Masterharper of Pern (44 page)

“Have you . . . ever . . . been a proper harper, Nip?” Robinton asked, grinning.

“Oh, now and then,” Nip said, wiggling the fingers of his right hand. “Not that I’d dare flaunt the blue in Fax’s vicinity.” He finished the last of the klah and stood. “I need another bath. That one only got off five layers of dirt and two of ache. Then I’m for another of Silvina’s meals. She’s quite a woman, isn’t she?”

“One of a kind, as her mother was,” the MasterHarper said blandly.

Nip chuckled and, whipping the towel off its peg on the door, whistled as he made his way to the bathing room. The MasterHarper’s quarters had its own facility.

CHAPTER XVIII

N
IP DEPARTED SEVERAL
mornings later, riding the most nondescript runner in the Hall’s beasthold.

“Out of deference to my toes,” he explained. He also had a fresh set of clothing—which Silvina had taken out of storage, no doubt outgrown by some apprentice. “Not too good, but at least in one piece,” had been his request.

Between them, Silvina and Robinton forced him to take a fine fur rug for use until such time as circumstances made him abandon it.

“There are more holdless than holded up north,” Nip said, fingering the rug. “Ah, a few nights on the ground and it’ll look no better than the old one I . . . lost.” And he grinned.

Although Nip reported at intervals, in a message forwarded with others to the Fort Runner Station, the urgency to defend against Fax gradually dissipated as nothing much happened that was reported outside those six Holds.

Nothing much, Robinton thought, that Fax would wish bruited about the continent.

How Nip managed to get his information, Robinton never knew, but the self-styled Lord of Six Holds had internal management problems of mysterious natures. A mine collapsed, a very productive one. Several of the larger ships of the High Reaches fishing fleet disappeared in stormy weather. Timber, stacked to season, either burned dramatically or ended up in splinters on its way down the rivers. A blight was discovered infecting grain fields and reducing the yield. Fax’s men were forced to attend to all these minor disasters, for which no one could be seen to be at fault, by omission or commission. There were rumors of minor rebellions among the overworked holders, but the revolts were viciously suppressed by Fax’s brutal guards, the “culprits” sent to the mines, their families turfed out to fend for themselves as best they might. There were fights among his guards, fights that usually produced several corpses, often those of his more brutal captains and stewards.

So, gradually over the following Turns, even Groghe slackened his vigilance, though he kept his border guards. Tarathel died—of natural causes, Robinton discovered by asking the Telgar Hold healer outright.

“Oh, quite natural causes, my dear MasterHarper,” the man said. “I attended him myself. Bad heart, you know. Never quite forgave himself that the Weyrleader was killed in Telgar Hold while guesting. Though it was trying to keep pace with younger men, like Vendross and young Larad . . . I should say, Lord Larad, now, shouldn’t I? Well, old bones can’t do what young ones can.”

Larad was confirmed by the Conclave after an hour’s deliberation. Larad was young, at fifteen, though a well-grown lad so most of the time was spent picking his mentors, Vendross and Harper Falawny, a former dorm mate of Robinton’s and an excellent teacher. There was a brief flurry when Larad’s elder half-sister, Thella, insisted that the Conclave had to hear her right to the Holding. Lord Tesner of Igen, the most senior of the Holders, was outraged at her impudence and refused her admittance. The other Lord Holders and Masters were only too happy to second his motion. Robinton looked for her during the following reception, wanting to see a woman who was brave enough to speak up as eldest in the Bloodline but there was no sign of her. He often wondered what happened to her because she disappeared from Telgar Hold shortly afterward.

The Turns were punctuated by the usual Solstice and Equinox celebrations, Gathers, the round of duties that was the MasterHarper’s. C’gan was a frequent visitor, always welcomed by Robinton. The blue rider usually brought something for Camo—a toy or a confection from the Weyr’s kitchens. He even tried to get Camo to put his fingers right on a pipe and breathe properly through it.

“It’s such a relief to talk to you,” C’gan would often say. “You’re the only one else who cares a tunnel snake’s droppings about the Weyr,” he often said during his frequent reminiscences about the “better” days when F’lon had been Weyrleader and the Weyr had still been popular and active. R’gul followed a policy of keeping the Weyr to itself, rarely permitting dragonriders to attend any but Benden’s or Nerat’s Gathers.

“He’s afraid—” C’gan paused to be sure that Robinton was aware of his total disgust “—to annoy the Lord Holders. Especially Nerat and Benden, who tithe as they should—and so does Bitra, when Lord Sifer happens to remember to send any. Raid is charmed by his attitude.” He rolled his eyes.

“How are the sons progressing?” Robinton wished he had more contact with F’lar and F’nor, and not only because they were F’lon’s lads. He could have wished for one of them as his. He had once wished that Camo wouldn’t survive his first Turn, as so often happened to babies. It was hard sometimes, Robinton knew—he forced himself to the task—to ask others of the welfare of their children. Like prodding a sore spot to be sure if it was still tender. So, resolutely, he promised himself that he would go to the next Nerat Gather. He would hope to entice his father to leave Half-Circle and meet him there. If C’gan were to drop a hint to the two lads, he could meet them, too.

“Grand boys, and F’lar’s got his head screwed on better than F’lon ever did,” C’gan said proudly. “And they believe! They believe! I see that they do. Not that they’d dishonor their father’s memory by forgetting,” he added. Then he sighed. “We’ve had more losses. I’ve never seen so many empty Weyrs and that lazy—” He closed his lips over whatever he might have called weyrwoman Jora. “I cannot understand why S’loner thought she’d do. Do nothing, of course. Thread’s coming and even the Weyr is unprepared.” He shook his head sadly.

Robinton, too, wondered. Over three thousand strong the six Weyrs had been at the end of the last Pass. Now, unless he miscounted, there were barely three hundred. And not all of them able to fly Thread. Even C’gan was fast approaching an age when he and his Tagath would be considered liabilities to a fighting wing. The refrain of the Question Song briefly hovered in his mind.

“Gone away, gone ahead . . .” How?

Robinton had more urgent worries than puzzling answers to an old song. His greatest pleasure was in watching Sebell’s development as apprentice. In another Turn, he’d probably walk the tables.

With distressing regularity, he heard the ways Fax treated his folk and how few now made their escape. He kept up pressure with the Lord Holders as often and as adroitly as he could. One can pipe a tune only so long before no one hears it as more than noise.

Nip made reports. Robinton even received a brief note smuggled in from Bargen, repeating the promise to reclaim High Reaches as the legal Bloodline heir.

Then Nip appeared late one night, exhausted from having run most of the last day from Nabol.

“He’s doing . . . something . . .” he gasped as he hung on the door into Robinton’s quarters.

The harper got the man into the nearest chair and poured him some wine.

“Clever as sin, he is,” Nip said, after a long pull of the wine. “I didn’t notice they’d disappeared, and then I didn’t know where they could have gone. But half the barracks at Nabol are empty. He didn’t even let the other half know where their mates had gone.”

“Which way?”

Nip shook his head. “I must have been watching the wrong places, that’s for certain, and I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I thought I was on to his little ways.”

“What ways?”

“Strike and grab.” Then he sat bolt upright, his face stricken. “Ruatha. I should have gone there! Warned them!”

“Ruatha!” Robinton cried in the same moment.

“Get me a runnerbeast, the fastest you’ve got,” Nip said.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, Rob. I can hide in the shadows, but there’s too much of you . . .”

“I’m going!” The harper was changing into old clothes, dark ones, warm ones, and he tossed a spare fur vest toward Nip, who was shivering with the midnight chill now that he was no longer moving.

Robinton paused long enough in the kitchen to dump travel rations into a saddlepack and leave a brief note for Silvina, and then they were out the door, startling the watch-wher, who whined at their appearance and followed them the length of his chain.

They roused the beastman and had him saddle Big Black for Robinton, and a fast Ruathan runner for Nip. They walked their mounts circumspectly so as not to rouse Hall and Hold, and then Nip pointed to the runnertrack which branched off from the main road, a track straighter and faster than the road. Robinton would apologize to the Station Master, and hoped they’d encounter no runners on their way. Once on the straight track, they put heels to their mounts. They ran at a pace that Robinton would have considered dangerous at any other time, but Black and Nip’s mount were surefooted and the road was a pale thin ribbon they could follow through the night.

Riding and periodically walking their mounts to rest them, they made the Red River by early morning. Urging the tired animals, they kept them moving at whatever pace they could manage until they turned a bend in the road and saw Ruatha Hold ahead of them.

Despairing, Robinton surveyed the hideous dawn-lit scene. Ropes still dangled from the fire heights of Ruatha Hold—ropes that had allowed Fax’s men to approach without arousing the watch-wher. Where had the watchman been? Robinton wondered. Or had he been bribed not to hear? Why had the watch-wher not given an alarm? A row of bodies lay crumpled on the stone of the courtyard. Long bloody lines showed that the dead had been dragged out of the Hold, down the steps, and to this resting place. Men were coming out of the Hold laden with clothing and the fine furniture that Lady Adessa had brought with her. He saw a knot of frightened people being driven from their cots into the beasthold. He saw men riding off in other directions on runners that had been taken out of the beasthold. Ruathan runners! The animals that Fax had coveted . . . and now had possession of. Worse still, as Robinton’s eyes returned constantly to the bodies in the courtyard, he noticed smaller ones among the adults and thought of the bright, pert Lessa. She’d’ve been no more than—what? Nine, ten, Turns at the most. He reeled in the saddle with nausea and fatigue and allowed Nip to urge him and Black farther into the shadows of their shelter.

Distant shouts and a thunder made Robinton look back at the dreadful carnage. The fields were being emptied of their runners and these were being herded back to Fax’s beastholds. Groghe must be warned. So must Larad and Oterel. There was nothing Robinton and Nip could do here.

They got the best speed possible out of their exhausted mounts on their way to the nearest of Groghe’s border checks, where they roused the startled guards and told them to light the beacons to spread the alarm. They changed to fresh mounts and sped back toward Fort Hold. There, while Nip charged up the stairs to the drum tower, Robinton banged on Groghe’s door, rousing not only the Lord Holder but the entire corridor.

“Fax has invaded Ruatha Hold,” Robinton said, leaning against the doorpost to get breath enough to speak. The drums began to roll out their dreadful message. Nip hadn’t lost his touch with a drumstick.

“What?” Groghe stared unbelieving at the MasterHarper. “He can’t have.”

“He has and killed them all, even the children. I saw their bodies. I’ve warned your border men. The beacons are lit.”

“Oh, Master Robinton, you do look awful,” Groghe’s wife said, guiding the harper to the nearest chair and sensibly getting him a cup of wine. “You don’t mean to tell me dear Lady Adessa’s dead, as well. Surely—” She broke off, seeing the answer in the bleakness of his expression. “Oh, how awful! How simply awful! You’re right to fear that man, Groghe.”

“I don’t
fear
him, Benoria, I despise him!” Groghe unbuckled his belt and threaded a hefty dagger onto it before he girded himself again.

“Oh, don’t, don’t, Groghe!” she cried.

“I’ve got my eyes well and truly open about Fax, m’dear, and hiding from him is not an option!”

“There’s nothing you can do, Groghe,” Robinton said, shaking his head. “By the time you can get there, he’ll have completed his looting and be on his way back to Nabol.”

“Well, then, the guards he’ll have left at Ruatha shall see me and my men lining the border, MasterHarper, and know that they may not encroach on
my
lands.”

“I’ll rouse the Hall. You’ll need as many men as you can muster,” Robinton said.

“Not you, though,” Groghe said.

Down the hall came Grodon, the current Fort Hold harper, already armed.

“Good lad,” Robinton said, catching him by the arm. “Go to the Hall. I want every journeyman and apprentice, anyone who can ride and carry a sword to mount and go with Groghe. If anyone challenges this order . . .” He could not continue.

Grodon gripped his shoulder. “No one will unless they’re too deaf to have heard the drums.”

“Good man.” And Robinton watched him clattering down the hallway.

Groghe was banging on doors to speed the mustering, and the place was alive with armed men and anxious women. Robinton laid his head against the back of the chair, his eyelids drooping.

“Here.” Lady Benoria held up the limp hand in which he still held the cup. She filled it again, tears of distress marking her face. “Are you sure . . . about the . . . children?”

He nodded. He would never forget those lifeless little bodies. How could Fax possibly claim Ruatha, too? Ah, and his heart sank. Lady Gemma.

“Are you hurt?” Lady Benoria exclaimed, touching his arm in anxiety.

He laid one hand on his heart, a dramatic gesture perhaps, but it certainly expressed the coldness that had seized him at the core of his being.

“You should rest,” she said.

“I am,” he had the strength to say and she went away and let him close his eyes.

Silvina shook him awake. She and Oldive saw him down the stairs of Fort Hold and across what seemed an awfully wide court to the Harper Hall, and his bed. Sebell appeared, holding up a glowbasket to light their way up the stairs.

“Nip?” he asked as Silvina and the lad pulled off his boots.

“Took another mount and was gone. Looked like death warmed over,” Oldive said.

“I made up some food for him,” Sebell said.