he could avoid his father at noon. He’d get a copy from Master Ogolly of the work Londik had sung last year and memorize it. That way he wouldn’t annoy his father.

If Robinton did not realize until he was full-grown how deftly the Harper Hall conspired to save him from his father’s perfectionism, he was consumed with relief when “protocol” required him to join the other apprentices in their dormitory the day after his twelfth birthday. Instead of being on better terms with his father after two Turns of solo work, he seemed to annoy Petiron even more, no matter how hard he tried. In fact, it got so everyone noticed, and the other singers made a point of telling him how well he did, loud enough for his father—who gave him only a nod now and then—to hear.

He knew his transfer upset his mother, and yet he was positive it would make things a lot easier for her. It was only too obvious that his father couldn’t wait to see the back of him. And his case wasn’t the same as that of other apprentice lads: he’d lived in the Hall all his life, so he wouldn’t be homesick in the dormitory. Although he would miss his mother’s loving care, he was earnestly looking forward to leaving the family apartment.

“The boy is
not
going more than two hundred feet away,” Petiron said as he watched Merelan taking great care in packing Robinton’s belongings. Then he saw the thick roll of music she was stowing. “What’s that?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Rob’s done some exercises,” she replied indifferently, and tried to place them out of sight in the carton.

“Exercises?”

“Classwork, I think,” she added to stress the insignificance. She had it almost packed away when Petiron extracted the roll and pulled it open.

In the exasperating fashion thin hide can have, it resisted, and he was muttering under his breath with frustration. Merelan steeled herself and motioned surreptitiously for Robie to continue folding his clothing into the carisak.

Rob had so hoped that he could leave the apartment without any unpleasantness. Why did his father have to hang around the apartment this afternoon when he could have been anywhere else in the Hall just then?

“Exercises? Exercises!” Petiron glared first at his spouse and then through the doorway at his son. His tendency to use scowls as facial expressions had already carved deep lines in his long face. “These are copies of those ridiculous tunes the apprentices keep asking to sing.”

Robinton couldn’t see his mother’s face because she had risen, hoping to retrieve the roll. Petiron looked from one to the other and, for the first time in his dealings with his son, had a sudden perception.

“You—” He waved the offending roll in his son’s direction. “—wrote these.”

“Yes . . .” Robinton had to tell the truth now, if never again. “As exercises,” he heard himself adding when he saw the deepening of the scowl on his father’s face. “Sort of variations . . .”

“
Variations
that all the masters use in their classes.
Variations
that the instrumentalists constantly use. And twaddle at that, silly tunes that anyone can sing or play. Useless nonsense. Just what has been going on behind my back?”

“Since you have heard the masters using Robie’s songs in their classes, and the instrumentalists using them, then nothing has been going on behind your back, has it?” Merelan asked calmly and retrieved the roll from her spouse’s hand.

“He’s been composing?”

“Yes, he’s been composing. Songs.” She did not add that Petiron was looking at some of their son’s very early work. She hoped he did not remember how long he had been hearing his son’s charming, happy tunes. “Wouldn’t it be odd for him to be tone-deaf as well as note-blind in this Hall, saturated by music all the days of his life and two Harper Masters daily drumming sound into his head? I’d say it is only logical that he would write music and sing well. Don’t you?”

Petiron stood, looking from one to the other. He watched as Merelan rolled the songs tight and pushed them back into the box.

“You hid from me the fact that he has perfect pitch, has a good treble voice, and has been writing music?”

“No—one—has—been—hiding—a sharding thing from you, Petiron,” Merelan said tensely, enunciating every syllable and using a swear word that shocked Robinton as much as it did her spouse, who recoiled from her controlled anger. “You—simply—did not hear, and did not see. Now, act the father for once in your life, and carry this carton to the dormitory. It’s much too heavy for Rob.” She pointed at the burden and then at the windows to the dormitory that Robinton would be using.

Without a word, Petiron picked it up and made his way out of the room.

Robinton looped two more carisaks over one shoulder and took one step forward, but his mother, her head turned toward the hallway, held up her hand.

“Wait a minute, dear.” She turned back to him, her face drawn with sadness and despair. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have lost my patience with the man. But I can’t keep on saving his self-esteem, catering to his enormous ego, and always at your expense, Rob.”

“It’s all right, Mother. I understand.”

His mother reached out to caress his cheek—he was nearly her height now—shaking her head sadly, her eyes full of tears. “I’d be surprised if you really did, love, but it shows your good heart and generous spirit. Always keep that, Robie. It’s a saving grace.”

She let him go then, and though he didn’t see his father on the stairs in the dormitory, the box was on the bed assigned him. He started unpacking, hoping that both the lump in his throat and the sense of having lost something important would go away before any of the other apprentices put in an appearance.

There were twenty-six in his class, quartered in three long rooms: he was lucky enough to be in the six-man one, so there was a trifle more space. By evening, he’d met them all, and they had been vetted by the older apprentices. He kept a suitable expression on his face when the head apprentice, a tall well-built lad from Keroon named Shonagar, rattled off what was expected of first-year apprentices, how they were the “lowest” of the “lowly” in the Hall, and the traditions of their new status. He also told them about the necessity of spending a night alone in the Weyr to prove their bravery.