The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Falloner was thoughtful. “We’ll be all right,” he said with more conviction than his expression implied. “We keep replacing the old ones who die off. Benden’s at full fighting strength.”

  “But there’s only Benden,” Robinton said, whispering, as a sudden pang of fear shot through him.

  “Benden will be more than enough,” Falloner said proudly, and then covered his mouth with one hand, for he had spoken more loudly in his surety and his words echoes across the empty Hatching Ground. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll show you the barracks and have you meet some of my friends.”

  They carefully retraced their steps and Falloner hid the glow-basket under a protrusion. Then the weyrbred lad took to his heels and raced toward the right-hand side of the Bowl, beyond the Lower Caverns, where there was a great deal of talking and laughing and general noise. As they flashed by, Rob caught a glimpse of his mother talking to some of the old aunties and uncles at one of the tables. Well, that duty would be over, so he wouldn’t have to nod and smile at the oldsters. The look of them, not to mention sometimes their smell, distressed him. People shouldn’t get that old. When harpers could no longer work, they went back to their birthplaces or down to the warmer, southern holds.

  The weyrling barracks were empty, since members of the last clutch had long since graduated to individual weyrs, but the place looked in good order for the next hatching. Falloner knew a back way out of the barracks complex, too, which took them into a broad corridor that he said led to the supply caves.

  “There’re lots of them,” he said proudly. “Benden, Lemos, and Bitra still tithe properly every year, and the Telgar and Keroon Lord Holders tell us where the dragons can hunt, culling the herdbeasts for them.”

  Through other narrow aisles, Falloner led Robinton to the living quarters, showed him the alcove he had shared with three other lads, and then the bathing area: the Weyr’s main bath, steam rising from the water, was big enough to swim in, Rob thought enviously. Beyond, Falloner said, were more storage rooms.

  “And a maze of old hallways and too many locked rooms. I’ll get in to see them when I’m Weyrleader.” He chuckled.

  Over his laugh, they heard the muted tones of an enthusiastically rung bell.

  “Supper!” And Falloner wasted no time leading Robinton back to the Lower Caverns.

  “Are all the Weyrs the same?”

  “Well, I’ve only been to Telgar once, and they’ve got the same sort of places, like a Hatching Ground and a queen’s weyr and records hall and stuff like that. Haven’t you ever been up to Fort Weyr?”

  “You’re not allowed,” Robinton said cautiously, with a sideways glance at his companion.

  Falloner laughed. “Since when did that keep someone from doing something? I’ll bet it’s visited a lot.”

  “Well, actually, I think it is, but . . .”

  Falloner put a finger over his lips and winked. “No two Weyrs are laid out quite the same, but”—and he gave a shrug—“you been in one, you’ll find your way around Fort after this.”

  “I know, and thanks, Fal.”

  “Sure thing, Rob.”

  They swung into the Lower Caverns then. His mother was standing on the slightly raised platform where a long table had been set up at right angles to the rest of the dining area. There was another dais, too, with music stands, stools, and chairs; that was where they’d perform.

  “How many players does the Weyr have?” Rob asked, counting up to fourteen places.

  “We got one good gitarist, C’gan, one decent fiddler, and the usual pipers and a drummer, though you’re much better than he is.”

  Rob considered this and then noticed that the top table was filling up with riders, and not all bronze to judge by the shoulder knots they wore on their Gather shirts.

  His mother, seeing him, made a gesture to indicate that he could stay in Falloner’s company. He was delighted. The weyrfolk, summoned to the dining area by the bell, took whatever seat they fancied. Falloner, hauling on Rob’s sleeve, took him to a table occupied by six boys more or less Falloner’s age. He waved vigorously and held up two fingers—in time to prevent some smaller lads from taking the vacant chairs.

  “Just made it,” said a black-haired lad, whose curls covered his forehead to his eyebrows. “Go on—there’re plenty of other places,” he added to the nearest of the small lads.

  “This is Robinton, from the Harper Hall,” Falloner said, flumping himself down. “That’s Pragal,” he told Robie, pointing to their greeter, “Jesken, Morif, Rangul, Sellel, and Bravonner. He’s my younger brother.”

  Robinton thought there wasn’t much resemblance, except for the unusual color—a bright amber, almost gold—of the eyes, but then, they must have had different mothers, since Falloner had said his was dead.

  “How come you got back?” Bravonner asked.

  “I told you I’m only at Benden for more schooling.” Falloner said in a kindly manner to his sibling. “You been okay?” He glanced accusingly around the table at the others.

  “Sure . . .” Bravonner began.

  “I promised ya, didn’t I?” Pragal said, bridling. “No one’s bothered him.”

  “ ’Cepting you,” Bravonner said with a wicked sideways look at Pragal, who promptly socked him on the arm with mock-ferocity. “You see?” Bravonner added, appealing to his older brother.

  “Yeah. I can see that. Something good for dinner?” he asked Rangul.

  This lad was of stockier build and well-fleshed, with eyes that darted from one speaker to another. He reminded Robinton of one of the apprentices whom he didn’t much trust, a boy who lied bold-facedly after a dispute at his table and then laid all the blame on another apprentice.

  “Roast herdbeast,” Rangul said, smacking his lips. His expression altered to disgust. “And lots of tubers.”

  “You should know,” said Jesken, a thin-faced lad with a close-cropped head of hair, “since you had to peel so many of them.” And he laughed.

  “Whatcha do to get that duty?” Falloner asked, his expression eager.

  “No one’s business but mine,” Rangul said sullenly, with a fierce scowl across the table at the laughing Jesken.

  “He pushed Larna in the midden,” Jesken said, raising a protective arm when Rangul reached across the table with his fork to poke him.

  “Enough of that,” Falloner said in a crisp tone of command that indicated he often had to intervene between this pair. He glanced quickly around to be sure no one had noticed. “Not that Larna doesn’t need to be taught some manners . . . but you only get in trouble. Who’s minding her now?” He looked around again, and his eyes paused at a table on the other side of the room, occupied by young girls. “Oh, Manora would be stuck with her.” He turned back to the other boys. “Didn’t anything interesting happen since I left?”

  The report that followed didn’t mean much to Robinton, who didn’t know the weyrfolk named. But shortly a platter of sliced roast was shoved at Falloner, ending the discussion.

  “Back, are you?” the serving woman asked sourly. “Make sure there’s no trouble at this table. You hear me?”

  “As ever, Milla,” he replied with an innocent smile.

  “Rangul, go fetch the tubers,” she added.

  “I had to peel ’em,” he protested.

  “All the more reason to serve the product of your labors. Go. Jesken, you get the salad.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Rangul pushed back his chair and with no good grace collected the large, steaming bowl. Jesken was back before him with the basket of salad.

  Falloner had by then served two big slices to Rob and himself, before passing the platter on. He gestured for Rangul to bring him the tubers. The lad complied, but sullenly: Falloner was clearly not one Rangul cared to antagonize.

  “You’re guest,” Jesken said, offering Robinton the salad.

  “And he’ll be singing later, too. Good voice, good music.” And Falloner winked at Robinton, who was then rather ner
vous about anyone finding out who had written the songs Merelan had told him were to be the Weyr’s evening entertainment.

  “I suppose we’ll have to listen to you, too,” Rangul said nastily to Falloner, his expression a mixture of irritation and envy.

  “I’m the one who can carry a tune,” Falloner said, grinning snidely across the table.

  “Those who can’t sing play instruments at the Harper Hall,” Robinton said, sensing this sort of teasing could easily turn nasty. Weyrlads were really no different from Harper Hall apprentices. “Hey, this roast is really good,” he added, hoping to divert the conversation.

  “Yeah, it is,” Falloner said, chewing. “Not that we don’t eat well here . . .”

  “Most of the time,” Jesken put in, his mouth so full that he had to push the gravy back in with one finger, which he then licked. “Real good tonight. Must have been younger than we usually get.”

  “We’ve got Robinton at the table, after all,” Falloner said, grinning.

  “You staying up here a while?” Sellel asked, glancing from Falloner to Robinton.

  “Tonight for sure,” Falloner said. He nudged Robinton in the ribs. “They’ll have you singing ’till dawn, you know.”

  “Then you’ll be singing right with us,” Robinton said, and put another forkful of the tender roast into his mouth. He sort of regretted that he’d have to eat lightly, but he couldn’t sing properly with a full gut.

  Sing he did, with Falloner, with his mother, and as a soloist. First, of course, they did the Duty Song, in which the entire audience joined, singing both chorus and verses once Robinton had sung the opening verse. There was applause for him through the first chorus. He rather liked that and took it for the compliment it was.

  Then his mother mouthed “Question Song” at him. It was not next on the program, but as she was conducting the concert, he sang it—to a hushed and very thoughtful audience. S’loner was beaming with delight at the weyrfolks’ surprise and attention.

  Robinton and Falloner did several of his songs, without saying who the composer was, and these were well received. The Weyr might not have a highly trained harper, but there were a lot of good voices and folk who picked up quickly on tune and chorus. This was a totally different audience from any Robinton had ever sung for—and quite possibly the best. His mother was responding to it, too, because her voice was joyous again, even in the more nostalgic melodies. They had established an unusual rapport with this audience, a new depth of “listening.”

  We listen, too, you know, harper boy, a voice said in his head, almost throwing him off his harmony.

  That explained much to Robinton, but he didn’t have time then to think it all through: he had to keep singing so as not to disappoint.

  There were calls for old favorites from the gathering and it wasn’t until Robinton’s voice cracked with fatigue that Merelan called a reluctant halt to the evening’s entertainment.

  “We’ve imposed outrageously on you, Merelan and young Robinton,” S’loner said, rising to his feet and scissoring his hands at the requests still being shouted from the tables. “It’s late, even for a Weyr gathering, and you’ve been more than generous with your time and repertoire.”

  “The Harper Hall’s tithe to the Weyr,” she replied, dipping her knees in her elegant bow and spreading her left hand to include the entire audience. “It is a pleasure to sing for you.”

  “Our dragons have enjoyed it almost as much as we have,” the Weyrleader said, and looked from her to Robinton, winking.

  Suddenly the elation that had sustained him through a very long performance seemed to drain out of Robinton, and he wavered on his feet.

  “Falloner, take young Robinton to bed,” S’loner said arbitrarily, pointing toward the dormitory area.

  “I’m near as tired as he is,” Falloner said and, throwing an arm about his friend’s shoulders, led him off.

  “As for you, my dear Merelan, Carola will escort you to our guest weyr, one that should be occupied by a queen dragon. Well, soon enough, soon enough . . .” S’loner was saying as the two boys left for the Lower Caverns.

  The next day, S’loner himself took them back to Benden Hold, Robinton and his mother quite conscious of the honor, even if they were both still fatigued by their exertions. Even Falloner was not his usual self, silent in his father’s presence.

  “I shall sleep all week,” Merelan said as they waved farewell to the bronze rider and Chendith. “But what a splendid evening, Robie. That was a glorious performance. I know I’ve never sung so well before, and you were fabulous. I only hope that you keep that treble a while longer.” She sighed and ruffled his hair as they climbed the steps into the Hold. “And have a mature voice, too, of course.”

  Lady Hayara arrived, waddling awkwardly since she was nearly at the end of this pregnancy. “I was sure they would keep you overnight when you didn’t arrive at a decent hour,” she said as she accompanied them into the Hold and toward the main stairs. “You look exhausted . . . did it go well? You have a glow about you, you know. Do you need anything? I won’t go up the stairs with you today, I think.” She gave a breathy sigh and fanned her face with her hand. “I had hoped to be delivered on time this time . . .”

  Commiserating with the Lady and assuring her that they were all right, Merelan led her son up to their quarters, her shoulders sagging only when they were out of Hayara’s sight.

  “Singing like that sure takes it out of one, doesn’t it?” his mother said as they entered their quarters. “Oh!”

  They both saw the roll of a large message on the table, its origin obvious by the Harper-blue band spiraling its length. Her hand hesitated above the tube just a moment, but then grasped it firmly and broke the seal as she seated herself. She pulled out a sheaf of music and spread it open. Robinton saw her face pale, and her fingers shake a bit as she read the brief message attached to it.

  “No, it’s not from your father.” She looked at the music before finishing the note. “It’s from Master Gennell. Hand me my gitar, Robie.”

  He uncased it instantly, surprised at her urgency. It was then that he realized his mother had not sung any of his father’s compositions in the Hold or in the Weyr. He knew that she was probably the only singer who could technically handle the difficult works his father wrote. Seeing her struggle a bit to stop the score from rolling up again, he planted his hands on the edges.

  She struck the opening chord, paused to tune the strings slightly, and began again. Halfway through the first page, she looked up at her son, confused and surprised.

  “This isn’t at all like your father . . .” She peered closely at the script. “But it is certainly his writing,” she said, and continued playing the notes.

  Robie followed the music, and deftly shifted the pages from one to the next. He almost missed one turning because he, too, became touched by the plaintive melody, the minor chordings, the whole tenor of the music. As the last of the gitar notes died away, mother and son looked at each other, Merelan perplexed, Robinton anxious. He wanted her to like it, too.

  “I think I can say,” she began slowly, “without fear of contradiction”—a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth—“that this is the most expressive music your father has ever written.” She wrapped both arms around her gitar. “I think he misses us, Robie.”

  He nodded. The music had definitely been melancholic, where his father usually wrote more . . . more positive, aggressive music, full of embellishments and variations, with wild cadenzas and other such flourishes. Rarely as simple, and elegant, a melody as this. And it was melodic.

  She picked up Master Gennell’s note. “Master Gennell thinks so, too. ‘Thought you ought to see this, Merelan. A definite trend toward the lyric. And, in my opinion, quite likely the best thing he’s ever written, though he’d be the last to admit that.’ ” Merelan gave a little laugh. “He’ll never admit it, but I think you’re right, Master Gennell.” She looked at her son. “What do you think, dear? About t
he music?”

  “Me?” Flustered, he couldn’t find the proper words. “Are there any words to it?”

  “Why don’t you write some, dear? Then it would be a father and son collaboration. The first, perhaps, of many?”

  “No,” Robinton said thoughtfully, though he wished with all his heart right then that there could be a chance his father would use words he had written. “I think you’d better add the words, Mother.”

  “I think, my son, we’ll both work on the proper lyrics.” She ruffled his hair, her eyes sad despite the slight smile on her lips. “If we can find appropriate ones . . .”

  CHAPTER VIII

  ROBINTON DIDN’T KNOW what his mother wrote in her reply to Master Gennell, but she did explain to her son that she had to finish out her contract with Benden Hold. She also wanted to give C’gan, the Weyrsinger, more training. He was musically sound enough, but needed to develop more confidence in his harpering. She would also insist that a good, voice-training Harper be assigned to Benden Hold when apprentices walked the tables to journeyman status this summer. Benden deserved the best there was.

  “For a variety of reasons,” she said. “However, I think we’ll bring Maizella back with us to the Hall. She’ll profit more from working with various masters now that she’s learned the basics.” She gave one of her enigmatic smiles. “She can sing with Halanna.”

  Robinton’s opinion wasn’t asked, but he would have much preferred a longer term at Benden Hold and not just because of his friendship with Falloner, Hayon, and the others. He didn’t really want to go back to the Harper Hall, even if, when an excited Maizella started quizzing him about his home, he suddenly missed his friends there, even Lexey.

  Maizella’s parents were delighted to think that the Mastersinger even suggested the idea for their daughter. That was after Lady Hayara gave birth to a son.

  “I’d have preferred another girl,” she admitted to Merelan when she and Robie dutifully visited her. “It’s so much easier to just marry them off suitably than have to worry about all the rivalry among boys to succeed. I mean, I know that Raid will make a good Lord Holder but . . .” And she never finished her sentence.