The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I have, but Faroguy’s preference for Fax makes me wonder. He was born when Evelene had all those miscarriages. Before Farevene was finally born.” But Mallan had let the subject drop.

  The disturbing conduct of Fax ended up being the only unpleasantness Robinton encountered during his Turns at the big Hold. He even had his first experience with a woman, thanks to Mallan’s conniving. Robinton had never thought much about his appearance, looking into a mirror only to be sure his hair was neat: he wore his dark brown hair long and braided, as many young men were currently doing. But he was putting flesh on his long bones, filling out, thanks to Lotricia’s generosity with her “treats,” and striding up and down the hills had added muscle to his lean shanks and chest.

  As harper, he usually played for the dances, rather than taking part in them. Then one day when Mallan noticed him chatting with three of the young holder girls between dances, he nudged Robinton.

  “I’ll take the next set for you. Time you picked out a partner.” Another nudge to Robinton’s ribs was accompanied by a wink. Then he stopped Robinton’s protest by turning to the first girl. “Sitta, he’s shy. Spent so much time playing for dancers, he doesn’t know the steps.”

  “Don’t know . . . of course I know how to dance,” Robinton protested, and he made haste to invite Sitta to dance. It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed her, with her delicately slanting eyes in a charming face and her tiny figure, set off by the bright dark blue of her Gather dress. It was more that he didn’t quite know how to strike the right note with those he fancied.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Sitta said demurely, setting her tiny hand among his string-callused fingers.

  “I’ve wanted to,” Robinton replied sincerely.

  “It’s about time you did, Harper,” she replied pertly, and then they were on the dance floor, saluting each other as the other couples did, before the music began—adagio this time, so he did not have the chance to embrace her.

  Sitta was a nice child, and after two dances with him, suggested that he partner one of her friends so as not to give anyone cause for talk. Quickly Robinton agreed; as a harper, he certainly shouldn’t publicly indicate a marked preference—yet. And secondly, he really did want to dance. It was exhilarating. He also danced with Triana and Marcine. Triana was jolly and seemed more interested in being seen to dance than who she was partnered with. Marcine was pleasant and attentive. Then it was time for him to take up his instrument again.

  Triana went off in search of another partner, though she said he was one of the best she’d had here, while Sitta and Marcine hung about the players’ platform and were quite happy to wait until he was free again.

  The next few days he seemed to meet Sitta and Marcine accidentally wherever he went. Then he was off on his rounds for the next four. When he returned late in the evening, Sitta was somehow in the main Hall, so it was natural for her to make sure he had something warm to eat and drink. And something warm in his bed to welcome him home.

  Robinton used the same sign to Mallan that the older journeyman did—tipping one of the chairs against the table to indicate that he was not to be disturbed in his room. So he and Sitta discovered each other, and he found this aspect of life very good indeed. Sitta made every effort to waylay him in the Hold until he thought her as clever as a dragon to be able to find him so easily. Marcine pouted for a week or so, but both she and Triana continued to seek him out as a dance partner. Never more than two dances at a time, however.

  Sitta might fancy being a harper’s spouse, but until he had a more permanent placing, he could not entertain the thought of any serious long-term partnership. But it was very pleasant to have a loving friend. It was very different from a loving mother.

  The news he had from the Harper Hall was that Merelan was in fine voice and very good health. He heard from her whenever the runners brought in letters, and he always had one to send back to her.

  F’lon and Simanith came with the word that Carola had taken ill and Masterhealer Ginia had been sent for. The entire Weyr was upset because Feyrith was a relatively young queen. Any dragon’s death was a shock to the rest of the Weyr, but to lose the queen was disastrous.

  “I’ve never cared that much for Carola as a person, I know, but she is a dragonrider . . .” F’lon looked glum.

  “Feyrith would just go?” Robinton exclaimed. “But the Weyr has to have a queen!”

  “We do,” F’lon reminded him. “From the last clutch, even if she is very young. Mind you, I could wish there’d been more choice for Nemorth than that Jora!” He exhaled in exasperation.

  “Why?” Robinton asked, his mind more fixed on the enormity of the loss of a queen than what annoyed F’lon about Jora.

  “Why? Because she’s afraid of heights. Can you imagine that? Won’t matter. Simanith fancies Nemorth, and I’d rather have a plump body than the rack of bones Carola’s become.”

  “You don’t think your father’s bronze will give way to yours?” Robinton asked, startled. He knew how ambitious F’lon was, and how competitive bronze riders always were about mating flights, but wasn’t F’lon ignoring the fact that his father was a good deal more experienced?

  F’lon had the grace to look abashed. “Well, even S’loner can’t last forever, you know. And Simanith is a very good bronze!”

  “I’m sure of that,” Robinton replied quickly.

  Thank you, Harper.

  Robinton beckoned for F’lon to lean closer. “Doesn’t it upset him?”

  “It won’t until it happens. Dragons don’t much worry about tomorrow, you know. It’s why they need riders.”

  Three days before Turn’s End, the weyrwoman died, having valiantly fought to live. In the Harper Hall, Robinton was instantly aware of Simanith’s grief at the loss of Feyrith, although he said nothing until the drums confirmed the deaths. It certainly was grim news for all the celebrations. Everyone mourned the loss of both dragon and rider. Robinton was especially devastated, as he was one of the few people in High Reaches Hold who had known both weyrwoman and dragon in the prime of life. But he didn’t have much time to mourn, for Lobirn told him that Master Gennell wished him back in the Harper Hall for a new assignment.

  “You’ve learned a lot here, Rob, and I’m sorry to see you go, but you’ve more talent, both as a teacher and a musician, than is needed here. And there are other places where you can do more,” Master Lobirn said when F’lon and Simanith arrived to convey Robinton and his effects. Then he embraced the young man firmly, despite the disparity of their heights, and turned quickly away.

  Lotricia also hugged him, weeping and telling him to be careful, and to come back and visit whenever he could.

  Robinton had already taken formal leave of Lord Faroguy, who had unexpectedly given him a fat purse of marks.

  “You’ve been a fine worker, and all reports of your conduct and effectiveness have been full of praise. You deserve something to see you comfortable in your next position. Give my regards to Master Gennell, and of course, to Mastersinger Merelan.” Faroguy had extended his hand, and Robinton had been happy to shake it enthusiastically, even though he had to soften his grip when he noted Faroguy wincing.

  Now Mallan shook his hand, grinning, and at last Robinton was ready to leave.

  “When’s the mating flight?” he asked F’lon when he settled on Simanith’s back behind his old friend. He spoke teasingly.

  “I’m not sure Nemorth’ll ever get off the ground the way Jora acts,” he said in disgust. “The girl is afraid of heights. She only takes the steps to her weyr if someone walks on the outside to keep her”—he altered his voice to a squeaky falsetto—“ ‘from tipping off.’ ”

  “But doesn’t she . . .”

  “Fortunately,” F’lon went on, “when Nemorth’s lust is up it won’t matter a pile of old ashes what Jora wants.” He grinned wickedly back at the harper. “Nemorth’s blood will be up, and nature will take its course.”

  “And S’loner?”

 
; “He’ll take his chances with the rest of us.”

  Just then Simanith, who had surprised Robinton by walking to the edge of the High Reaches court, scared him half to death by falling off the edge into the long drop down to the valley floor. His stomach dropped and he clutched frantically at F’lon, wondering what ailment had taken the dragon so suddenly.

  F’lon was howling with laughter at his reaction, and then they were between and the chill was almost welcome as the alternative to being dashed on the rocks.

  “That was a damned nasty trick,” Robinton said, leaning forward so that F’lon could hear him as they circled above the Harper Hall. He also gave F’lon an angry punch in the shoulder blades to show his displeasure.

  “Why should Simanith waste energy leaping when he can glide off?”

  “You might have warned me.”

  F’lon’s chuckle whipped back to Robinton’s ears and he knew it was useless to complain.

  Simanith, the next time F’lon does that, would you please give me a second’s warning? Robinton asked. He’d had little occasion to initiate conversations with Simanith, so he wasn’t sure if the bronze would hear him.

  I will try to remember since you don’t like falling. At least Simanith sounded apologetic, which somewhat mollified Robinton.

  Not above another display, F’lon had Simanith gliding in a lazy spiral down to the Harper Hall courtyard, making certain that their arrival was witnessed. By the time Simanith had folded his wings to his back, a welcoming committee had gathered on the steps. Robinton would really have preferred a less public arrival. His mother, who did look well to his searching gaze, was standing by Lorra, who had her arm about the shoulders of a very pretty, tall brunette who looked somewhat familiar. Kubisa completed the smiling group. Glancing up at the rehearsal room where Petiron spent so much time, Robinton could neither see nor hear any activity. He breathed a sigh of relief and then dismounted, striding to the steps to embrace his mother.

  She was not quite as frail in his arms as when he had bid her good-bye three Turns before, but there were a lot of white streaks in her carefully braided hair and he thought her face looked more lined. Those marks of aging disturbed him terribly—he didn’t like to think of his mother growing old. But he hid his fears with smiles and all the glib, silly phrases people say when renewing contact.

  In the fuss to thank them all for coming, he kept glancing at the very pretty adolescent brunette, who was also pretending to be composed, a state belied by the flush that kept coming and going on her cheeks. Then he put a name to her face.

  “The Turns have done you well, Silvina,” he said, holding out a hand to his childhood playmate while still embracing his mother.

  “And you’re not so bad yourself now, Harper,” she said pertly, grinning.

  “You’ve filled out a great deal,” Merelan said, patting his chest and feeling the muscles in his arm. “You’re even taller,” she added with a sort of accusatory wonder, as if he had no right to alter his appearance while separated from her.

  “Master Lobirn worked me hard,” he said, pretending weariness.

  “Nonsense,” Kubisa said in her forthright fashion. “You look in fine shape. In fact, you’ve improved quite a bit.”

  Betrice appeared in the doorway. “Ah, he has come. Good. Lorra’s laid a spread for you, and we’re all waiting to see if she’s done you proud. Come in, come in, Robie.” She grabbed his hand away from Silvina and led him in.

  Robinton released his mother only when they were in the small dining room and he could settle her in a chair. Just as he was about to seat himself, Master Ogolly came rushing in.

  “Oh, I did want to be on time,” the Archivist said peevishly. “My dear boy, it’s so good to see you!” Then he looked at the laden table and beamed. “How marvelous. I’ll just stop for a cup of klah, and maybe one of those little cakes, but I’ve got such clumsies as apprentices this Turn. You don’t know how much I miss your neat copying, Robie. Oh, I should give you your full name now, shouldn’t I, Journeyman Robinton?”

  “You can call me what you will, Master Ogolly. I’m always yours to command.”

  “Master Gennell will want to see you sometime this afternoon, Rob,” Betrice said, “when his class is over.”

  “Any ideas about where I’m to be posted next?” He winked at Betrice to assure her that he didn’t expect her to tell him.

  “Oh, we’ll keep you busy enough,” she assured him with a mock scowl.

  The conversation went to general topics, such as who had been posted where, and Robinton asked after his old dorm mates who now were journeymen, too, and heard about Shonagar’s latest wrestling successes. That made him think of Fax.

  “What’s wrong, Rob?” his mother asked, a gentle hand on his arm, as she caught his change of mood.

  “Nothing,” he said. His response didn’t fool her, but he didn’t feel that Fax’s delinquency in educating his holders was a subject for this table.

  When he did have a chance to bring the subject up to Master Gennell during his interview with the harper, Gennell nodded soberly.

  “Lobirn has acquainted me with that situation. Unfortunately, without Faroguy’s consent, the Hall can do nothing.”

  “But that’s not right,” Robinton protested.

  Gennell nodded again, sympathetically. “We can only do so much, Rob, and are wiser not to trespass where a harper’s life might be endangered.”

  Robinton blinked in surprise. “Endangered?”

  “There have been such problems before, lad, and there will again, but somehow it comes right. As long as Fax keeps his ideas to his own hold, I can do nothing. Nor is it wise to. That’s something you learn as you go on. Cut your losses when you have to. One small hold in the northern lands is not as vital as a larger one nearer home, as it were. But I’m assigning you to where you will do the most good. Now—” Gennell swiveled and pointed to a peg. “—that’s your new assignment. And I think you’ll do quite well there. You got a fine recommendation from Lobirn, and he’s not easy to please. But first . . . Petiron is away for several days, so you might like to relax and spend some time with your mother.”

  “She’s not well?” Robinton leaped on the wording.

  “Yes, yes, she’s fine, lad. No need to fret about her as you’ll discover,” Gennell said. He sounded so sincere that Robinton relaxed. “There’s a ship due in at the Fort harbor and you can take passage on that . . . and let’s not prevail too much on a dragonrider’s favor for transport.”

  “F’lon insisted . . .”

  “Now, now, I’m not faulting you, Rob, but I think it better that you arrive at Benden—”

  “Benden?” Robinton couldn’t believe in such luck.

  “Yes, Benden—but arrive this time without benefit of Simanith’s wings. That young lad is a thorn in Lord Maidir’s side, both he and that father of his, the Weyrleader.”

  “But, when Mother and I were there, Lord Maidir—”

  Gennell held up his hand. “As I said, it would be better if you didn’t arrive on dragon wing. I don’t want you considered an alarmist, too. Harper Evarel is looking forward to your assistance. He’s retiring soon, and if you suit Lord Maidir—in fact, he asked if you were available now—you’d probably stay on there.”

  Robinton forbore to ask further questions, knowing that he could find out for himself what the situation was. It was very odd that the Weyr’s own Hold was doubting the Weyrleaders.

  F’lon had expressed himself on this score during the informal party. The young bronze rider had also given him something more to think about as they crossed the courtyard to the waiting Simanith.

  “That pretty girl—Silvina—fancies you, lad,” he said. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off you. Don’t let a good opportunity pass you by, Rob.” And F’lon winked as he clapped the Harper on the back before taking the jump-step he always used to reach Simanith’s forearm. And then he was waving farewell from his bronz
e’s back.

  Robinton was so surprised by the comment that he had no time to tell F’lon that he’d known Vina as a playmate and she was probably just happy to see him again. He retreated a good dragon-length to avoid getting dust and grit in his eyes when Simanith leaped upward.

  But, later that night, after he and his mother had caught up on some of his more amusing adventures at High Reaches, he was too restless to sleep. Though she had told him his room was ready, he had insisted that he sleep in the journeymen’s accommodations. He knew she was disappointed, that she wanted to see to his comfort herself and enjoy his proximity. What he couldn’t say was that his old room would bring back far too many memories he had no desire to recall. Or maybe she understood that, because she didn’t press him. Casually she mentioned that Petiron was doing special music for a Tillek Holder espousal, and that was why the Hall seemed almost deserted. She had also noticed Silvina’s intentness.

  “She’s grown into such a lovely young woman. A nice rich contralto. Have you written any songs for that voice?”

  “Yes, actually, I have,” Robinton said, reaching for the leather folder that contained his scores. It gave him something to divert her from thinking more about Vina’s so-called interest in him. “In fact, I’ve copied out the best of my new tunes for you.” He put an emphasis on the word “tunes”—Petiron’s sarcastic name for them.

  “Now, Rob . . .” His mother gave him a reproving look.

  That was when he told her about Master Lobirn’s laughing fit, and she was appropriately amused by the incident. Then she insisted on looking at all his new songs, and played them, singing along half-voice, although occasionally singing out fully for the ones she particularly liked. He hummed along with her because he couldn’t help himself: singing his own songs with his mother was a pleasure long denied him.

  “Ah, dear love, you have such a knack for song and ballad,” she said when she had gone through the lot. “And you’ve developed so much . . .” She sighed. And Robinton, deciding she was tired, gathered up the scores and insisted that she rest now.