Masterharper of Pern (4 page)

Merelan controlled her amusement. If he hadn’t been able to answer positively, it was obvious he feared that she would have immediately appointed herself his instructor. He swam well enough, and the midsummer races were months away. By then they would be safely back at Harper Hall. She sighed, for she would have liked to stay for the Full Summer Gather when the entire Peninsula gathered for races, both in and on the water as everyone tested his or her skills at swimming and sailing.

It was as well, Merelan thought as they continued on to their quarters, that he was over the age when he would have been required to make the high dive. That was also a feature of the Full Summer Gather. Maybe she could talk him into it . . .

He’d learned so much about himself, as well as how the ordinary people lived. As a lad at Telgar, he had been more inclined to scholarship, which was why he had been sponsored to go to the Harper Hall in the first place. So he had had little chance, as an adult, to expand his horizons—until now. And he’d never looked fitter, or more handsome. Hair down to his shoulders, skin tanned, he was more secure on the back of a runner, could walk a good day’s journey, and had done more harpering than his duties at the Hall had ever required of him. If only he could be more in harmony with his own child . . .

When Robinton began to talk, she told herself, when he needed to learn things a father should teach his son,
then
the affection and pride would develop. At least Petiron had shown himself nervous about his child’s safety with the swimming business.

That much was obvious when Petiron accompanied spouse and son to the cove beach the next First Day. By then, Robinton was paddling happily, not the least bit concerned if he fell under the water, though a white-faced Petiron snatched the sun-browned little body up into his arms, startling Robinton. Wide-eyed with surprise, the boy struggled to be released back into the water that was such fun, the waves lapping bubblingly around his ankles and pushing treasures of flotsam for him to examine. He even gave the next smooth pebble, a very pretty red one with white intrusions making a pattern, to his father to be admired. And Petiron did, without any prompting from Merelan.

When it was handed back to him, Robinton toddled off to place it with the growing pile of unusual objects he had retrieved. Then he was off in another direction, running as fast as his legs would take him to see what his cousins had discovered among the seaweed they had just hauled up onto the beach.

“Sit, love,” Merelan said softly, patting the woven reed mat beside her, where the sunshade cast a shadow. “He isn’t far from help, should it be needed.”

“Isn’t he younger than the lad of Naylor’s?” he asked with the first bit of paternal pride he had ever exhibited.

“By two months,” Merelan said nonchalantly.

“He’s a full hand taller,” Petiron said, his tone almost smug.

“He’ll be a tall man when he gets his growth,” she said. “You’re not short, nor were my parents. How were you in height against those brothers of yours?”

“I suspect Forist will be taller, but the other three won’t make his height,” said Petiron, who had never liked his brothers at all.

“Nor yours.” Idly she brushed sand out of his heavy dark brown hair, flicking it off his shoulder and giving herself the excuse to touch his warm smooth skin. She liked his back. He had muscled up a great deal. Not that he would ever carry much flesh; he was too intense to put on weight. But he looked better than he ever had and she loved him more than ever.

He glanced up at her, saw her look, and responded to it. Catching up her hand to his lips, he nibbled at her fingers, never breaking eye contact.

“When Robie takes his afternoon nap, can we find shade somewhere?” he asked, his breath coming a trace faster.

“We can indeed,” she murmured, feeling her own ardor rising to meet his. “Segoina has given me a potion that will make it safe all the time for us.”

When they did return to the Harper Hall, everyone remarked on the tremendous improvement in Merelan’s health, on how big Robinton had grown in six months, and how much the change had improved Petiron’s temperament.

CHAPTER II

P
ETIRON WAS WORKING
on his latest score when a soft noise distracted him. Listening, he could hear it coming from the other room. Merelan had stepped out on an errand; Robinton was having his nap.

The faint noise was an echo of the theme he was hastily inscribing before he lost it—he didn’t realize that he had been humming it as he worked. Irritated, he looked around for the source of the mimicry.

And found his son awake in the trundle bed and humming.

“Don’t
do
that, Robinton,” he said in exasperation.

His son pulled the light blanket up to his chin. “You were,” he said.

“I was what?”

“You hummmmdded.”

“I may, you may not!” And Petiron shook his finger right in the boy’s face so that Robinton pulled the blanket over his head. Petiron pulled it down and leaned over the little bed. “Don’t you ever mimic me like that. Don’t you ever interrupt me when I’m working. D’you hear that?”

“Whatever did he do, Petiron?” Merelan exclaimed, rushing into the room and hovering protectively at the head of the cot. “He was sound asleep when I left. What’s been going on?”

Robinton, who rarely cried, was weeping, stuffing the end of the blanket into his mouth as the tears crept down his cheeks. The tears were more than Merelan could endure, and she picked up her sobbing son and cradled him, reassuring him.

Petiron glared at her. “He was humming while I was writing.”

“You do; why shouldn’t he?”

“But I was writing! How can I work when he does that? He
knows
he’s not to interrupt me.”

“He’s a child, Petiron. He picks up on anything he hears and repeats it.”

“Well, I’m not having him humming along with me,” Petiron said, not the least bit mollified.

“Why shouldn’t he if you wake him up?”

“How can I possibly work if you’re both interrupting me all the time?” He flung his arms up and stalked out of the bedroom. “Do take him somewhere else. I can’t have him singing in the background.”

Merelan was already halfway across the sitting room, her crying son in her arms. “Then you won’t have him in the background at all,” she said in a parting shot.

“I don’t know when I’ve been more annoyed with him,” she told Betrice, who was fortunately in her apartment when Merelan tapped at her door.

“I don’t suppose he noticed that the child hums on key,” Betrice said in her droll fashion, clearing the mending from the padded rocker so that Merelan could calm her child.

Merelan blinked at Betrice and then began to chuckle. “I’m certain he would have mentioned it if Robie were off-key. That would have been insult added to injury.” Then she paused. “You know, Robie hums along with me when I do my vocalizes. I hadn’t realized it before. There now, little love.” And she dried Robie’s eyes with an edge of the blanket he was still clutching to his mouth. “Your father didn’t really mean to yell at you . . .”

“Ha!” was Betrice’s soft response.

“But we do have to be quiet when your father’s working at home.”

“He has his own studio . . .” Betrice put in.

“Washell borrowed it to speak to those parents who wandered in unannounced.”

“Only Washell could get away with that.”

“So, my little love, we’ll just have to learn to keep our hummings to just you and me from now on. And let Father get on with his important work.”

“Ha! More of his incomprehensible, meaningful, and significant musical conundrums. Ooops, sorry!” Betrice covered her lips with an unrepentant hand. “I
know
he’s the most important composer in the last two centuries, Merelan, but could he not once contrive a simple tune that
anyone
—besides his own son—could sing?” She rose and walked to the wall cupboard, where she opened one door.

Merelan regarded Betrice without rancor. “He does rather complicated scores, doesn’t he?” Then she smiled mischievously. “He just likes to embellish.”

“Oh, is that what it’s called? Give me a simple tune that I can’t get out of my mind!” Betrice said. Having found what she wanted, she returned to Merelan. “But we both know I’m a musical idiot for all the MasterHarper and I have been espoused now thirty Turns. Here you are, my fine lad. Much more appetizing than blanket to chew on.” And she handed Robinton a sweet stick. “I believe you prefer peppermint.”

The tears were nearly dry, but the gift brought the winsome smile back and a clear “t’ank you” from the recipient. He pushed himself straighter on his mother’s lap, accepted the offering, and leaned back against his mother’s comforting body as he sucked happily on the sweet.

“I’m not criticizing Petiron, Merelan,” Betrice said earnestly.

Merelan smiled gently. “You say nothing that isn’t the truth, but he’s much easier to deal with, generally speaking, when he’s composing.”

“Which seems to be often . . .”

Merelan laughed. “Petiron naturally complicates things. It’s a knack he has,” she said indulgently.

“Humph. He’s a very lucky man to have such an understanding mate,” Betrice said emphatically, “as well as one who can sing what he writes as easily as she breathes.”

“Ssssh.” Merelan put a finger to her lips. “Sometimes I have to work very hard to keep up with him.”

“Never!” Betrice pretended disbelief, then grinned broadly at the Mastersinger.

“It’s true, nevertheless, but,” and Merelan’s expression softened with pride, “it’s wonderful to have such challenging music to sing.”

Betrice pointed to Robie, happily sticky-ing up fingers, face, and blanket. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Well, first off, I shall see that Master Washell never has need of Petiron’s studio again,” Merelan replied, her usually serene expression resolute, “and I shan’t leave the pair of them together unless I’m positive Robie’s fast asleep.”

“That sort of limits you, doesn’t it?” Betrice said with a snort.

Merelan shrugged. “In a Turn or so, Robie will be in with the other Hall children during the day. It’s a small enough sacrifice to make for him. Isn’t it, love?”

“It’s all too true,” Betrice said with a wistful sigh. “They’re young such a short time—even if it feels like an age while they’re growing up and away from you.” She sighed again.

Merelan felt something sticky and, looking down at her son, saw that the sweet had fallen from his hand to hers.

“Will you look at this?” she said softly, peering with a loving smile at the thick lashes closed on his cheek.

“Here, put him on the daybed.”

“I don’t mind holding him,” Merelan protested. “You’ve work to do.”

“Nothing I can’t do while minding a sleeping child. Go on off and do something by yourself for a change. If you aren’t tending him—” She pointed to Robinton. “—you’re minding
him.
” Her finger jerked in the direction of Merelan’s quarters.

“If you don’t mind . . .”

“Not at all. Unless you want to help with
my
mending?”

Betrice chuckled over the alacrity with which Merelan rose.

When Robie was well into his third Turn, he picked up a small pipe that had been left on the table. It wasn’t his father’s, because Robie knew his father did not actually play a pipe or a flute. And since this wasn’t his father’s belonging, he could touch it—and experiment with it. He blew in it, masking the holes with his fingers as he had seen others do. When the tones that came out were not similar to the ones so effortlessly made by the other players, Robie tried different ways until he did make the proper sounds. As quietly as he could.

He did not know, of course, that his mother’s well-attuned ear heard his initial attempts. Since they improved as he continued, she was inordinately pleased. Sometimes, despite a strong musical tradition in a family, there was one born who was tone-deaf or totally disinclined to do much about an innate ability. She had wondered how she would be able to placate Petiron if his son turned out to be musically incompetent. Because one way or another, Petiron would be determined to impart suitable musical training to his only child. Now she did not have to worry about that. Her son was not only inclined to musical experimentation, he also had a good ear and, it would seem, perfect pitch.

When Petiron was busy with students, Merelan would often whistle simple tunes within her son’s hearing. Petiron did not like her whistling—possibly because he couldn’t, but more likely because he felt that girls shouldn’t. Despite how much she loved him, she privately admitted that some of his attitudes, including this one, made no sense to her.

Robie picked up the tunes she whistled as effortlessly as he had learned the scales on the pipe. When he started doing variations on the airs, she had to restrain herself. She wanted desperately to tell Petiron that his son was musical, but she did not want her three-Turn-old son suddenly rushed into training. It could turn the boy off music entirely. Petiron was marvelous with the older lads, but far too strict for the youngest apprentices. She worried about the zeal with which he would train Robinton.

So one afternoon, she asked Washell, the Master who taught the youngest, to help her with the dynamics in a quartet they were both rehearsing for Turnover. A jovial, easygoing man in his sixth decade with a rich deep bass voice, he arrived with some cakes just out of the Hall ovens and a fresh pot of klah.

“So why is it that you really want to see me, Merelan?” he asked after she had profusely thanked him for the refreshments and served them. “The day you can’t carry your own part in anything Petiron writes, I’ll resign my Mastery.”

“Oh, but I do need help, Wash,” she said airily. “Robie, come see what Master Washell has brought us!”

She hadn’t needed to call him. The delectable aroma of warm pastry had wafted into the next room, where he had been flat on his stomach, making doodles in a sand-tray that had been a recent gift from his mother—a preparation to teaching him his letters and, possibly, the scales.

“I ’mell ’em,” he said, still not quite able to pronounce the sibilants with the gap in his front baby teeth. “I ’mell ’em. T’ank you, Master Wa’ell.”

“My pleasure, young’un.”

Merelan’s stage setting was complete. “Here!” she said briskly. “This measure where the tempo changes so rapidly—I’m not sure I’ve the beat correctly. Robie, give me an A, please.”

Washell’s gray brows went up his balding head and his eyes glittered as Robie produced the tiny pipe from his trouser waistband and played the required note.

Then Merelan sang the troublesome measures, deliberately shorting the full quality of one whole note. Robie shook his head and with his fingers beat out the appropriate time.

“If you’ve got it right, m’lad, you play it the way I should sing it,” Merelan said casually.

Young Robinton played the entire measure and Washell, who looked first at Merelan and then at her son, folded his hands across his stomach and caught her eyes, nodding with comprehension.

“Thank you, dear. That was well done,” Merelan said, and she allowed Robinton to have a second cake. He stuffed his pipe away under his trousers’ waistband and sat on the little stool to eat the cake.

“Indeed and I couldn’t have done better myself, young Robinton,” Washell said solemnly. “You played that perfectly, young man. I’m glad that your mother has you here to keep her strictly in tempo. Do you know any other tunes on that pipe?”

Robie glanced at his mother for permission. She nodded, and he licked his lips free of crumbs, pulled out the pipe and lifted it to his mouth, and began to play one of his own favorites. When he had finished, he gave his mother a second look.

“Yes, go on,” she said with a little flick of her fingers.

He looked for a moment at Washell, who knew enough to keep his expression polite, and then the boy closed his eyes and started the round of variations he liked to wind about that tune.

Washell bent his head down, over his heavy chest, until he was peering directly at Robinton, who was now oblivious, wrapped up in his piping, fingers dancing, stopping, busy over the little pipe’s holes. The instrument was small and could have produced an unpleasantly shrill sound, but the way the youngster handled his breathing and instinctive dynamics sweetened it to a delightful lilt.

As one variation followed another, Washell cocked his head in amazement and gradually turned his eyes to Merelan, who was totally relaxed, as if this performance were a daily marvel. Suddenly the muted sounds of the choristers ended. Immediately Merelan leaned forward and tapped Robinton out of his concentration. He looked almost rebellious.

“That was a very good one,” his mother said, casually appreciative. “New, isn’t it?”

“I t’ought it up a’ I wa’ playing,” he said and then glanced coyly up at Washell. “It fitted in.”

“Yes, dear, it did,” Merelan replied agreeably. “The trills were very well done.”

“Nice to have a pipe just the right size for you, isn’t it?” Washell began, extending his hand for the instrument. Robinton, with a touch of reluctance, handed it over. Washell tried to put his large fingers over the stops and ran out of pipe, looking so surprised that Robinton giggled, covering his mouth and glancing quickly at his mother to be sure this was acceptable behavior. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the other instruments I have that might also be the right size for a lad like you to play on. This one is much too small for me. Isn’t it?” And Washell handed it back with a little flourish. Robinton grinned up at the big man and tucked his pipe back under the waistband, out of sight under his loose shirt.

“I think you could manage to get the pitcher and the cake plate back down to the kitchen, couldn’t you, Robie dear?” Merelan asked, rising to open the door as she spoke.

“Can. Will. Bye.” And he walked quite sedately down the hallway with his burden. Merelan closed the door.

“Yes, my dear Merelan, you do have a problem growing up here. May I extend you my compliments as well as my assistance? If we move patiently, what is an astonishing natural talent can be nurtured. I admire Petiron in many matters, Singer, but . . .” Washell sighed with a rueful smile. “He can be single-minded to the point of irrationality. He will, of course, be
delighted
to discover his son’s musicality, but quite frankly, my dear, I would be sorry to be that son when he does. Which is obviously why you have sent for me, and I take that as the highest compliment you could pay me.”