Masterharper of Pern (46 page)

Robinton was amazed. “Who?”

The runner shook his head. “You’re to do a Nip and Tuck, he said.”

“How much time do I have?” Robinton asked, waving aside the objections he could see Sebell about to utter.

“Fax is forcing his march. You’d best be in place.”

“Hmmm, yes, I had, hadn’t I?” Robinton felt a surge of wild excitement and sighed with relief. He ignored the pointed anxiety on Sebell’s face. “Take care of him, will you, Sebell?”

And Robinton bolted down the steps to Silvina’s rooms.

“I’ll need rough clothing, suitable for a drudge,” he told her.

“And what are you up to?” she demanded, hands on her hips as she glared up at him.

“Now, don’t you start on me, too,” he warned, far more sharply than he intended, and pointed to the keys on her belt. “I have to look the part.”

“If you think you can do a Nip, you’re gone in the head, Rob. Send Sebell for you.”

“No, not Sebell,” Robinton said angrily. “I won’t risk him.”

“But you will yourself?” she complained as she reluctantly led the way down to the storage rooms. “How can you possibly disguise your height?” she demanded, trying another tack to dissuade him.

He immediately pulled in his shoulders, scrunched down, and with one hand bouncing loosely, affected a hobbly gait.

“A limp might even be better,” she said after a moment’s observation. “Hmmm. As if you’d been kicked by a boot in the wrong place.” Then she sighed in surrender.

By the time Sebell joined them—a look at his Master’s face and Sebell kept his objections to himself—the two had found appropriately ragged clothing for Robinton to wear. Even Sebell had to agree that, once Robinton assumed his odd stance and gait, he no longer resembled the tall, dignified MasterHarper of Pern.

“If you’ve time, I can cure them in the midden,” Silvina suggested helpfully, but her eyes gleamed with mischief.

Sebell began to chuckle at Robinton’s expressive shudder and was caught off balance when Robinton thrust the clothing into his hands and told him to see to it.

“The smell will undoubtedly keep others from examining me at too close range,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Now, while I’m away, Sebell, you’ll tell everyone that I’ve caught a fever and keep them out of my rooms.”

Sebell nodded, though he was clearly unhappy with his Master involved in such a subterfuge. Still, he knew when to keep his comments to himself.

Robinton waited until he got to the Red River before he put on his disguise. Black had sidled away from the saddle pack holding the reeking clothes. He left the runnerbeast with the border guards and warned them to be extra vigilant.

From there Robinton made his discreet way to the beasthold at Ruatha to discover that there weren’t but two sorry-looking milch animals to be cared for. He was looking around the beasthold in dismay when a wing of dragons appeared midair and a frightened man came running so fast he was in danger of tripping over himself as he shrieked his message at the top of his lungs:

“
Dragonriders,
and
Fax
comes.
Dragonriders
 . . .” Still yelling, he disappeared into the Hold.

In his guise of a witless drudge, Robinton could come out to stare up at the amazing sight of a full wing of dragons, some of whom had the remnants of flame still trickling beyond their muzzles, appearing in Ruathan skies. One after another, they bugled. They sounded surprised, he thought. As the dragons wheeled to come in for a landing, he spotted a blue who had to be Tagath. That confirmed his suspicion that this was F’lar’s wing, after all. Searching at the High Reaches would take the nerve of F’lon’s son. Maybe he could get a word with C’gan somehow. Maybe even get a chance to meet the adult F’lar at long last. He wondered if R’gul had authorized the Search in this area. Somehow he doubted it. Then he put his mind to the pressures of this moment.

A witless drudge would be terrified and rush to find shelter from such a frightening sight, he thought, and he shambled as fast as his assumed limp would allow him to join the other drudges milling about the courtyard.

The Warder, his face ghastly, appeared on the steps to verify the message and then started yelling conflicting orders at those nearby, grabbing the nearest drudge and propelling him toward the Hold.

“We must prepare. We must do something! There has to be food! There has to be order in this Hold . . . and you are going . . . to . . . work your nuts off!” Each pause was to allow him to kick or shove some ragged body into the Hold.

Robinton managed to evade the full force of the kick aimed at him, but he went willingly into the Hold. There he paused briefly in dismay at the sight of the once beautiful entrance hall and the main Hall seen past the broken-hinged double doors that led to it. Then someone bumped into him, and that restored him to his character.

An old woman struggled to hand out brooms and mops; another shaggy-haired drudge distributed other cleaning equipment. They were herded up the steps to sweep and ready rooms that had not been used, to judge by the appalling condition of them, since the massacre. He was pushed into a room that had obviously had its window left open for Turns: leaves, branches, and dirt were piled like snowdrifts in the corners. The hearth held ashes that had hardened into rock. The bedding was soiled and damp and would have to be discarded. Though what would be available to take its place, Robinton didn’t know. Nor was a single cleaning going to do much more than loosen the surface layer of dirt thickly caking the bare floor. The steward raced from one room to another, yelling for haste, for more clean water, for more effort from each and every drudge, bestowing kicks where he felt the cleaners faltered. How any steward worth his mark could have allowed the once graceful Hold to fall into such desuetude, Robinton could not understand. Even a monthly sweeping would have kept this room habitable.

He did manage to clean the floor before Fax and his entourage arrived. Then he was hauled by the scruff of his neck out into the hall and sent down to help stable Fax’s runnerbeast.

The main Hall had survived the concerted attack by the drudges, and looked slightly better. There were damp spots here and there, and no one had been able to reach the crawlers or their filmy webs, which hung in tatters from the ceiling. There was huge confusion, yells, shrieks, and the excited barking of the spit canines coming from the kitchen, and Robinton was just as happy to be sent to care for the runnerbeasts. He just hoped that someone had cleaned up the beasthold.

He saw Fax scowling fiercely, beating his boot with a heavy baton-whip. He saw Lady Gemma, great with child, being lifted off her mount by two of Fax’s strongest men. He could see her wincing, although the men were handling her with great care. Several of the ladies in this very mixed group rushed to her assistance once she was on the ground, supporting her as she waddled up the steps and into the Hold. He felt immense pity for her, hoped that the quarters she was to inhabit had been in better condition than the one he had tried to clean. Was Fax trying to kill the woman? Probably, if some of Nip’s earlier reports bore any truth—and they undoubtedly did.

Robinton was prodded to take several beasts at once, which was awkward, given the infirmities he was affecting. Two of Fax’s bullies came along to oversee him and the other hastily organized drudges who were to tend to the mounts. Ruathan bred, Robinton thought drolly, come back full circle. The two milch beasts that had inhabited the Hold were gone. Probably they were what was being offered the Lord Holder tonight and would be tough as old boots.

He did no more than the others, despite being cuffed and kicked to “do a proper job of it.” Although he knew very well that the drudges in the Harper Hall and Fort Hold were well cared for, he discovered a heretofore unexpected sympathy for those whom life had deprived of the wit or energy to achieve more than such lowly positions. He felt sorry for the tired runnerbeasts, though he was almost as tired as they before he and the others were given sickles and sent to cut fresh fodder. His limp and his groans were heartfelt by now. With nothing to eat so far this long day . . . and if what he suspected were true, there was unlikely to be enough food in the Hold to feed the visitors, much less the residents. He wondered if the dragonriders had brought their own provisions. And how was he to reach C’gan if he spent the entire livelong day drudging? It was too bad that he had never established as much of a contact with Tagath as he had had with Simanith.

When the armsmen finally allowed that the beasts had been properly cared for, Robinton followed the other five men back to the Hold. They were muttering about their expectations of food. Darkness had set in, and as an additional mark of the poverty of the Hold, the glowbaskets gave glum illumination.

“Bread, if we’re lucky,” one said, trudging along.

“When’s luck got anythin’ to do wiv us?” another demanded. “I’d be anywheres but here.”

“Yes, always the gripe, never the go,” the first one said. “Who’re you?” he suddenly asked Robinton, peering up at him.

“Came wiv dem,” the MasterHarper said, jerking a thumb at the soldiers striding along in front of them. He wanted to straighten up, to relieve the ache in his back, but doubted it would help and besides, he daren’t unbend. He was still a good head taller than his erstwhile companions.

The first man made an inarticulate sound in his throat that was half snarl. “Goin’ on wiv ’em then?”

“Not goin’ nowhere but here,” Robinton said in a dour voice.

They made for the kitchen entrance and the first man recoiled, startled at the chaos within, the slamming and clanging of pots, and the screams as a drudge was hit. One male voice rose above the others, giving orders, yelling if the response wasn’t immediate.

“Shards, it’s burned on the one side and raw on the others!”
That sentence was bellowed in a tone of fury and frustration. A canine yipped piteously. Robinton could hear slapping and more screams and groans as the cook evidently vented his feelings on his helpless drudges.

“Us’ns’d have it, if it’s meat,” the first drudge muttered to himself, wistfully licking lips. He took a deep breath.

“Smell’s all we’s likely to have,” the other said.

Not that the smell was at all appetizing. But Robinton used their interest in the kitchen activities to cover his movements as he stealthily backed off into the shadows. He had noticed as they passed the main Hold door that there were no guards either at the door or in the Hall. He couldn’t enter in his guise of a drudge, but surely he could sneak into the guard barracks and change into something . . . more appropriate.

He slipped in just in time to hear one of the underleaders assigning posts for the evening, and he ducked into an alcove as they tramped past him, the dim glowbaskets neatly shadowing him.

Fortunately many of Fax’s soldiers were of a generous size and they had brought several changes of clothes with them. He found the cleanest and, happily shedding his filthy, sweaty rags, put them on. A bit loose at the waist and a bit short in the leg, but he used his own belt and secured the trousers. He took the sleeve of his shirt and scrubbed at his boots, getting the worst of the stable muck off them.

“Where the shards were you?” a harsh voice called.

Robinton whirled around to see a guard underleader in the doorway. “Relieved me’sel,” he muttered, wondering if the sudden pounding of his heart would give him away.

“Up to the Hall, then. Want every one of you up there ’case those sharding dragonriders doan know they’s manners.” The grin suggested that the man was aching to teach dragonriders manners.

“Yuss,” Robinton said. He squared his shoulders, which was not easy after a day’s crouching, and passed the underleader cautiously, as if expecting a kick on his way. But no kick came. A quick look back told him that the man was bending over his saddlebags, extracting his sword belt.

Reaching the Hall, Robinton slowed before he stepped on the heels of Fax’s two underleaders, who were escorting their Lord into the Hall with one of his ladies. The Warder was effusively bowing them in. Robinton slipped along the wall as if he had been in the wake of the latest arrivals and took a position halfway between the guards already in place. Neither took note of him, their attention focused on the dragonriders seated at one of the trestle tables set up perpendicular to the raised dais that held the head table. With relief, Robinton spotted C’gan’s silvery head and then looked up the table to spot the young rider, F’nor. There was no mistaking his lineage as F’lon’s son: it was there in the cocked head and the slight smile. F’nor was watching his half brother at the head table, talking to one of Fax’s ladies seated beside him. Lady Gemma occupied the seat on the other side. F’lar didn’t seem all that happy in such company. Just then a crawler dropped from the ceiling onto the table, and Lady Gemma noticeably winced.

Fax went stamping up the steps to the head table. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma’s before he seated himself. He pulled the chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the none-too-stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he inspected his goblet and plate.

The Warder approached the head table, clearly apprehensive.

“A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and roots as are left.”

“Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested here.”

The Warder’s eyes bulged and he gulped. “Nothing to be sent on,” he stammered. “Nothing
good
enough to be sent on. Nothing. Had I but known of your arrival, I could have sent to Crom—”

“Sent to Crom?” roared Fax, slamming the plate he was inspecting onto the table so forcefully that the rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again.

“For decent foodstuffs, my Lord,” he quavered.

Robinton felt a sudden ripple, like an odd push at his mind.

“The day one of my Holds cannot support itself
or
the visit of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it.”

The Lady Gemma gasped, and Robinton wondered if she had felt the same remarkable ripple he did. As if confirming that, the dragons roared. And Robinton felt the surge of . . . something.