Masterharper of Pern (7 page)

“Since she is sequestered, I assume that Halanna has not seen fit to apologize. Let me do so in her stead,” he said, allowing everyone to heave sighs of relief.

Master Gennell, however, shook his head slowly. “It is her place, not yours, Holder Halibran, to make restitution for her behavior and her refusal to accept the usual necessary disciplines of the Harper Hall. She has much to learn.”

The screeching, which the new arrivals were pointedly ignoring, took on a shriller note.

“The fault lies in me,” Halibran said with a weary sigh. “Her mother died at her birth, and with six brothers, she has been much cosseted.”

The brother who had spoken gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and then looked away. The other two managed not to grin, but it didn’t escape anyone that they had probably tried to get their father to school his daughter’s behavior.

“What did happen that made her send such a message?” Halibran asked.

Gennell opened his mouth, but it was Petiron who stepped forward and answered.

“She is musically almost illiterate, Holder Halibran,” he said in a flat and firm voice, “although I know Harper Maxilant to be a competent musician.”

“Maxilant did suggest that the Hall might succeed where he was failing,” Halibran said, raising both gloved hands in helplessness, his answer directed more to Gennell than to Petiron. “I should not have sent you our problem.” He turned back to Petiron. “And?”

“When she repeatedly refused to learn a simple score . . .”

No one of the Harper Hall group so much as batted an eye at Petiron’s remark.

“ . . . and started to rant in an hysterical fashion, I slapped her. Once.” And Petiron put up one finger in emphasis.

Everyone on the steps nodded.

“We all heard the entire argument,” Master Gennell said, and he pointed to the studio windows. “And the single slap.”

“She’d need more than one,” a brother said.

“We shall take her off your hands,” her father said in an almost meek tone, though it was obvious that he was probably not one whit less proud than his daughter.

“Nonsense,” Master Gennell said, just as Petiron stepped forward to protest. “With your permission, we shall continue to discipline her—firmly—until she realizes that such behavior gets her nowhere in either her relationships with others or in learning the lessons you asked us to teach her.”

Halibran was astonished; the brothers muttered amongst themselves.

“That is too fine a voice to be misused,” Master Gennell said, glancing up in the direction of the outraged cries. Strips of clothing flapped out of the window and drifted to the ground. “Or abused. We have disciplined recalcitrant students before now. She may be,” and Master Gennell paused significantly, “unusually obdurate, but give me leave to doubt she is beyond redemption.”

“I’d say she is,” the brother murmured, and received a buffet on his leg from his glaring father.

“Give us until the Spring Solstice, Holder Halibran, and you will be pleased with the change.”

“How do you propose to achieve that?” the holder asked, tucking his gloved thumbs into his thick riding belt and regarding not only Gennell but the others on the top step.

“If you would make it . . . exceedingly . . . plain to her,” Gennell said, “that such antics cut no ice with you, that you will no longer condone her behavior or rescue her from its consequences, she will soon capitulate.”

Halibran considered as he removed his gloves, stowed them in the saddle bag, and flexed his fingers. “If she does, it will be the first time in her life,” he said, “but it had better come now.” He opened and closed his fists.

The expression of profound satisfaction was mirrored by all three brothers and, indeed, the other six men of the party.

“I’ll lead the way,” Gennell said affably, and as Betrice and Ginia fell into step with Holder Halibran, they disappeared into the Hall.

“Is that the girl you said had a superb voice, Petiron?” Grogellan asked, moving up to the steps from where he and his men had witnessed the interview.

The oldest brother, recognizing that this was the Lord of Fort Hold, respectfully dismounted and gestured for the others to do so, inclining his upper body politely to one of higher rank. Just then Halanna’s voice rasped to an even higher note, almost a wail, and Petiron winced.

“If she keeps on forcing the upper register like that,” Washell remarked to no one in particular, “she may end up soprano instead of alto. If she’s any voice left at all.”

“Hmmm,” was Grogellan’s reply, as he turned his head up to the window. “She certainly shouldn’t be allowed to carry on like that.”

“It’s a specialty of hers,” the oldest brother remarked. “She’s developed it into a fine art, and none of us”—he included his brothers—“could do a thing about it.”

Grogellan looked at him with such a glare that he grimaced, shrugging his shoulders. Fort’s Lord Holder did not approve of sons criticizing their fathers, no matter what the cause.

“Any moment, now,” Washell said, grinning in happy expectation.

He was right. Halanna’s shriek broke off abruptly. There was a long wait for those on the ground before her voice was heard again, and this time her shout was defiance mixed with astonishment. That tone altered to outraged cries, screams, and finally into penitent sobs which gradually, over the next few minutes, dwindled into silence. Or at least to a level that was not audible to those below.

To give him credit, the oldest brother controlled his expression as he turned to Washell. “Our mounts need to be refreshed before we start back,” he said.

“Then follow us,” Grogellan said. “You will guest at the Hold, for I know the Harper Hall is presently filled to capacity.” He gestured for the Istans to follow him.

The oldest brother, astonished and grateful for Grogellan’s hospitality, looked from him to the doorway of the Harper Hall. “I should await my father.” He turned back to Grogellan. “I am Brahil, and those two are my brothers, Landon and Brosil,” he said by way of introduction. “And Gostol, here, is our good captain who sailed us here.”

Grogellan nodded approval of Brahil’s manners and, leaving the young man to wait for his father, he swept the others ahead of him toward the Hold. “How was the sea on your way here, Master Gostol?” he asked, assuming the duties of a genial host.

The Istan holders stayed three more days, until Halanna finally capitulated—from sheer physical exhaustion. Ginia had naturally attended the girl after each session with her father and, although she was discreet, she did imply that it was no more than the child required to make her mend her ways.

“For so many children, disapproval is sufficient, or a rap on the knuckles,” she said to Merelan, who was genuinely worried when Halanna showed no signs of repentance after the second chastisement. “Then there are some who have to have manners thumped into their heads. Oddly enough, they seem to recover more quickly than the sensitive child who is only verbally rebuked.”

“But . . .”

“He uses only his hand, and it’s more her pride that’s been offended than her butt end,” Ginia said. “If the issue is not forced now, she will become far worse in later years and end up disgracing her entire family and hold. That can’t be allowed.”

“It’s just that we’ve never had a child that difficult,” Merelan said.

Isla joined them, breathless from a fast walk across the courtyard. “He’s taking most of her clothing back with him and has asked me to provide warmer garments. Just a few, and nothing fancy, though I did talk him into permitting one nice outfit for Gathers and performances.” She looked almost regretful, though Halanna had driven her to despair with her snide comments and spiteful ways. “Only she’s not to pick it out. I’ll let Neilla do so. She has the best taste and the most forgiving heart.”

Halanna was required to apologize to the MasterHarper, Journeywoman Healer Betrice, and Master Petiron for her intransigence. Gennell had wanted to include Merelan, but the singer put her foot down. She would have the instructing of the humbled girl, and that was going to be hard enough to handle without the child experiencing further abasement.

“She brought it on herself,” Halibran said sternly.

“That does not require me to compound it,” Merelan said, lifting her chin to match his attitude.

“You are a gracious lady,” he said, relenting and bowing to her.

Halanna was granted a room to herself, the attic one, which had sufficient space for her much reduced wardrobe. Her father had left instructions with Master Gennell to take disciplinary steps if she did not apply herself to her lessons.

“And, if you should decide this regimen doesn’t suit you,” her father said in so cold a voice that Merelan shivered, “and attempt to run away from the Harper Hall, I will have the drums repudiate you across all Pern. Do you understand? You wanted to sing, you wanted to come here to the Harper Hall so you could improve your voice. Now you will do just that and nothing but that! Do you understand, Halanna?”

Head hanging after the ordeal of apology, she murmured something.

“I didn’t hear that. Speak up.”

A flash of her old spirit flared in her eyes but vanished when her father lifted his hand. “Yes, Father. I understand.” She stood, head up, lips and chin trembling slightly. Satisfied with her demeanor, he strode out of the MasterHarper’s office.

“Mastersinger Merelan will be your primary instructor, Halanna,” Master Gennell said. “You will review your foundation lessons with the first-year apprentices”—he was almost glad to see the flare of dismay in her eyes. Her punishment had not broken her spirit, even if it had quelled her arrogance—“until you have learned enough to graduate to the more advanced classes. Although classes have begun for the day, Master Washell has given permission for you to arrive late this morning. Now go on to room twenty-six. And you’ll need this slate and chalk.”

He handed her the items she had refused to carry or use in her first days at the Harper Hall. As she went out the door, he noticed she pulled her shoulders back, steeling herself to go in amongst the lowest of apprentices and face whatever their reaction to her presence might be. The girl had courage. Gennell had, however, made very sure that she would not be the butt of any youthful mischief. He had given a stern lecture to the apprentice contingent that they were to behave properly at all times in her presence and never refer to the incident or they’d have worse of the same.

In fact, the affair had subtly improved the behavior of even the more inventive miscreants among the apprentices. But that didn’t keep many of the principals from deeply regretting Halanna’s intransigence.

Petiron did not restore the more complex music he had written for contralto voice, but Halanna did sing at Turnover. In the duet with Merelan, she modulated her tone to match the soprano, so that it was technically well sung, though the contralto part did not match the soprano in the joy that the song had been written to express.

Petiron was profoundly disappointed in her performance, having worked so hard with her to produce the dynamics he had “heard” during composition.

“Don’t you dare chide her, Petiron,” Merelan said, intercepting him after the performance. “She’s done well, all things considered. No one can beat joy into music unless it comes from the heart.”

“But her voice . . .” Petiron was beside himself with dismay. “She could so easily have risen to the occasion.”

“Give her time, love, give her time. She may not be as rebellious or arrogant as she was when she first came here, but give her time to realize how much she has learned and how much her voice has improved. If you can’t say anything complimentary, say nothing.” She looked over to where Halanna was being surrounded by Fort Hold guests who were complimenting her on her lovely voice and splendid performance. “She was note-perfect, you know, and her breath support was excellent. And her presence couldn’t have been improved on. Say that. She’ll know where she failed.”

Petiron opened his mouth and, while Merelan knew he wanted to complain that his satisfaction had been diminished by her lackluster performance, he observed Halanna accepting the compliments with a genuine modesty.

“Oh, well.
You
were splendid, Mere.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she said, and if her tone was a little dry, Petiron missed it as he was surrounded by those wishing to congratulate composer and Mastersinger.

CHAPTER IV

O
F
H
ALANNA’S FAMILY
, only the second brother, Landon, was able to attend the Turnover performance, since Halibran had unavoidable hold obligations. She was glad enough to see her brother, and he seemed more affectionately inclined toward her. Patently impressed by her demeanor as well as her singing, he remarked several times that he didn’t recognize his own sister, she’d changed so much for the better.

Merelan took him to one side after his third loud pronouncement.

“I wouldn’t make so much of her . . . good behavior, Landon,” she said kindly.

“But she
has
changed,” he protested.

“Yes, but do you have to rub it in?”

“Oh, yes . . .” He rubbed his tanned chin and gave Merelan a charmingly penitent smile. “I see what you mean. But she’s certainly turned inside out, and not before time, if you ask me, though you didn’t. When she was a toddler, she was such a sweet thing . . .” His voice trailed off. “Who’s that?” he asked, suddenly suspicious as he noticed a young man in elegant Turnover finery leading his sister onto the dance floor.

Merelan recognized one of the younger Ruathan nephews, Donkin, who was currently fostering with Lord Grogellan. As he had a good strong tenor voice, he usually joined the Harper Hall chorus. He’d been no more attentive to Halanna than half a dozen others brought in for the Turnover performance. But, being from Ruathan Bloodlines, he’d be quite acceptable to the most particular of fathers as a possible spouse.

“Ruathan, you say?” Landon echoed, quite able to recognize Donkin’s suitability. “Is she showing any preference?”

“Not that we’ve observed.”

“Still keeping your eye on her?”

“No more than we keep our eyes on any of the young women in our care,” Merelan replied pointedly.

“She has learned her lesson, then?”

Merelan thought his attitude was a shade arch, but he was himself young and had spoken to and treated his sister kindly since his arrival. “She has learned a good deal more about the mechanics of both producing her voice and music in general. She has proved a good student.”

“My father said she may stay on, if you think she should.” Now he sounded less self-confident and there was a hint of plea in his tone.

“She has scarcely begun to learn the repertoire suitable for her range,” Merelan told him willingly. “And she has learned to play flute and gitar well enough to do ensemble work. We would certainly like to train her as far as she is willing to go.”

“She’ll be willing, I fancy,” Landon said, his eyes watching Halanna going through the steps of the dance with the agile Donkin. The two were obviously enjoying themselves.

Halanna was smiling more tonight than she had done since her father’s disciplining. And about time, too, Merelan thought.

“Come, Landon, you can’t spend all your time as observer. I’d be happy to introduce you to any number of girls here.”

“I’d like to dance with
you
, if you’d permit it, Mastersinger.” He managed not only a charming smile but a graceful bow.

Merelan glanced about to check on Robie, playing with some other children his own age at the edge of the dance floor, and Petiron, who was explaining something, with considerable gesturing, to one of the harpers home for Turnover. Eventually he would remember that she loved to dance and oblige her, but she was quite willing to start with Landon.

“I’d love to dance, Holder Landon,” she said and took his offered hand.

One of the features of the Turnover celebrations was that everyone got a chance to play or sing—even those as young as Robinton and the other nursery children. They performed a song on the second day, each of them using a percussion instrument: tambourine, chimes, triangles, tom-toms, cymbals, and the hand bells. Robie had been chosen to beat the tempo on the small drum with the knucklebone, and Merelan glowed with pride at the fine and complex rhythm he managed.

She was disappointed that Petiron was too deep in discussion with Bristol, the Telgar Harper, to notice Robinton’s performance. Bristol, like Petiron, was a composer, though his interests lay more in balladic works for the gitar than in full chorus and orchestra. His work was easy to remember and enjoyable to sing—though Merelan grimaced to even think so disloyally.

She was rather surprised, and certainly gratified, to see Bristol speaking to Robie later that afternoon. Robinton, his little face serious, was explaining something to the harper, who paid him the courtesy of attentive listening. If only Petiron would do the same . . .

She reminded herself that this was Turnover and the new Turn was nearly on them. Just one more day of freedom from the usual routine. She was pleased with her hour’s recital of the old, traditional airs that had been part of these festivities since Fort Hold was founded. She’d had no trouble holding her audience and the applause had been generously prolonged though she had kept her encores to three. As Mastersinger she knew when enough was enough. There were plenty of other performers to take the Turnover stage.

Halanna had given young Donkin quite a few dances each evening, but she also partnered other lads, and Merelan was glad to see the girl relaxing and enjoying herself. Maybe that would restore the vibrancy that had initially characterized her rich voice.

Merelan had overheard Halanna saying something to her brother that puzzled and alarmed her.

“Petiron’s very strict and makes you measure up to his standard,” the girl told Landon with a little grimace. Then she added in an entirely different, almost spiteful tone, “I can’t wait until he realizes that that kid of his has far more talent in his little finger than he’s got in all his fancy notes and difficult tempi.”

How had Halanna known of Robie’s innate musicality? She’d never paid any attention to him; in fact, she had steadfastly ignored his existence when she knew the child was in the next room during her lessons with Merelan. And what satisfaction would Halanna take when the father discovered his son’s talent?

That problem caused Merelan not a few anxious hours, though she kept telling herself that surely Petiron would be delighted to realize his son was musically inclined. “Inclined” was an understatement: Robinton seemed to absorb music as some children absorbed food. She was also aware that the child kept a cache of meticulously written tunes and airs; Washell and Bosler had told her so. They’d said that the music was “delightful.” Then there were the glances they had exchanged. She had been so pleased to hear their good opinion of Robie’s progress that perhaps she had failed to realize the significance of their exchange. That was when she first saw the drum he had made and used in the percussion orchestra at Turnover.

“Master Gorazde helped,” he had informed her when he brought the drum home, “but I painted . . .” He ran a rather dirty finger along the blue and red lines that not too raggedly decorated the rim. “An’ I cutted the skin oh so careful.” His eyes had rounded as he used a pretend knife in his hand to demonstrate how hard it had been to cut the hide. “An’ I nailed it.” His mother did note that the brass nails were well aligned. “Master Gorazde had me make dots where the nails go so they’d look even.” He ran a finger along the shiny line. “Hard work.” And he grinned up at her.

“Lovie, I don’t know when I’ve seen a better one. I’ll bet you could sell it at the Harper Gather stall!”

He clutched the drum to his chest, which took doing because it overlapped his chest. “No, not this one, my first ’stament, and I gotta improve a lot before Master Gorazde’ll put a Harper stamp on it for sale.”

With a pang to her heart, Merelan said nothing as he put it carefully on the shelf near his father’s worktop. Maybe Petiron would notice and comment on it.

Two days later it was no longer in view, and when she looked for the drum, she finally found it hidden in his clothes chest. He never played it again.

“Drum? What drum?” Petiron asked, surprised when she casually mentioned it.

“The one Robie made for the percussion group at Turnover.”

Petiron frowned, and she was so distressed by his genuine puzzlement that she wished she hadn’t asked. That the little drum, so lovingly constructed, had been so carefully concealed ought to have been warning enough.

“Oh, that one,” Petiron said, turning back to checking apprentice papers. “If Robinton really did have a hand in making it, I wouldn’t have passed it for a Harper stamp.”

Merelan abruptly rose and, murmuring that she must see Lorra, left the room before she either burst into tears or threw something at her insensitive spouse.

As she stormed downstairs and out into the crisp evening air, pausing only to throw a jacket over her shoulders, she knew that she would never, ever, mention Robie’s efforts to Petiron again. He didn’t deserve to have such a talented child.

“He’s far ahead of the other youngsters,” Kubisa told Merelan during the teacher’s usual spring evaluation. “He’s poring over any Record Ogolly lets him see. In fact, Ogolly’s having him copy some of the more legible documents from the last Fall. I also don’t think it’s wise to isolate him from his own age group. He needs their companionship. All children do. But I’ll say this for him: he won’t stand for any teasing or bullying.”

“You don’t have any problems with that, do you?”

Merelan knew that the apprentices were often apt to pick on a lad who tried to push himself forward, and occasionally they would taunt a slower boy, but the masters kept a tight rein on any physical violence and chastised culprits for verbal harangue. Some of the final-year apprentices were apt to take grudges against one another, but those were generally settled by a wrestling match overseen by a journeyman. To be a harper conferred sufficient dignity and privilege that few would jeopardize their chance to achieve journeyman status by gross misconduct. Inevitably, there were subtle competitions during the fourth year.

“I have to be truthful, Merelan. Some of them are jealous of his quick mind.”

“Well, I can scarcely punish him for that,” Merelan said, trying to suppress a spurt of outrage.

Kubisa held up both hands in simulated defense. “Easy, mother, and I won’t tell you who, either,” she added before Merelan could open her mouth. “That’s for me to know and handle. And I have. I ask Rob to take one of the slower ones off to hear their lesson. He’s actually very patient—more so than I would be with that rascal, Lexey.”

“Lexey? Bosler’s youngest?”

“I know you know that Lexey has learning difficulties, but Rob has him repeat his lessons until he knows them by heart.” Kubisa sighed. “Sometimes late life babies are a little . . . backward. And Rob made up another tune, one that Lexey can actually remember, to help him with place names.” She reached into the folder and brought out a scrap of hide, cleaned so often that it was almost transparent, and handed it to Merelan. “Robie’s a caring child and a born teacher.”

The Mastersinger had no trouble identifying the writer of the tiny, precisely placed notes and hummed the tune. Simple and very easy, up the C scale and then down by thirds.

Fort was first, South Boll then

Ruatha came and Tillek, too.

Benden next and north Telgar . . .

Easy enough for a child to sing, but effective with the tune itself as an aid to memory.

“That’s not bad,” Merelan said.

“Not bad?” Kubisa stared at her in disgust. “For a child five Turns old? It’s incredible. Washell wants me to use it in class as a Teaching Ballad.”

“He does?”

“He does, and we don’t intend to tell Petiron, either.” Kubisa’s tone was almost defensive. “I never ask Rob to do these. He just does them. Should I discourage him, Merelan?” She couldn’t quite keep her expression neutral.

“No, don’t discourage him, Kubisa. And thank you for your understanding.”

The interview troubled Merelan for several days but she could see no way to mention Robie’s abilities to Petiron. As usual, he had music he had to compose—this time for an espousal at Nerat. He planned a duet between Merelan and Halanna, and a very ambitious quartet, making use of a fine young tenor who would soon be walking the tables to become a journeyman. Petiron was always bemoaning the loss of any good tenor voice, and Merelan entertained the wry hope that Robie might end up in the tenor range as an adult. At least he sang on key in his childish treble. Even if his father never noticed. These were the times when she was very glad that she wasn’t able to bear more children, or foster them.

That spring young Robinton had a revelation that made a tremendous impact on his mind: he met dragons.

He’d always known they existed, and once in a while, a wing would be seen flying in formation high overhead. He knew that Fort Weyr had been empty for several hundred Turns and no one knew why. He knew, from Teaching Songs and Ballads, why there were dragons: that they kept Thread away—though he didn’t understand why Thread was so dangerous. People’s clothes were made of thread, and they wouldn’t wear something that was dangerous to them, would they? When he asked Kubisa about it in class, she said that Thread was a living organism, not spun and woven as was the undangerous thread that went into clothing. This bad Thread fell from the sky and hungrily ate anything living it touched, from grass to runner- and herdbeasts, and even people. Her listeners got very still at that, and no one even squirmed when she went on to explain how dragons kept Thread away from Halls and Holds. However, she ended on a bright and pleasant note: that bad Thread was not likely to bother them and they might live their whole lives without seeing it fall from the skies.

“Then why,” the logical Robie asked, “do we keep singing about it?”

“In appreciation of those times when the dragons did keep the danger away,” she said at her most reassuring.

Robinton asked his mother about Thread and got much the same answer, which really wasn’t sufficient to satisfy his curiosity. If the dragons were so important, and they were still flying the skies of Pern, they were there to keep Thread away. They
were
keeping it away, but there weren’t as many as there used to be—not with five Weyrs empty. Would they be enough if Thread came?