Robinton turned his head slowly to regard Fax and gave him a cool look.
“I believe so,” he said in a flat, unequivocal tone.
“You’re Harper here, are you, Robinton?”
“Yes.”
Fax regarded him steadily, amusement still keen. “And no corpse to lay to rest, either. Convenient that.”
Robinton refused to rise to the bait and looked straight ahead, hoping Fax would leave.
“I’ll leave you to your duty, then,” Fax said. Swiveling on one heel, he made a leisurely return to the Hall.
Raid was confirmed within the hour, and then Robinton was sent to find out if any of the dragonriders he had named were present in the Hold. The Council begged the favor of a few words with any of the bronze riders. Robinton wondered as he went on Search if he should send someone to wake F’lon. But he found M’ridin, C’vrel, C’gan, and C’rob in the courtyard, as well as the girl he had seen speaking to the Weyrleader.
“Manora here,” C’rob said, indicating the girl, “says that the Weyrleader was unwell at dinner. She overheard Maidir asking to be conveyed home and S’loner said he’d do it because he wanted an excuse to leave. He’s been having pains in his arm rather more often than he admitted, even to Tinamon.”
She looked both uneasy and dignified; her eyes were still red from tears. But she nodded, confirming what C’rob reported.
Robinton escorted them all to the Lord Holders. Fax sauntered along in their wake, smiling enigmatically when Robinton firmly closed the door in his face.
When the Lord Holders concluded their interview with Manora and the bronze riders, most of them left the small dining room for the refreshments available in the Hall. But Robinton saw Lord Faroguy in the group that remained, and was startled by the change in the man. He looked almost bloodless with fatigue, as if he had little energy and substance, barely responding to whatever Lord Melongel, of Tillek Hold, was saying to him.
Then Farevene bustled down the hall, carrying a tray of food and drink. Giving Robinton a nod of recognition, he hurried up to his father and Lord Melongel. Melongel took the nearest glass of wine and passed it to Faroguy, then watched anxiously as the older man sipped and smiled in appreciation of the courtesy.
“There may be need for another Council, soon, Harper,” Fax commented, appearing at Robinton’s elbow. “Mark my words.”
Robinton made no reply, managing to keep his expression bland though he seethed inwardly at Fax’s pretentiousness. He could not help but worry about Faroguy, though it irritated him to give any weight to something Fax might say. Especially since both Melongel and Farevene seemed so concerned over the High Reaches Holder.
There was little a harper could do, Robinton realized philosophically, but he’d have a word with Farevene if the opportunity arose. Then what Farevene was saying to his father reached his ears.
“Masterhealer Ginia would be glad to give you a consultation, Father, as soon as you feel able.”
“It won’t do any harm,” Melongel agreed heartily.
“Very well,” Faroguy said with a heavy sigh and a flick of his pale hands where they rested on the arm of the chair. He managed a weak smile. “I’d rather another Council was not called sooner than necessary. And on my account.” He took another drink of the wine, then looked at the glass. “Benden wine is, I fear, superior, Melongel.”
“Just give us the time Benden has had with vine-culture and you’ll see a comparison in our favor,” Melongel replied with a hint of challenge.
“Robinton?”
The journeyman turned at the touch on his arm to see C’vrel standing there, frowning.
“Simanith is on the heights, but I can’t find F’lon anywhere.”
“He’s asleep in my quarters. He was reeling with fatigue,” Robinton replied.
“Yes, well, we all are. But I’d rather you either kept him in your rooms or woke him now. Fax is wandering around, and I have a good suspicion—confirmed by Farevene in there—that he’s probably looking for F’lon.” C’vrel shifted his weight anxiously. “There’s no doubt in my mind that F’lon would start trouble. We’ve had enough.”
“I’d agree to that.”
C’vrel gave a short bark. “S’loner sent F’lon out on quite a few unwise”—he lifted one thick black eyebrow—“errands which, quite frankly, were not conducted to the Weyr’s advantage. I, for one, did not condone some of S’loner’s methods or aims. Candidly, it’s almost as much a relief to us—” The wave of his hand was meant to indicate the other older bronze riders. “—that S’loner’s no longer leader as it is to the Council. So do us all a favor, Harper, and keep F’lon out of Fax’s way. I’ll take the High Reaches party back myself. I didn’t know, in fact, that F’lon had been to that Hold today. M’ridin was to make that transfer.”
Robinton nodded. Odd: F’lon had wished Robinton to think he didn’t know Fax, and yet the young rider had seemed almost eager for a confrontation with the Holder. It was fortunate indeed that exhaustion had intervened.
As he made his way to the front staircase, Robinton stopped by Hayon. “I’ll be in my quarters if I’m needed. I’ve been advised to keep F’lon and Fax separated.”
“Oh, F’lon’s in your rooms?” Hayon heaved a sigh of relief. “We’ve all been wondering. Especially that Fax. I don’t like that man.”
“Perceptive of you, Hayon.”
“I’ll cover for you. There’re enough harpers here, as well as Master Gennell.”
Robinton wished he could have been in two places at once, but it was far more important for him to keep F’lon asleep until the Council had departed. He wondered just what had transpired between the two. F’lon was known to be a clever fighter . . . but no rider should put his life—and that of his dragon—in jeopardy. Which was why it had been irresponsible of S’loner to fly when he was unwell. Robinton knew that a man’s heart could stop from one second to another. Chendith would have known in that instant that his rider had died, and the presence of a passenger would not have deterred the dragon from suicide. And the grievously tragic death of Lord Maidir.
F’lon was asleep, sprawled out on the bed. Carefully, Robinton laid a blanket over him lest a chill wake him prematurely. The sun was well west by now, and the room was cooling down. He locked his door, pocketed the key, and, taking a light fur from the closet, laid himself down on the little bed in the room he’d occupied as a child. He was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
“All right, where’s the key?” a voice said in his ear as a hand shook him roughly.
The little room was dark, and only one glowbasket was open in the outer chamber, but the long boots on the figure by his bed told him that F’lon was up and anxious to leave.
“Oh, sorry, F’lon.”
F’lon snapped his fingers for the key as Robinton fumbled for it in his pants. “If I find that the High Reaches contingent took another dragon back, I shall be quite annoyed.”
“If one hasn’t,” Robinton replied, “I shall be.”
He gave the key over and lay back, wishing he’d been allowed to sleep round the clock as he heard F’lon stride noisily across the outer room, fumble the key into the lock, and swing the door open so roughly that it crashed into the wall.
“I’d better go after him,” he murmured to himself, but he consoled himself with the thought that C’vrel would have whisked the High Reaches trio off long before now.
He was right. F’lon must have just received that information from Hayon when Robinton reached the top of the stairs, for the bronze rider glared fiercely over his shoulder at him. Then, in one of his lightning changes of mood, F’lon smiled and waved a hand. The tension drained out of his figure, and he sauntered over to see what he could find on the depleted refreshment table. Hayon and his younger sisters and brothers formed a disconsolate group to one side of the hearth; on the other, Lady Hayara sat with her sisters and brothers who had come to bear her company.
Robinton made his way down the
stairs and stopped one of the drudges. “Would you know if the MasterHarper is still here?”
She pointed to the hallway and then crooked her finger to the left to indicate the small dining room.
He found Master Gennell with Lord Grogellan and the Masterhealer.
“F’lon is up,” he told them, “and I gather the High Reaches folk are long gone.”
Grogellan chuckled and Master Gennell grinned. “Master Ginia, did you get a chance to assess Lord Faroguy’s condition?” Grogellan asked.
She nodded. “His son will see that he has the best of care for however much longer he is with us,” she said solemnly. “It is a condition of the blood for which there is no cure for a man his age.”
“Does Fax know this?” Robinton asked bluntly.
Grogellan snorted and Master Gennell looked about to reproach his journeyman, but Ginia raised her hand.
“That young man knows a great deal too much about too many matters that are not actually the concern of a small”—and she stressed the adjective—“holder.”
“Who might not remain small,” Robinton said. “That’s a very ambitious and greedy person.”
“You had a run-in with him at High Reaches?” Gennell asked.
“Not a run-in, Master, but, as I felt obliged to tell you when I returned from that contract, he does not permit harpers to teach his holders basic skills.”
Grogellan raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned to Gennell. “Is that true?”
“Yes, I fear it is.”
“But surely someone as thorough as Faroguy would have insisted.”
“Faroguy is old, tired, and sick,” Robinton went on, “and remarks that the Charter allows autonomy within a Hold.”
“Which begs the question of whether the Hold in question allows the Charter in,” Master Ginia said, catching the point. At Robinton’s nod, she went on. “Frankly, I don’t like such an attitude. Intolerant and high-handed.”
“An educated cotholder is far more useful and productive,” Grogellan said.
“From what I understood, Fax’s cotholders had better produce as much as he expects them to,” Robinton said, “and no excuses allowed.”
“I shall give the problem considerable thought,” Gennell said.
“As will I,” Lord Grogellan said. He glanced over at the door and rose. “I see our rider has come. Will you be back at the Hall soon, Robinton?”
“I’m contracted here, Lord Grogellan, but it’s nice of you to inquire.”
“Keep me informed, Rob,” Gennell said, not needing to make specific what information he wanted.
Master Ginia, however, startled the journeyman by standing on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I promised your mother I would,” she said, and then left him gawping after her.
As he felt his cheeks reddening, he could only hope that no one else had seen her salutation. That wasn’t his mother’s style, but he smiled as Ginia disappeared down the hall.
Raid took Hold with no faltering and no hesitation. He called all his craftsmen to a meeting the next day and asked if there was any business that he needed to go over with any of them. Then he announced that his sister, Maizella, would exchange her espousal promises after the usual period of mourning, and that Lady Hayara would remain in the Hold until he could find a spouse of his own. He naturally would arrange suitable employment for his numerous half brothers and sisters.
If the speech was stuffy and stilted, there was no question that Raid would not honor his commitments. But Robinton quietly seethed at the awkward way the young man went about it. There were so many ways in which a bitter pill could be sweetened, and Raid seemed to know none of them, with all his blunt speaking and total disregard for the feelings of others. Only Maizella could rebuke him. Lady Hayara merely regarded him with filling eyes and numbly accepted his orders. Fortunately she was a capable woman and the ordering of the Hold had long been hers so there was no friction on that score. Even Raid knew her value to him. He didn’t even begin looking about for an appropriate girl until his father had been gone three full months.
But something had noticeably gone out of the Hold that Maidir had managed so capably and . . . circumspectly. Holders with problems did not discuss them with Lord Raid: he told them what they had to do and that was that. Robinton did what he could to soften the Lord Holder’s unequivocal statements, obliquely suggesting that Raid was still numbed by his father’s tragic demise; and that, while he was well-trained and competent, he still lacked the touch that only experience would give him.
One day just before Robinton would have been at Benden two full Turns, Raid called him to his office.
“I hear a few things about you, Journeyman, that I do not like,” he said, coming to the point immediately. “I am Lord Holder and what I say is how things will be. I do not need you soothing down disgruntled holders or denigrating my efforts behind my back. You may leave.”
“Leave?” Robinton felt as numb as he had suggested Raid was.
“Leave. I hereby release you from your contract.” Raid tossed a pouch of marks across the table to Robinton. “I shall request a replacement from the MasterHarper. Without prejudice, of course, since you have discharged your duties with efficiency and energy.”
“Efficiency” and “energy” were two of Raid’s favorite words.
“But I . . .”
“You may drum that bronze rider friend of yours to convey you back. Give this”—he fielded a little roll of hide to join the pouch—“to Master Gennell. You do not suit me as the Hold Harper.” Then he rose to his feet, to indicate the meeting was over.
For once robbed of words, Robinton scooped the two items off the table and, pivoting on one heel, strode out of the office, wanting very much to slam the door behind him.
Without a word to anyone, embarrassed and furious about his dismissal, he went up to his rooms and packed his things. He had to visit the schoolroom, where Maizella was rehearsing the secondary children; she must have known about his dismissal, because she only glanced up to see who was entering the room, then averted her eyes, saying nothing to him, continuing to listen to the recitations. He collected all his music and notes, and though he smiled at his former pupils, he said nothing.
Better to leave it at that, he thought as he ran up the tower steps three at a time. He was breathless at the top, but he had also worked off some of the frustration and anger he felt at such an unfair dismissal. Raid was just too inexperienced to realize how he offended his holders, or that a harper could be a good resource for management.
Hayon was on watch and smiled as Robinton entered. But whatever he was about to say by way of greeting died before he could sound it.
“I’m allowed to send a message,” Robinton said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. He picked up the sticks and rattled out a terse request for conveyance. Hayon’s eyes widened and he looked about to speak again, but held his peace.
It was awkward, waiting there for a response from the Weyr, but Robinton was not in a mood to placate anyone and Hayon was sensitive enough to feel it. The journeyman sank back down on the stool and waited, sipping at his klah during the interminable time it took for the distant drums to sound. A dragon would be there presently.
“All right, what’s wrong, Rob?” Hayon asked finally.
“Your brother does not find me a suitable harper.”
Hayon regarded him steadily. “My half brother,” he said with a deliberate emphasis on the degree of the relationship, “sometimes does not use the wits he was born with. If he was born with any. Does he know all that you do to calm down the experienced holders he keeps insulting?”
“That is precisely why I am to leave, Hayon. Tell Lady Hayara I’m sorry to go . . .”
“She’ll really miss you,” Hayon said staunchly.
“I certainly don’t envy her. Nor you.”
Hayon gave a little smile. “I’ll survive. At least, I’ve always known that I would have to.”
“There’s tha
t,” Robinton said and extended his hand, which Hayon clasped heartily in both of his.
“Tell you one thing, Maizella’s going to miss you at her espousal.”
“I think not,” Robinton said, but he smiled without rancor.
“Here comes your dragon. Oh, and if it’s F’lon, warn him that my brother’s raging over him paying so much attention to Naprila?”
“Oh?” Robinton had missed that. No, Lord Raid would not want his half sister seeing too much of a dragonrider, though he rather thought that Lord Maidir would have been receptive. Maidir had known that life in a Weyr could be preferable to working a Hold.
When Hayon rose to escort Robinton down the stairs, the journeyman shook his head. “Let’s not give Raid any cause for complaint about my departure. I want out as quietly and inconspicuously as possible.”
Hayon chuckled. “You will have to work hard to be inconspicuous, Rob. I shall miss you badly.”
With a final nod of thanks, Robinton started down, collected his carisaks from his room, and made his way down the main stairs and out the door without seeing anyone.
F’lon and Simanith had come for him. Robinton did see Raid at the office window, watching him sling his things up to F’lon to arrange on Simanith’s back. Then, with a good leap of his long legs, he made it to Simanith’s cocked forearm, and grabbed F’lon’s gloved hand to help him the rest of the way.
“Sacked you, did he?” F’lon said, grinning and tossing an airy wave in the direction of the office window.
“Did you know he would?” Robinton asked, wondering how he had missed the change in Raid’s attitude.
“I hoped he would. You can do better elsewhere.”
“Benden’s a good Hold,” Robinton protested out of loyalty and truth.
“Under Maidir, yes. Raid’s going to have to learn some tact.”
“You heard talk about that?”
F’lon gave a shrug. “Hang on.” And Simanith gave the head-snapping leap skyward.
Robinton did feel a lump in his throat at leaving Benden Hold. He had been happy there as a child, and so proud to have been asked to come back as a journeyman for Maidir. Really, he had done his best as he had been taught. Where had he gone wrong?
The Masterharper of Pern Page 24