Masterharper of Pern (45 page)

“Good lad!” Robinton said, grateful once more for Sebell’s adroit assistance. He wondered where Nip would have gone and why, but it was too much to think about, and as he laid his head down, he realized that his cheeks were wet. The last thing he knew, Silvina was covering him with the fur. As if anything would ever cover over the memory of that early morning scene in Ruatha Hold!

Fax had the country thoroughly stirred up. The major western Lord Holders, resolute Oterel, young Larad with Vendross at his side, Groghe, and Lord Sangel of South Boll, made an orderly march to Nabol to meet the grinning and unrepentant Fax and protest his usurpation of Ruatha Hold and the murder of the entire Bloodline. Robinton joined them with his senior Masters, who were now all too aware of the full tragedy at Ruatha. Nip’s report stated that not only the Lord, his Lady, and the children had been killed, but also anyone in the Holding who was known to have claimed any Ruathan Blood.

In the cramped main Hall of Nabol, Fax, surrounded by contemptuous soldiery, listened to what they said and then told them that if they were not out of
his Hold by
nightfall, he would order them all slaughtered for trespass.

No one doubted that he would implement that threat.

“You are not Lord Holder of Nabol or Crom or Ruatha by any right, other than that of conquest,” Lord Sangel said, stiff with outrage but impressive with dignity. “You will usurp no more lands without full contest at arms.”

Fax smirked, glancing at the grinning faces of his guards. “Anytime you like,” he said, obviously delighted at the prospect. “Is that all you came to say? Well, out with you then.”

At a signal, his men began to advance on the group of Lord Holders and harpers.

“Careful, you at the door,” Fax said, raising his voice. “Don’t want you trampled in the rush!”

Sangel looked about to burst, Groghe was livid with rage, Oterel dead white; Vendross scowled and, beside him, young Larad managed to look resolute. With stately dignity they turned smartly about and walked in a measured tread out of the Hall, down the steps, and across the narrow courtyard to their waiting mounts. If the runnerbeasts tossed their heads, sidled, and shied, it was because their riders communicated their fury and humiliation to them. Big Black twice tried to rear and kicked out when another animal came close enough. Robinton was sure he would burst a blood vessel before they got halfway to the Nabol border.

They crossed Ruatha without incident. Aware that they were being followed—and that they were to know they were being followed—They stopped only to rest and water their mounts, and eat travel rations from their saddles.

What Robinton noticed, to keep his sanity, was the difference in the very atmosphere as soon as they had forded the Red River. Even the horses, weary though they were, seemed to pick up. Just at the last, as a final insult, their followers made a charge, which startled the last few runners crossing the river. Fax’s men lined the river, laughing and calling insults across the water. With those final reminders of their opprobrious rout ringing in their ears, the Lord Holders continued down the Fort road to the nearest border post.

There, at last, they could give vent to their repressed feelings and argue that they should have come in force, with enough men to show Fax that they meant business about meeting any further aggression with equal force and its defeat.

Robinton, food and drink in his hands, could no longer listen to such useless ranting and wandered off far enough so he did not have to hear a recapitulation of what ought to have been said, or done, or implied, or threatened. He felt that, considering the large contingent of armed men that Fax had around him, they had been lucky indeed not to have been harmed—except in pride and dignity. Such a delegation had been futile from the outset and only let them in for ridicule, but some show of protest had to be made! That much he knew. If only R’gul had been willing to let them ride dragons to Nabol, their retreat would not have been such a blow to their esteem. But R’gul had denied them the convenience of dragons, saying he knew too well what Fax’s opinion of dragonriders was and had no intention of jeopardizing another dragon and rider. Robinton had argued against confronting Fax at all. Not from a lack of courage, but from a desire to avoid what had happened: Fax’s contemptuous disregard of their condemnation. As if Fax cared a straw in the wind.

“Bad idea all told,” a voice said at his elbow, almost causing him to drop the klah and his food. They were taken out of his hand by filthy fingers. “You can get more and I’m starving of the hunger. Haven’t had a drink in three days. Should have tried to persuade them out of such a meeting, Rob. Fax is still laughing.”

“Where were you, Nip?” Robinton asked, regaining his composure. He should have known Nip would have witnessed the whole sorry episode.

“Where I could see.” The spy shook his head as he gobbled food almost without chewing. He took a sip of the wine and swallowed his mouthful.

“I’ll filch some more for your trip back,” Robinton told him. “That is, if you’re going back.”

“Oh, I’m needed where I will be by morning more than ever, I assure you.” Nip crammed the rest of the roll into his mouth, rolling his eyes at his own greedy hunger and chewing vigorously. He took the last sip and handed the cup back to Robinton, almost regretfully. “There’s more where you got that, isn’t there?”

“I’ll get more for you—and me—more,” Robinton said. He slipped back into the camp and helped himself to a skin, as well as a saddlebag full of travel meatroll. Everyone was so busy trying to air their own hindsight wisdom that no one noticed him sneaking in and out.

“Here—” And he stopped, seeing Nip propped against a tree, fast asleep.

He sat down, hoping the courageous little man would rouse to tell him what he had in mind. The gleam of Nip’s eyes had suggested that his devious mind had already thought of several interesting ways to harass Fax.

Robinton was almost half asleep himself when he heard his name called. So he left the wineskin and the full bag of food and retracted his steps.

CHAPTER XIX

S
OME GOOD DID
come out of that disastrous confrontation with Fax. Mastersmith Fandarel withdrew all Masters from the “seven holds.” Other Craftmasters followed that example. Fax had been too busy congratulating himself over the acquisition of Ruatha Hold to realize what was happening. He complained bitterly, offering inducements to the Masters to return. Nor did he dare retaliate against those journeymen who remained: as many as could had slipped away before he knew they had left. Even the Masterminer at Crom had removed himself and set up a new headquarters for his Craft in one of the Smithcrafthalls at Telgar. Despite substantial rewards, Master Idarolan, who had succeeded Gostol as Masterfisher, refused to lay any keels for Fax to replace the ships that had so mysteriously disappeared from the High Reaches fishing villages. All that were left were small sloops or ketches, which were restricted in cargo space or range.

The only Hall that did not withdraw skilled assistance was the Healer Hall. Masterhealer Oldive quietly stated that such a measure went against the purpose and grain of his Craft. He was respected for it, as were those of his Hall who remained to succor the ill and injured. And there were many who needed such help.

“Fax hadn’t counted on the loss of Masters,” Robinton said, thoroughly pleased. Of course, harpers had long since been driven away or hunted down by Fax. Indeed, it had become almost a crime, Nip said, to admit to owning an instrument, much less playing or singing.

“The man is determined to make life as miserable as possible. He’s succeeding rather well. A fact which will eventually go against him.”

“We hope,” Robinton remarked drily.

“Oh, wait and see,” Nip said with unusual optimism.

“I’m waiting.”

While the MasterHarper waited over the next five Turns, he busied himself improving all within his Hall. He asked Groghe for the best fighter of his guard, who was then to teach classes, from apprentice-level on up, in self-defense and when to run and hide and how to accomplish that with the least evidence of escape—though this last part did not sit well with the more self-confident young students. To Robinton’s surprise, Sebell turned out to be almost ferocious in the drills: only Saltor, the head guard, or his burly assistant, Emfor, would partner him.

“Sebell’s amazing,” Robinton remarked to Saltor when Sebell had pinned Emfor to the mat in three moves.

Saltor regarded him with amusement “It’s you he’s determined to defend, Master Robinton. Keep him at your side and you’ll never need to fear.”

“Not that I can keep him from my side,” Robinton replied, wondering how he had managed to generate such devotion in the lad, kin though he was.

“That goes for every one of ’em, you know,” Saltor continued, and Robinton felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Just as well, you ask me,” the guard added, then walked off to correct a wrestling hold.

Sebell’s prowess was by no means limited to such physical skills. He soaked up sufficient expertise and abilities to gain his journeyman’s rank almost as quickly as his adored mentor had. Robinton reluctantly sent him for a Turn’s teaching in Igen Hold, and found out just how much he had come to rely on the lad and brought him back. As if Sebell could sense where Robinton needed help, the young journeyman assumed many duties so adroitly that both Masters and the older journeymen could not deny the MasterHarper his invaluable assistant.

It was Sebell who suggested a new role for young Traller, an exceedingly mischievous apprentice who sorely tried the patience of every Master in the Hall with his pranks and strategies to get out of any task he did not like. Traller never seemed to be to blame for boyish tricks . . . it was always someone else in the dorm. He was never
there
when work was assigned and always had a plausible excuse for such an absence. He could ride any runnerbeast in the beasthold, pin a fly to the wall with his dagger at a hundred paces, survive the best tricks of heavier lads on the wrestling mats, and he was totally without conscience. He possessed a lively wit, however, as well as an inventive mind for excuses. He was the personification of contrariness, and yet Robinton liked him, however often the boy was up before him for disciplinary action. He had had a good treble, lost when he hit puberty, and now his best musical skill was drumming—either in the tower, where he excelled, or on any surface that had any resonance. He drummed with his fingers—one of his dorm mates said he drummed with his toes at night against the bedstead— with sticks, and even upon occasion in the dining hall, with the thigh bones of a fowl.

“It’s about Traller,” Sebell said one evening as Robinton was relaxing after dinner.

“Ooooh,” Robinton groaned, “what’s he done this time?” He had run out of any useful disciplines to curb the lad.

“I was thinking, Master, that he might do better training with Nip,” Sebell said, a sly smile on his face as he watched Robinton’s reaction to the suggestion. “It seems to me that every time Nip reports in he looks more gaunt and tired. He needs someone else—if only to run back here with messages for you.” When he saw that Robinton was considering the notion he added, “It’s not as if any one will ever control Traller, but all that energy could be useful to Nip.”

“I think you’ve hit on a marvelous future for that young man, Sebell. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it myself.”

Sebell chuckled. “You do have one or two other matters to worry about.”

Robinton agreed vehemently and went back to solving those that were of the most immediate concern—such as reassigning harpers for the next Turn’s teaching duties.

But he was ready with Sebell’s suggestion the next time Nip eased himself into the harper’s study, followed closely enough by Sebell with food and drink for the man.

“I’ve someone you might like to train, Nip,” Robinton said.

“Huh?” Nip scowled. “I travel faster alone. And safer. Ah, thanks, Sebell, you’re remarkable in anticipation of my needs.” He bit into a meatroll and chewed while Robinton went on.

“I think you must at least assess young Traller as a possible apprentice,” Robinton said firmly.

“Oh, well, if you put it like that, I’ll give him a going over then.”

“It’s you or back to Keroon for him, because the Harper Hall can’t seem to put his . . . special . . . talents to good use. Weren’t you saying that you can only be in one place at a time? If I need an assistant, so do you.”

Nip gave him complete attention. “Sebell’s no lad . . .” He shook his head. “I’d hate to put someone in danger, and it’s dangerous up there in Fax’s.”

“More reason than ever for you to have an . . . assistant,” Sebell remarked pointedly.

Nip made a noise in his throat. “You mean ‘shadow,’ don’t you?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Sebell, who grinned back, quite willing to take the jibe as a compliment.

Robinton blinked and grinned, then laughed out loud, for there was a faint resemblance—the color and set of their eyes, the same dark hair almost to the whirls at the crown, and strong features, chin and nose—that spoke of their distant blood relationship. Sebell was now as tall as the MasterHarper and, over the Turns, had picked up some of Robinton’s mannerisms, as well. Their eyes met and they grinned with perfect understanding and mutual respect.

“Come along,” Robinton said, although it was late and the apprentices should have been asleep. “He’s probably drumming somewhere . . .”

“He’s outside,” Sebell said, indicating the hallway. “I found him in the drum tower stairwell, trying to see who was making such a late night entrance.”

“Well, now, that sounds promising,” Nip said and himself went to invite Traller into the room. The two stood regarding each other as warily as strange canines. “If you’ll pardon us, Robinton, Sebell,” Nip said after a long pause, and taking Traller by the shoulder, pushed ahead of him out the door.

The next morning Nip told Robinton to rename the boy “Tuck” and to designate him as an apprentice on special assignment.

“I told you he was a natural,” Robinton said a bit smugly.

Nip snorted. “He will be when I get through with him.” Then he grinned in his irrepressible fashion. “He’ll be good, too. Thanks, Rob. Oh, and he’s coming with me. I’ve got two Runnerbeasts ready and willing. Like any well brought up”—Nip smiled at that description being applied to Tuck—“Keroonian, he rides like a leech.” He paused again at the door. “And runs like the wind.”

Nip took turns with Tuck to deliver reports over the next two Turns. Then Tuck appeared unexpectedly late one night, grinning with delight when he had startled Robinton from reading Term reports on the current apprentices.

“Nip says that there’s something odd going on at Ruatha Hold.”

“Oh?” And Robinton was glad to find some distraction from the reports. He didn’t agree with some of them, and it always annoyed him when some of his favorite “sons” did not measure up to the high standards he wanted them to achieve.

“Well, it seems that it’s not prospering. There’ve been four stewards, and each one has failed to extract any profit from the Hold.” Tuck grinned. “It’s as if every attempt fails, some way or another. And Fax’s not known to be pleased with any sort of failure.”

“Hmmm. That’s interesting. A kind of subtle rebellion?”

Tuck gave the sort of snort that Nip affected. “With that bunch of drudges? They’re the most useless bunch of incompetents I’ve seen. And since I’ve been north—” He gestured with a thumb. “—I’ve seen every sort of way to avoid hard work that’s been invented. And then some. The only jobs that get done in a halfway decent fashion are helped along by an overseer with a whip standing over the workers. Fax has only so many men and too many holdings.” He grinned broadly. “Though his supply of metal-knotted whips seems inexhaustible.”

“ ‘One hold, one holder’ is a good adage to remember,” Robinton said sententiously.

“To be sure.” Tuck glided past that. “Nip specially said to tell you about Ruatha.”

“What could be happening there?” Robinton asked, more or less rhetorically. “If there is no one
able
to foment trouble, is it trouble, or pure carelessness on the stewards’ parts?”

Tuck shrugged his shoulders. He had grown into a wiry man, not much taller than his companion. He might practice being nondescript, but he hadn’t quite the knack Nip had and could never disguise the bright, interested gaze of his dark eyes.

“But there’s something there. Sort of—” He tilted his hand sideways in a gesture he had obviously learned from close association with Nip. “—a general uneasiness. Like something watching all the time. Only who’d watch? And what are they watching?”

“I should take a—”

“No, you shouldn’t” Tuck held up a hand. “Harper blue is a target for any of Fax’s soldiery. I don’t say the best is at Ruatha, but you’re not to risk your neck . . . Master Robinton.” He added the title as a respectful afterthought. “Bargen’s increased his activities in High Reaches, by the way, now that he has more folk in the Weyr.”

“He’s being careful, isn’t he?”

“Bargen’s so careful he’s womanish,” Tuck said with disgust. Then he sighed. “Of course, he wants to stay alive long enough to take High Reaches Hold back. So no one really minds when he sends
them
out to do what
he
plans. And he’s pretty good at making trouble.”

“Without embroiling others?”

“They’d rather do something, Master Robinton, than nothing,” Tuck said. “They’ve got some pride left, you know.”

Robinton nodded.

“Isn’t the Benden clutch about to hatch?” Tuck asked.

“Soon. Jora’s dead.” Robinton had had the details from a letter sent to Master Oldive by Lord Raid’s journeyman healer, who had been brought by R’gul to try to keep the weyrwoman alive. Remembering how Jora had gorged herself at the Impression Feast—and that had been Turns ago now—he had no trouble believing that the woman had died of overeating. The healer had been appalled at the state she was in and had agreed that she should be interred
between.

“I heard the drums, but did I hear correctly that the queen did produce a gold egg?” Tuck cocked his head hopefully and Robinton nodded. “That’s pulling up pretty close, isn’t it?” Robinton nodded again, and Tuck asked, “You’ll be going to the Impression?”

“I hope to.” Robinton wasn’t sure that any invitations were going out from the Weyr, but that didn’t mean that a Craftmaster could be excluded. There had been few enough clutches and Impressions since S’loner had died.

“Nemorth’ll last?” Tuck’s expression was anxious.

“Probably. At least that’s my reading of queen dragon behavior. Even without her rider, Nemorth will try to last until her clutch hatches.”

“D’you think the next weyrwoman will be an improvement on Jora?”

Robinton gave a snort. “I don’t see how any woman could be worse.”

“Then the riders’ll be on Search, won’t they?”

“I would presume so.”

Tuck was the one to nod now. “I’d best go.”

“Where to?”

“I’m to meet him”—which always meant Nip—“at High Reaches. Fax is there, preparing”—he grimaced—“to go on one of his ‘tours.’ ”

“Tours?”

“Inspections, to find out why he isn’t getting what he expects out of his holdings.”

“I wish him luck,” Robinton said drolly.

“Not him, the poor unfortunates he’ll be beating up.” Then Tuck was out the door.

Over the next few days, Robinton had a feeling of imminence, of something impending. He was not surprised then to have Sebell escort a runner, mud-spattered and exhausted, into his office. He was stunned by the message.

“Tuck says you’d better come, Master Robinton.”

“Come where?” Robinton had been on his feet the instant he saw Sebell’s companion. Master and journeyman helped the man to a chair, and then Sebell poured him wine.

“Fax has left . . . for Ruatha Hold. Dragonriders . . . with him.”

“At Ruatha? Dragonriders? With him?”

The runner nodded, sipping the wine. “On Search.” And he grimaced. “Takes guts . . . to go to the . . . High Reaches.”