Masterharper of Pern (31 page)

“If I can travel faster and more smoothly than you can, it’s only right for me to go farther,” he said, grinning. It also meant longer distances, which he could use to work on his Sonata. He had done no more than the opening measures so far, and the music was plaguing him.

“You won’t get a protest from me,” Mumolon said.

“You’ll learn, you’ll learn,” Ifor teased him. “Days more away from the lovely Kasia, though.”

Robinton controlled the spurt of rage he felt, reminding himself that, with his intentions announced, his claim to her affections would no longer be challenged. So he made his lips smile and sloughed off the irritation. And retired to his room to write a few more measures of the music that wouldn’t leave his head.

Before he left, he had an ecstatic and very long letter from his mother, delighted by his news, asking for a sketch of Kasia and so many details that, laughingly, he suggested that Kasia had better answer. Which Kasia immediately did, including a sketched portrait that Marlifin was able to do for her. Master Gennell sent felicitations and thought he would accompany Merelan, to be sure she made it safely to Tillek Hold. Petiron, not surprisingly, neglected to respond. Kasia’s parents, Bourdon and Brashia, expressed delight in her upcoming espousal and readily accepted the possibility—though Robinton was still waiting for an answer from F’lon—of a quick and safe transfer to the west coast. At last F’lon sent a drummed message that he would be there—with whoever needed conveyance.

After a loving and reluctant farewell to Kasia, he set his runner on the northeastern route, up to the Piro River, which separated Tillek from High Reaches Hold. From there he headed across the plateau into the highlands and down the Greeney River to the sea in the corner of Tillek and Fort. There was a rapidly expanding series of Holds along the Greeney River, some so new that the hardset was still drying—or so the longer-established holders said with grins. That tour took him most of the summer and into the cooler nights and shorter days of the fall. Occasional runner notes from Kasia sustained him. And each evening he faithfully recorded his doings to be returned, often by the same runner.

He was very grateful when he reached the apex of his journey, a hill Holding right below the High Reaches border. He stayed four days, teaching the children, who were at first very shy with him but warmed as he taught them the Ballads and sang them the humorous songs with which he had relaxed many a nervous student. On his final night Chochol, the Holder, had taken him—and a skin of the rough white Tillek wine—to see the two moons rise, and then unburdened his mind to the harper.

“Once, twice, maybe, Harper,” Chochol said in his rough voice, pitched low so that not even the herdbeasts grazing nearby could hear what he said, “I would not worry. Anyone can come to a disagreement with his Holder. But there have been eight lots and they arrive scared of their shadows. Wounded, and the pretty ones have been badly handled.” He paused, indicating with a nod what he wouldn’t say about their condition. “Badly handled.” He emphasized the repetition with a second sharp nod. Then he pointed down the hillside, which was grassland with a few stunted trees. “Twice”—he held up two thick, work-callused fingers—“the women were sure that Lord Faroguy must be dead for such things to happen in High Reaches. Scared my spouse, that did. But we see anything coming up here and I tell her we’re in Tillek, holding with Lord Melongel, who’s a fair Holder if ever there was one, and the time hasn’t come when one Lord’ll run over what another has owned since his Blood took Hold.”

The phrase “run over what another has owned” sent a shudder of fear through Robinton right down to his guts.

“So’s to reassure her, we’ve another cot,” he said, waving his hand vaguely over his shoulder, “where we could go did we see someone coming who ought not. I don’t like it, Harper, I don’t like it one bit.”

“Nor I, Chochol, and you may be sure I will tell Lord Melongel of your worries.”

Robinton did no composing that night for music had gone out of his head. He had asked Chochol if the women had mentioned names, or where they were going in Tillek, but Chochol replied that he didn’t know because he hadn’t asked. He had seen them safe to the river track to the sea and given them what they could spare of provisions.

Most nights, though, Robinton would drain glowbaskets of their last glimmer, penning his Sonata. He also wrote other music for his Kasia, composing love songs on the long stretches between Holds—though sometimes the notes on the hide showed the roughness of his travel and had to be corrected. These were only for Kasia, written for her to play for herself on her harp.

He finished the Sonata before he got back to Tillek Hold for the autumn Gather and their espousal.

Kasia welcomed him so warmly that their reunion lasted all night long, which delighted a travel-weary young man who had desperately missed the object of his affections.

They spent almost as much time talking as making love. They discussed their future at length. Now and then, he related the amusing incidents that he hadn’t written to her—since most of his letters had been intensely loverly, as she described them. She would treasure them forever. Of course, the Wall Incident had been meat for runners all across Tillek Hold.

“I’ll probably never live it down,” he told her, stroking her thick hair, rolling a tress on his finger.

“Why would you want to, Rob?” She giggled. “I think it’s a marvelous comment on your abilities.”

“I had to live up to expectations,” he said.

“Which, to judge by Melongel’s remarks, you certainly did.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” he said, worried.

“I
know
you did,” she said loyally, poking his nose gently.

He groaned. “I hope I did. Every Hold seemed to have some sort of long-term dispute that only I”—he thumbed his chest— “could settle.”

“Which I’m sure you did.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know my Rob. Who sees with clear eyes,” she said, touching them one by one, which interrupted him when he was about to tell her about the Sonata, “great perception—” She touched his temples. “—and the clever tongue to speak truth and to the point.” She kissed him and that ended their conversation for some while.

If he went about his duties at the Hold yawning and only half-there, knowing and kindly smiles absolved him.

During his verbal report to Melongel, he mentioned what Chochol had told him. “Hill Holding, well kept. The Holder’s named Chochol,” he said, leading up to the distressing news.

Melongel glanced up at the map and nodded as he identified the place.

“He’s given hospitality to holdless fleeing from the High Reaches.”

“Oh?”

Robinton shifted uneasily, trying not to alarm unnecessarily and yet to state his fears and reservations candidly. “I was three Turns at High Reaches, you know, and I have great respect for Lord Faroguy, but the last time I saw him, at Benden Hold, for Lord Raid’s confirmation, he looked very ill.”

Melongel nodded, confirming that opinion. “Hmm. I noticed.”

“Well, it seems that Lord Faroguy may be dead and we simply haven’t been told.”

Melongel regarded him with shock. “How could that be?”

“I don’t know, but Chochol thought it possible because he has sheltered several holdless folk—women and children mostly, returning to their relatives’ holdings here in Tillek.”

Melongel frowned. “I know of several Holders who have asked for dispensation on their tithes because of increases in dependents.” He shuffled through some hides. “I didn’t know the women had been made homeless. Or that they’d come from High Reaches.”

Robinton cleared his throat, coming to the most dubious part of what Chochol had told him. “The women said that they had been driven out of Holds. Chochol said that some of the younger ones had been badly handled. That they thought Lord Faroguy must be dead for such things to happen.”

Melongel scowled, fixing Robinton with a glance that many would have been unable to meet.

“You believe Chochol?”

“I do, because I know there is a very ambitious man in High Reaches who will try to claim succession for himself . . . when Lord Faroguy dies.”

“Does this ambitious man have a name?”

Something in Melongel’s eyes suggested to Robinton that the Lord Holder knew to whom he was referring.

“Fax.”

“That nephew of Faroguy’s?” Melongel looked away from Robinton for along moment. “I think I shall ask Faroguy to join us for the Gather. He might, as you have served him, wish to come.”

That suggestion was more than Robinton had hoped for. But Chochol’s tale had revived suspicions he had once thought groundless.

“Ah, here,” Melongel said, tweaking a hide from the pile and glancing down at the text. “I’ll just see what I can find out. Two of these enlarged holders live nearby.” He folded his hands across his chest, looking down at a point on the floor. Then, he looked up again, giving Robinton a little smile. “Good report, Robinton. Well done. I’ve met that nephew and, quite frankly, I tagged him as ambitious, too. Would you say that Farevene is able for him?”

Robinton cleared his throat, struggling with being honest without being derogatory. “Let me say that I wouldn’t back Farevene in a wrestling match with Fax.”

“Frankly, nor would I, but I know Farevene has been well trained to succeed his father, and I would certainly not confirm Fax in his place.”

Robinton let a relieved breath out through his lips and said nothing more.

Melongel grinned more broadly now. “Go on, lad. I know you’re eager to spend time with Kasia after being so long away. One more thing. You’ll be on the panel of the Gather Day Court with Minnarden and myself.”

Inwardly Robinton groaned—once more the Wall Incident was raising its head, even if he was appreciative of the honor just accorded him. Minnarden had been very pleased with his application to the study of the Charter and his understanding of the principles of mediation and adjudication. This would be his first time to sit on a Hold Court panel. Kasia would be pleased, even if he wasn’t.

“I doubt it will be a long session, Rob, and certainly won’t cut into your espousal in the afternoon.”

With a clap on the shoulder, Melongel finally dismissed him.

“At the Gather Court? Oh, Rob, that is an honor,” Kasia exclaimed when he told her, her eyes wide. Then she giggled. “Melongel really likes you.”

“He’s working my butt-end off,” Robinton said in an unrepentant growl. “I’ll be all morning listening to troublemakers’ excuses and deciding fines for minor infractions.”

“Keep you from being nervous about the afternoon,” she said, teasingly.

“Ha! The morning’ll make me worse. Having to sit through Court will give me indigestion, having to listen to all those half-truths and alibis . . .” He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair, which had a soothing effect on his disturbed digestion. Kissing her provoked other sensations, and once again he didn’t get around to mentioning the Sonata for Sea-Green Eyes.

Of course, the longer he delayed, the harder it was going to be to work in a playing of it before the Gather. And suddenly he wasn’t at all sure of its worth. It was definitely the most serious music he had ever written, and he was quite unsure of its merit. He could be fooling himself. It wasn’t as if he could play for a critical listener, like Minnarden, who had seen the rest of his travel songs and liked them. They were insignificant compared to the Sonata—if it was any good at all. Yet whenever he heard the music in his head, it thrilled him, and he felt a tremendous lift at the finale of the final movement. Like making love. And that’s what he wanted people to hear when they listened to it—the crescendo that was also an orgasm.

Then it was the day before the Gather and his mother arrived with Master Gennell. What with the necessary hospitality accorded them, he had trouble finding a few moments alone with Merelan, when he could chide her for making such a long journey when she was obviously tired.

“Tired of riding, yes,” she said, her voice vigorous. “Your father has sent a short piece, which I’m to sing at your espousal.”

“He did?” Robinton was flabbergasted as he took the score from his mother’s hand.

“It’s not in his usual style, either. I do believe your father is mellowing with age.”

Robinton snorted, but as he scanned the music, he realized that this was a softer music, almost gentle, and quite simple, considering the usual style in which his father wrote.

“Minnarden said he would accompany me, as you’ll be otherwise occupied . . .” And then Merelan hugged him fiercely. “She’s lovely, your Kasia, and she is besotted with you. You’ll be happy, Robie. I know you’ll be happy.”

“I am already,” he said with a silly grin on his face. “And, Mother, I have some music I need you to look over.”

“You do? Just like old times,” she said, waiting as he rummaged in his drawers to find the Sonata. “I’m almost jealous that others get to see your music now before I do.”

“I always send—”

“I know you do, lovey, but it was such fun to be the first to—” She had unrolled the score and blinked at the first measures. She read on, and started to hum the opening melody. Cocking her head, she took to walking as she read, sometimes half-singing, sometimes nodding her head to the tempi, her eyes never leaving the page.

While his stomach churned and his heart seemed to be squeezed tight, he watched. Fortunately he had moved into their new quarters on the uppermost level of the Hold, well down the corridors from the rooms the old aunties and uncles occupied. There were two rooms with a small bathing facility in what Kasia called a walk-into closet. So there was space for her to pace from the bedroom door across the wide living area.

Abruptly Merelan paused, gave him a bemused look, sat herself down on the stool by his gitar stand and, propping up the music and picking up the gitar, she started to play it.

He had arranged it for first fiddle, or a gitar, harp, and pipes, with occasional emphasis of a flat drum. It wasn’t that long a piece, for all its three movements. He had not added a fourth, as his father would have, because he had said, musically, all he needed to in the allegro, adagio, and rondo. A scherzo would have fractured the mood.