Masterharper of Pern (22 page)

“Nothing,” he said. His response didn’t fool her, but he didn’t feel that Fax’s delinquency in educating his holders was a subject for this table.

When he did have a chance to bring the subject up to Master Gennell during his interview with the harper, Gennell nodded soberly.

“Lobirn has acquainted me with that situation. Unfortunately, without Faroguy’s consent, the Hall can do nothing.”

“But that’s not right,” Robinton protested.

Gennell nodded again, sympathetically. “We can only do so much, Rob, and are wiser not to trespass where a harper’s life might be endangered.”

Robinton blinked in surprise. “Endangered?”

“There have been such problems before, lad, and there will again, but somehow it comes right. As long as Fax keeps his ideas to his own hold, I can do nothing. Nor is it wise to. That’s something you learn as you go on. Cut your losses when you have to. One small hold in the northern lands is not as vital as a larger one nearer home, as it were. But I’m assigning you to where you will do the most good. Now—” Gennell swiveled and pointed to a peg. “—that’s your new assignment. And I think you’ll do quite well there. You got a fine recommendation from Lobirn, and he’s not easy to please. But first . . . Petiron is away for several days, so you might like to relax and spend some time with your mother.”

“She’s not well?” Robinton leaped on the wording.

“Yes, yes, she’s fine, lad. No need to fret about her as you’ll discover,” Gennell said. He sounded so sincere that Robinton relaxed. “There’s a ship due in at the Fort harbor and you can take passage on that . . . and let’s not prevail too much on a dragonrider’s favor for transport.”

“F’lon insisted . . .”

“Now, now, I’m not faulting you, Rob, but I think it better that you arrive at Benden—”

“Benden?” Robinton couldn’t believe in such luck.

“Yes, Benden—but arrive this time without benefit of Simanith’s wings. That young lad is a thorn in Lord Maidir’s side, both he and that father of his, the Weyrleader.”

“But, when Mother and I were there, Lord Maidir—”

Gennell held up his hand. “As I said, it would be better if you didn’t arrive on dragon wing. I don’t want you considered an alarmist, too. Harper Evarel is looking forward to your assistance. He’s retiring soon, and if you suit Lord Maidir—in fact, he asked if you were available now—you’d probably stay on there.”

Robinton forbore to ask further questions, knowing that he could find out for himself what the situation was. It was very odd that the Weyr’s own Hold was doubting the Weyrleaders.

F’lon had expressed himself on this score during the informal party. The young bronze rider had also given him something more to think about as they crossed the courtyard to the waiting Simanith.

“That pretty girl—Silvina—fancies you, lad,” he said. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off you. Don’t let a good opportunity pass you by, Rob.” And F’lon winked as he clapped the Harper on the back before taking the jump-step he always used to reach Simanith’s forearm. And then he was waving farewell from his bronze’s back.

Robinton was so surprised by the comment that he had no time to tell F’lon that he’d known Vina as a playmate and she was probably just happy to see him again. He retreated a good dragon-length to avoid getting dust and grit in his eyes when Simanith leaped upward.

But, later that night, after he and his mother had caught up on some of his more amusing adventures at High Reaches, he was too restless to sleep. Though she had told him his room was ready, he had insisted that he sleep in the journeymen’s accommodations. He knew she was disappointed, that she wanted to see to his comfort herself and enjoy his proximity. What he couldn’t say was that his old room would bring back far too many memories he had no desire to recall. Or maybe she understood that, because she didn’t press him. Casually she mentioned that Petiron was doing special music for a Tillek Holder espousal, and that was why the Hall seemed almost deserted. She had also noticed Silvina’s intentness.

“She’s grown into such a lovely young woman. A nice rich contralto. Have you written any songs for that voice?”

“Yes, actually, I have,” Robinton said, reaching for the leather folder that contained his scores. It gave him something to divert her from thinking more about Vina’s so-called interest in him. “In fact, I’ve copied out the best of my new tunes for you.” He put an emphasis on the word “tunes”—Petiron’s sarcastic name for them.

“Now, Rob . . .” His mother gave him a reproving look.

That was when he told her about Master Lobirn’s laughing fit, and she was appropriately amused by the incident. Then she insisted on looking at all his new songs, and played them, singing along half-voice, although occasionally singing out fully for the ones she particularly liked. He hummed along with her because he couldn’t help himself: singing his own songs with his mother was a pleasure long denied him.

“Ah, dear love, you have such a knack for song and ballad,” she said when she had gone through the lot. “And you’ve developed so much . . .” She sighed. And Robinton, deciding she was tired, gathered up the scores and insisted that she rest now.

There was something about his mother that was different, not quite right, despite all the assurances he had been given. He gave her a goodnight hug and kiss.

“I’ve several days before I have to take ship,” he told her.

“Where did Gennell assign you?”

“You didn’t know?”

She laughed. “Gennell keeps his own business to himself, but he did assure me that it was a posting worthy of your abilities.”

She was delighted when he informed her that he’d been assigned to Benden.

“I’d hoped that you might. I know Evarel is thinking about retiring,” she said, hugging him fiercely. Then she gave him a mock coy glance. “Why, I’d even thought of asking Gennell if he wouldn’t consider you, but that would be favoritism.”

“And my mother wouldn’t stoop to that?” he said, teasing her lightly. “Even for her own son?”

“I have my scruples, dear,” she replied, affecting a prim manner.

Silvina served him his dinner first at the journeymen’s table, gave him larger portions than she gave the others, and hung around, asking him about High Reaches and being not quite a nuisance. Two or three harpers he didn’t know very well grinned at him until he became a little uncomfortable about her attentiveness.

She
was
pretty—prettier than Sitta or Marcine—but he wasn’t going to be around long enough to get to know the adult Vina.

Anyway, Master Gennell rose to his feet and started the ceremonies that made apprentices into journeymen—always a marvelous occasion. His new posting was included, and he saw how proud his mother was when it was announced. He wondered what his father would have said.

So he traveled by ship, runnerbeast, and foot to Benden, a journey that not only made him appreciate the speed of transport a-dragonback, but also impressed on him the size of the continent, which until then had only been a map, not actual lengths he had set foot on.

He discovered that he could sail without getting seasick—which pleased the captain no end when a storm made half the crew too nauseated to work and Robinton was pressed into service. And he saw the Dawn Sisters for the first time.

He’d come on deck just at dawn and noticed the bright spark in the sky.

“That can’t be a star,” he said.

“Ent one,” the dog-watch sailor said with a grin. “We calls ’em the Dawn Sisters. Why, I dunno. We sees ’em just as clear at dusk, too. Only from this latitude, though. You won’t see ’em up north where you comes from.”

“Amazing,” Robinton said, leaning against the cabin housing, unable to take his eyes from the shining spot. Then, abruptly, the sun raised itself above the horizon and the spot winked out. He meant to come back and test the sailor’s word that the phenomenon occurred at dusk as well, but he forgot about it.

He liked Ista Island—what he saw of it sailing past the coastline—and admired the black diamond beach around the little off-shore island, which was no more than an old volcano sticking its crater head up out of the water. He found he could manage a runnerbeast adequately to help drive burden beasts and other runners to their destination, and all his travels up the High Reaches mountain tracks made the rest of his journey more of a delight than a problem. Especially since, as a harper, he was welcome in any small hold, where, in return for an evening’s songs, he got the best meal available, as well as the best bed.

Except for one night when he had left the drovers who’d sold him an elderly but sturdy packbeast to carry his possessions and was proceeding on his own. He was nearly to the Benden Hold borders, the head drover had told him, and recommended the inland road as being the shorter way. He’d passed a Runner Station midafternoon but decided to travel as far as he could that night. As the sun was nearly down over the mountains, he was beginning to look around for any shelter, even an old Thread halt, when he came across a runner trace. These were always laid out as the straightest distance between two points, so he switched to the narrow, mossy trace. He was ascending a hill when he saw lights ahead, off to his left, snug against a forest. The trace was bisected by a wider road that appeared to lead directly to the hold so he turned, his elderly pack animal moaning a bit.

“It’s nearby. Not much further, and you can eat, too.”

The animal groaned on a different note. If Robinton hadn’t been so tired and hungry, he’d have been amused at the variety of sounds the beast could make.

As he approached the cothold, he smelled tantalizing odors coming from within and his stomach growled. So did several canines within the cot. The packbeast gave off a loud, slightly fearful protest.

“They’re inside and can’t hurt you,” he told the beast as he resettled his tunic, pushed his hair neatly behind his ears, and courteously rapped at the door.

“Who’s there?” a sharp male voice demanded, and then told the canines to shut their fuss. “Can’t hear over the noise.”

A female voice murmured something.

“A traveler, in need of a night’s lodging,” Robinton said.

“Can you pay?”

“Certainly.” A harper was expected to sing and entertain for supper. He would usually offer a half mark, but was always refused.

The door opened a crack, and he couldn’t see the face of the man, the light being behind him.

“Who be you?” the man asked.

“Robinton’s my name,” the journeyman replied with a slight bow and put his hand to his belt pouch. “I have good Harper Hall marks—”

“Ha! Harper Hall.” There was contempt in the voice.

“They’re good at any Gather,” Robinton said, more than a little taken aback by the response.

“Do let him in, Targus. We’ve more than enough stew,” the woman said. She pulled the door open, peering out at him. “Why, it’s only one man, Targus. And carries no weapons but an eating knife.” She swung the door wider and Robinton could see four large men seated at the table. “Sortie, boy, go put his packbeast in the lean-to, and come in. Robinton, you said your name was? I’m Kulla.”

A gawky lad appeared and slipped past Targus, taking the lead rope from Robinton’s hand and clucking encouragingly at the packbeast. The beast started to resist, but Robinton swatted him across his stubborn rump and he followed the boy.

“I really appreciate your hospitality, lady,” he said, ducking his head to step into the room. He nodded impartially around at the others. “I’m on my way to Benden Hold.”

“He’s a harper, Pa. That’s blue cords on his shoulder,” one of the diners said, pointing with his knife at Robinton’s left arm.

Targus, scowling deeply, hauled Robinton around so he could see the offensive cords himself.

“Now, you see here, Targus,” Kulla said, planting both fists on her ample hips and glaring at her spouse. “You keep me from Gathering, but if a harper comes to my door, I’m not turning him out. Not that I’d turn anyone away so late in the night.”

She grabbed Robinton’s other arm and pulled him away from Targus’s grasp and toward the table.

“Brodo, get a plate. Mosser, a cup. All we’ve got’s beer, but it’ll quench a thirst.” She angled Robinton toward the table and pushed him into what he took to be her own chair. Taking the plate from Brodo, who was grinning as he passed it to his mother, she filled it amply and gestured for him to be seated. “Erkin, the bread’s by you. And, Targus, you sit. I’m so eager to see a smiling face that I’d eat with a watch-wher who did.”

Jutting his jaw out, Targus held out his hand to Robinton, his eyes suspicious. “Said you could pay?”

“Indeed, and I can,” Robinton said, half-rising to reach his pouch.

Kulla pushed Targus’s hand away. “Harpers shouldn’t have to pay, Targus. You weren’t ever brought up right by that family of yours.”

“I insist,” Robinton said earnestly because he didn’t like the expression on Targus’s face. He kept only a few small pieces in his belt pouch—the rest were in a sash inside his shirt—and he displayed them all. “This one is smithcraft. Will that be preferable?”

“Preferable?” sneered Targus as his thick and slightly greasy fingers gathered the mark piece from Robinton’s palm. “Harper words. What’s wrong with ‘Is that good?’ Or do you always have to show off your larnin’?”

Kulla pulled Robinton back down. “Eat. You look peaked, and don’t mind Targus.”

Robinton decided to concentrate on eating. There was nothing wrong with the flavorsome stew, or the quality of the tubers and greens that accompanied it. The bread had been made fresh that day, and when the last piece was taken by Erkin, or maybe that was Mosser, the woman sliced up another loaf and filled the dish. Though his hunger would have been sated by the first helping, she served Robinton a second, equally large portion while Targus grumbled.

“I’ll feed whoever I choose in this house, Targus. This hold has always been hospitable. You can dislike harpers all you want, but I don’t,” she said fiercely. Then in a completely different tone of voice she turned and smiled with genuine appeal in her eyes. “Would you mind playing for us after?” When Targus started to growl, she turned on him. “And you shut your face, Targus. I haven’t heard any music since last Solstice, and I promise you’ll eat nothing but cold porridge for the month if you say another nasty thing.”