Masterharper of Pern (23 page)

The young boy had slipped back in and helped himself to more stew and bread, shooting glances at the other end of the table where Robinton ate, solidly protected by Kulla.

“Music!” Targus did growl when Robinton brought out his pipes.

“You’ve no gitar?” Kulla asked plaintively. “I was hoping you’d sing for me.”

“It’s on my pack animal . . .”

She sent the boy, Sheve, for the instrument. “And handle it careful, y’hear?”

The moment Robinton started playing, Targus stamped toward a half-open door, turned, and glared at his sons expressively, but all of them pretended not to see and he slammed the door behind him.

Robinton played and sang far more softly than was his habit. When he finally made a few bad chords from sheer fatigue, Brodo touched his mother’s arm. “He’s sung for a week of suppers, Ma.”

“Why’s Pa hate music so?” Erkin asked.

“He says harpers sing lies,” Mosser said, malice in his twinkling eyes.

“Didn’t hear a one,” their mother said stoutly. Then she waggled her finger at Mosser. “Nor you, neither, or you’d’ve stirred yourself out of the room when your pa left. You’ll sleep in here, Harper. Erkin, get the furs. Sheve, throw down that spare mattress from the loft. I’ll just bank the fire.”

His bed was quickly organized and the final nighttime chores completed, leaving him in sole possession of the main room. He was relieved to see the canines follow the boys out to another part of the cot.

The thud of wood going into the fireplace roused him from a deep sleep and he saw his hostess taking the porridge pot from the back of the hearth where it had simmered all night.

“You’ll want to travel soon’s it’s light, Harper,” she said in a soft voice.

“He hasn’t given you any trouble . . .” Robinton began.

Her snort of denial was soft, but he could see her lips were smiling. “He knows better,” she said, still quietly, and then reached for a cup to pour him klah.

It was thick and very strong; the jolt of the liquid in his belly woke him up completely. She set a bowl of porridge on the table and began to slice more bread, which she then covered with a worn but clean napkin.

“The beast’ll be to the left as you leave the cot,” she said.

He finished his breakfast quickly, accepting her haste, hospitable though it remained. With the bread in one hand and his gitar in the other, he murmured his thanks again and left.

The sun was not yet up, but there was light enough to show him the beasthold. He’d had plenty of practice now in settling the pack so that he was off down the road again within minutes.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” he murmured to himself. “Harper lies? Whatever would he mean by that?”

He passed over the Benden border late that morning, and that night stayed at a friendly Runner Station where harpers were always welcome.

When he finally arrived at the Hold, no one was on the steps waiting to welcome him. Just as he was climbing up to the entryway, a party of riders clattered in on the northern road and he recognized Raid, Lord Maidir’s eldest son.

“Ah, journeyman, we’ve been expecting you,” Raid said, swinging down from his mount and throwing the reins of the tired beast to the holder who came running up from the beasthold.

“Raid, it’s good to see you again,” Robinton said genially.

Raid peered up at the harper. “I know you?”

“Robinton. Mastersinger Merelan’s son,” Robinton said, taken aback.

But Raid responded with a wide grin and an extended hand, then a clout on the arm. “I wouldn’t have recognized you from that scrawny kid!”

Robinton had to laugh—Raid was in no way altered from his memory of the young man.

“I have earnestly tried to improve myself,” he admitted.

“Glad to hear that,” Raid said, characteristically unable to spot irony. “Come, there’ll be hot klah or wine, now that you’re old enough, to wash away the travel dust. Been long on the way?”

“Yes, and fully appreciate the size of this continent now in a manner I had not experienced.”

“Yes, well, there’s that, isn’t there?”

Robinton reflected that Raid had been born in a mold and not altered the framework one bit in his nearly thirty Turns. Well, there is something to be said about predictability, for a harper’s purposes, he thought.

“Your father’s well? And Lady Hayara?” he asked politely.

“My father is much bothered by joint-ail.” Raid frowned with concern. “Our healer can relieve the discomfort only for short periods of time.” He sighed and, also characteristically, did not mention his father’s second wife.

But she had been alerted by the return of the work party and was sailing into the Hall, a woman whose proportions seemed to be a permanent appearance of late pregnancy. Her smile when she recognized Robinton—and she had no trouble doing so—was all he could wish for, both as a returned guest and a new harper.

Talking away furiously, which permitted her to ignore Raid beyond a brief nod, she called for a drudge to take Robinton’s carisaks to his quarters, then urged him into the Hall where food and drink were being brought in and set on a table. She ordered chairs to be set for her and the harper, and apologized for Lord Maidir’s absence, and told him that Maizella was about to be espoused to a fine young holder, and said that she was so glad he had come so that he could plan the music because she really didn’t have anything new, and if Robinton did, that would be splendid but only music that had a tune that people could enjoy. Then she realized what she had said and started apologizing about his father’s
sooo
impressive music, but really that sort of thing wouldn’t do for such a happy occasion, would it?

At some point during that monologue, when she stopped to draw a breath, Raid said that he would inform Lord Maidir of the harper’s arrival and see when it would be convenient for Robinton to officially present himself to the Lord Holder. He would also apprise Harper Evarel that his journeyman had arrived.

Breath taken, Lady Hayara, whose ebullience had not altered, brought him up to date on how many students there were currently, and told him that Maizella, in her spare time, was conducting lessons with Harper Evarel, who was nearly as crippled with joint-ail as her spouse but carrying on bravely until Robinton could arrive, and exclaimed at how happy Evarel would be to have a trained assistant because—she didn’t know why—the holders seemed to be breeding enormous families.

Robinton managed to stifle a laugh. He had counted up the number of offspring she had presented Lord Maidir in the Turns since Rob and his mother had been at Benden Hold: she was a fine one to talk about large families, with seven more in the intervening years, making a total of ten. Small wonder that Raid said little to her. She was presenting him with problems; although, undoubtedly, Raid would delegate the more responsible males to assist him, while espousing the girls as creditably as possible. Robinton just hoped there wasn’t an ambitious and scheming nephew in Benden Hold, too.

Then, his klah finished, he said that he would go to the schoolrooms and see if he could help Master Evarel.

“But you’ve just arrived from a long and terrible journey. He won’t be expecting you to pitch in . . . right away!”

“I shall see what Evarel wishes, Lady Hayara, but I assure you that I have traveled at a leisurely enough pace and been well treated by everyone on the way.”

So he thanked her again for the welcome and the refreshment and would have used the backstairs when she called him sharply back and pointed to the main ones at the side of the Hall.

“Journeyman Robinton, kindly remember your new status,” she said with a hint of dismay. “You are
not
a child anymore.” It was the closest he had ever heard her come to disapproval.

He bowed and, muttering something about old habits dying hard, strode across the floor to the appropriate staircase.

Master Evarel was quietly delighted at his arrival—and at his willingness to get right to work if that was required, for the older man’s hands were badly gnarled with the joint-ail and were obviously paining him.

“Maizella usually plays for me, but she’s away this morning,” Evarel said gruffly, leading Robinton to suspect that the harper’s voice was also going. He had sung bass: it was the tenor range that was apt to go first. “That is, if you’re not fatigued . . .”

“I’m fine, Master Evarel. I’d be happy to assist. Perhaps I should have pushed on last night . . .”

“No, no, the last part of the track could be dangerous at night.” Evarel put up a hand to reassure Robinton even as he passed the gitar over.

The youngsters in the room giggled and squirmed in their seats at the changeover, looking over the lanky journeyman with eager expressions.

Just as he was singing them through the first verse of the first Teaching Ballad, he heard the drums and paused to listen to the brief message: “Harper Safe.”

It took him a moment to realize that the message concerned him. That made him feel even more welcome than ever—to be the subject of drum talk.

And thus began Robinton’s second stay at Benden Hold.

At Evarel’s request, Robinton’s effects had been put in the room he had shared with his mother during their previous stay at Benden Hold. It was Evarel’s apartment, which he apologetically offered to share, if Robinton had no objections. His spouse had died some years back and he felt odd about having such a large apartment all to himself. Robinton was more than pleased because, while the inner rooms at High Reaches had been only one corridor away from outside, he much preferred having outer wall accommodations. It was silly to feel the constraint of rock when that was actually all he’d known in his life, and when so many folk lived long, healthy lives quite contentedly in the inner passages of the bigger Holds and Halls, but he did like to be able to look
out
whenever he chose. He also felt closer to his mother in rooms they had occupied together in one of the happiest spells of his boyhood.

Being journeyman in a busy Hold was a considerable change from that earlier time, and yet Robinton was not the sort of personality who could abide idleness. If he wasn’t instructing, taking his drum tower watches—Hayon, the oldest of Hayara’s brood, was technically in charge of that part of the Hold’s routine duties—or taking a few days to travel to the corners of the Hold to tutor small holder groups, he busied himself mending instruments, repairing music sheets, and copying those that Evarel’s pain-wracked hands had been unable to keep in good shape.

When the cold weather deepened, Lady Hayara arrived with the Hold’s healer, Master Yorag, bringing a basin of warm wax to ease the frozen joints of the old harper’s hands and knees. She helped rub in the herbal oils that increased daytime mobility.

“I do wish you’d reconsider the Neratian offer,” she would invariably say when she entered. “It is freezing here, and the cold is simply not good for your joints.”

“I’ll be fine, Lady Hayara, I’ll be fine,” old Evarel insisted, adding most mornings, “now that Robinton’s here to assist.”

Then he began to add, “And he’s halved my work and taken over all the difficult tasks.”

By Turn’s End, when a chest congestion kept him in bed for six days running, and Robinton was beside himself to keep the water bottles warm enough to give him some comfort, Evarel succumbed to the inevitable and said that perhaps he ought to spend the rest of the winter where it was a trifle warmer.

Lady Hayara ordered up the travel wagon and had Robinton send drum messages to holds on the southern route to have team changes and fresh drivers ready so that Evarel would make the journey in the most comfort she could secure for him. Maizella and Hayon were sent along as his escort.

As Robinton carried the gaunt old Masterharper down to the conveyance, he wondered why Benden hadn’t requested a dragon and rider. He had seen dragons in the sky, but none had touched down at Benden Hold as they used to do, and none had been invited for any of the dinners that Lady Hayara loved to give with the least excuse. Robinton had been too busy to visit the Weyr on his own, to discover the dragonriders’ viewpoint on the coldness between Hold and Weyr. Then he answered his own question, as he realized that the cold of
between
would have been the worst possible course for the sick man, not to mention the difficulty involved in hoisting him to the dragon’s back without additional pain.

The travel wagon’s narrow body was well-sprung and well-padded and would pass on most of the normal trails. Such vehicles had become quite popular during the Long Interval. And most holders kept good teams ready in the beasthold or in a nearby paddock for travelers’ needs. This wagon was also comfortably sized: “Lady Hayara wide, which means the two of us will fit,” Maizella said with a touch of malice, although Robinton had noticed that she was now on better terms with her father’s second spouse than Raid was.

Robinton watched with a lump in his throat as the old man left. Lady Hayara was openly weeping.

“He’s taught all my children, you see,” she admitted as Robinton gave her a steadying hand up the steps to the Hold. “And I really don’t think he should come back—even in the warmer weather.”

And so it was that Evarel did not return to Benden Hold. Robinton slid into the vacancy and started quietly training three of the brighter hold children to be his assistants. One lad was harper material, unless he missed his guess. Robinton had a sixth sense for that: he likened it to a green dragon’s ability to perceive rider potential in youngsters. He did wish that somehow or other he could find a girl as talented. His mother would so enjoy having another voice to train as she had Halanna and Maizella.

A Turn and a half later, S’loner’s Chendith flew Jora’s Nemorth and a clutch resulted. Not a large one, but six bronzes, three browns, five blues, and six greens were hatched.

F’lon had been quite caustic about the long wait for Nemorth to come into season. He blamed it on Jora’s own immaturity and fearfulness.

“This business of Jora’s being afraid of heights is inhibiting her queen, of all stupidities!” F’lon paced up and down Robinton’s apartment, waving his arms about in frustration. “I personally know that Nemorth was glowing as bright as a gold nugget when Jora took it in her head to be violently nauseated and faint. Naturally that put the poor queen off, making her nearly frantic with worry over her rider.” F’lon kicked at a chair in his way, venting his disgust with the weyrwoman. “Frankly, I’ll be surprised if we ever get Nemorth in the air to mate.”