The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Nowhere, as I interpret the matter,” Master Gennell said when Robinton had his interview. “Young Lord Raid has a lot to learn about handling his people.” The MasterHarper sat with steepled fingers and a sympathetic expression on his face. “He will, though. He had good training. And the results of his current practices will show him the error of his ways.”

  “Really?” Robinton gave a snort of disbelief.

  “Oh, I think so.” Then Master Gennell grinned. “Actually I can use your talents in at least six other positions. You may choose.”

  That was how Robinton came to spend the next two Turns at Tillek Hold. And found the first love of his life. The only two drawbacks to the posting would be the awful weather that never seemed to include many sunny days, and the very sharp, foxy white wine the slopes of Tillek hills produced. He would also start the extra study for his Mastery, which included Applications of the Charter and the Precepts of Arbitration and Mediation, advanced aspects of the Harper Hall’s purview. The Tillek Hold Masterharper, Minnarden, had agreed to undertake his tuition, since Minnarden attended the Hold’s court sessions. Robinton was looking forward to working under Minnarden, and his mother thought well of this Master.

  “Solid man for basics, and a kind person, too,” she’d said. “You’ll have no trouble with him.” She’d added one of her mischievous smiles, slanting her gaze up at her tall son. “He dandled you on his knee at one point.” She laughed as Robinton grimaced. “Don’t worry, love. He won’t embarrass you by remembering.”

  Robinton certainly hoped not. He didn’t think such a reminiscence would be good for his authority over a class.

  He, and young Groghe, Grogellan’s third son, made the trip on runnerback: some of the good Ruathan stock which were so popular, plus a pack animal for their supplies and effects. Groghe was going to spend a Turn in Tillek Hold, stewarding for Lord Melongel. Lord Holders often rotated their sons in hold management, or fostered them outright from time to time. Groghe was Rob’s age, an energetic young man who resembled his mother, Lady Winalla, more than his father. He made the arduous trip pleasant for, despite a tendency to make all the decisions about camping and hunting and duties, he was a sturdy traveler and a good companion. His taste in songs leaned to the bawdy but Robinton didn’t mind obliging him in the evenings, especially when they sheltered overnight in one of the all-male holds—miners, herders, and foresters—on their way. For the simpler melodies, Groghe sometimes accompanied him on a pipe.

  On the way, Groghe had a small errand to do for his father. One of Lord Grogellan’s high mountain holders was having trouble with a neighbor who was on Tillek Hold lands, not Fort’s. Groghe was to see what he could do to solve a problem that had now existed for several Turns.

  “I’m fed up with his complaints, both written and at Gathers,” Lord Grogellan had said. “I’ve sent messages to Melongel, who’s equally disgusted with the case. With Journeyman Robinton along, you should be able to solve the problem. A matter of a mutual wall, I understand. Making a mountain out of a very small pile of dirt.”

  When they came down the side of the mountain, heading north, they saw the two cots, both substantial in size. The Fort man was a herder, the Tillek man a forester. The cots were separated by several dragon-lengths, and in plain sight was a collapsed stone wall, five or six dragon-lengths long, which separated field from forest. Perhaps a storm had brought down a swath of trees, smashing into the structure and damaging a long stretch. They could also see the shaggy coats of herdbeasts being driven from the forest, with angry shouts by the men doing the driving, and furious cries from three men waiting on the field side. The drivers were not sparing of their clubs in getting the woolly beasts back on their own side of the wall.

  “Fix that sharding wall, Sucho, or I’ll kill the next ones that come into my plantation!”

  The driver’s bellowed threat earned easily to the two travelers.

  “We would arrive in the middle of it,” Groghe said to Robinton with a grimace. “Ah, well! It’s to be done!”

  They had indeed hoped to arrive before dark, so they could have a quick assessment of the problem. Now the issue would have to be met immediately.

  “A wall has two sides,” Robinton remarked and grinned.

  “Good evening to you,” Groghe said, raising his voice.

  The driver had stopped at the pile of stones and, shielding his eyes from the glare of a sun close to setting, peered at the two riders. The holder whirled, raising a sturdy staff, and his sons—they resembled him too much to be anything but—assumed defensive stances.

  “Groghe of Fort Hold and Journeyman Harper Robinton,” Rob called out, raising his hand high.

  The two older men exchanged glances. “You’ve been complaining again to Lord Groghe, Sucho?” the forester shouted, grinning maliciously. “Welcome, Holder and Harper. You must spend the night with me and mine.” He gestured to his own two sons.

  “We’ll be grateful for shelter, I assure you,” Robinton said at his most gracious, close enough to the wall now to halt his runner and swing down from the saddle. He was taller than any of them, and he would use that to his advantage.

  Groghe dismounted as well, and stood firmly at Robinton’s side. “My father, Lord Grogellan, wants this settled and has sent me and Journeyman Robinton to be sure that this time the matter is finished.”

  That was all that was needed to send both men into loud and conflicting claims: Tortole insisted that the wall had fallen on Sucho’s side, so it was up to him to repair it; Sucho claimed that if Tortole hadn’t been so clumsy in felling the line of trees so that they damaged the wall, there wouldn’t have been a problem. Robinton then noticed that the remains of the uprooted trees on Tortole’s side were well covered in moss, suggesting that the stumps had been there for many Turns. That the storm had done more damage to the forestation, knocking down a swath that continued on up and down the hillside, than to the meadows of the herder was clear, but why two isolated families would not combine to replace the dividing wall was not.

  “Enough!” Groghe shouted.

  “Quite enough,” Robinton said into the sudden stillness. “A wall has two sides, my friends.”

  The response was blank looks. The younger men muttered together.

  “Of course a wall has two sides,” Sucho said, scowling.

  “Your side and his side,” Robinton said patiently. “You build your side and he will build his side.”

  Sucho and Tortole goggled at him. Groghe turned a chuckle into a cough.

  “The wall was not one stone thick, was it?” Robinton went on, looking sternly over the group. He could see that the wall had been wide and high enough to keep the herdbeasts from easily jumping over to reach the lush grass where the swath had been cleared.

  Sucho shook his head. “That wall’s been there since my hold was built.”

  “Since my hold was built, you mean,” Tortole said.

  “Then it’s small wonder that it has fallen. The mortar would have deteriorated over the Turns,” Robinton said. “But that does not keep it from having two sides. You—” He pointed over the fallen wall at Tortole. “—will build your side, smack up against Sucho’s.” He turned to the herder. “And you will be sure to build your side smack up against Tortole’s. You alternate putting in the mortar to be sure that both sides are bound together.”

  “And we will see you started in the morning,” Groghe said.

  “But we’ve other work to do!” Tortole shouted, outraged.

  “I’ve herds to tend,” Sucho bellowed simultaneously.

  “I notice that you each have two sons,” Robinton put in. “Strong fellows, and you have the stones to hand. I wonder which of you, working three to a side, can finish your side first.”

  “Why, my sons and I . . .”

  “My sons and I . . .”

  Tortole and Sucho glared at each other.

  “Then we will see just who does win tomorrow, won’t we?” Robinton said as pleasantly a
s possible, smiling amiably.

  “You’ll stay with us,” Sucho said, jerking a thumb at his chest.

  “No, they’ll stay with us in a decent cot—” Tortole replied.

  “No!” Robinton’s well-trained bellow silenced them both. “Since Groghe is Fort, he will stay with his holder. And I, not being beholden to either Fort or Tillek, will stay with Tortole. However, if this evening, anyone will care for a song or two, I will sit on that post—” He pointed to the one still standing, where a gate of sorts must once have been, allowing access from one holding to the other. “—and sing for both families. Since a harper is obliged to be impartial.”

  Then, before the astonished men could argue further, he swung upon the Ruathan runner and urged it forward, finding a narrow place where the animal could hop easily over the scattered stones.

  “Will it be possible to have a wash before dinner?” he asked his appointed host as he paused by him.

  Groghe was drawing Sucho with him toward the cot, where several more figures had appeared in the doorway. Groghe was initiating pleasantries, and Robinton heard the grumbles of answers.

  “I do hope that we will not put you out for our dinner. We have our own provisions,” Robinton said. “A nice plump wherry that I took off its branch this morning.” He patted the carcass, which he had fastened to the back of his saddle.

  “How’d you get it?” one of the sons asked, peering at the beheaded avian.

  “Knife throw,” Robinton said indifferently. It wouldn’t hurt to suggest that he was proficient with a blade. He was, but it bore repeating with these rough-living folk. Tortole was massive. His sons, while younger, were no less substantial. It amused him that the herders looked equally able to take care of themselves, which probably contributed to the stand-off.

  “And you a harper?” The son sounded surprised.

  “Oh, I have to travel long distances on my own,” Robinton said as they reached the forester’s cot. He nodded pleasantly to the three women who came out, their curiosity getting the better of their shyness. “Hunting’s necessary from time to time.” He gave a courteous bow to the oldest of the women, dressed in rough skin pants and clearly embarrassed to have a visitor. “I have begged shelter from your spouse. And bring this to add to the supper pot.” He bowed again as he handed over the wherry.

  She opened and closed her mouth several times without getting a sound out.

  One of the others took it from her, examining it with a knowledgeable eye, and managed a grin. “Young and fresh. Thanks, Harper.” She nudged the other, who was too surprised to respond to his smiles in any way. “It’ll do just fine. If these louts would do more hunting instead of herding, we’d not take yours from you.” She gave the men a withering smile and then, grabbing the old woman by the arm and prodding the other with the wherry carcass in her hand, she propelled them all into the cot.

  “I’ll get the loft ready for you, Harper,” one of the lads said, remembering the duties of hosting.

  “I’ll do your mount Ruathan, isn’t it?” the other said, taking the reins from Robinton’s hand and casting an approving eye over the runner.

  “I’ll just . . . take my things,” Robinton said, slipping open the knot that tied the saddlebags and grabbing them and his gitar.

  “You’ll play for us this evening?” the first lad asked, eyes glinting with hope.

  “I said I will. And I will. On the post so both—” He paused for emphasis. “—can enjoy.”

  The cot, while somewhat primitive, was larger inside than it looked outside. The main room was obviously where most interior work was done, but it was separated into sections: one for the women’s tasks, another for the men’s, with an eating area and well-made chairs set near the fireplace. There were rooms off each end, and off the long wall that the hearth dominated; ladders led to lofts on both sides. If he were to be accommodated above, Robinton decided, he’d best remember to keep his head down.

  But he was escorted to one of the side rooms, which contained one large bed. The son cleared clothing from the two stools and one chest, where he gestured for Robinton to place his bags.

  “Who am I displacing?” the journeyman asked.

  “My father and mother.” The son gave a chuckle. “The honor is theirs, and ours, to have a harper as guest. I’m Valrol. My brother is Torlin. My mother’s name is Saday; the girl who took the wherry is my spouse, Pessia, from Tillek Fishercrafthall. My sister is Klada. She would like to spouse Sucho’s son, but my parents won’t let her because of the wall. But, if she spouses him, then Pessia and I will have a room to ourselves.”

  Valrol spoke in a low voice and quickly, trying to give Robinton all the necessary information before an extended absence brought his father to see what was delaying them.

  “I’ll show you where the bath is,” he said, and Robinton murmured thanks, rummaging in his pack for his towel, soap, and a clean shirt.

  The bath was actually heated by some connection with the hearth, so it was not the cold wash that he could have expected. He did not loll in the warm water, though he would have liked to soak the aches of travel out of his bones, but he was grateful for the luxury.

  A trestle table had been set up, but Robinton had the impression that the family usually ate in the chairs by the fireplace. Pessia was putting the last of the wherry sections into the bubbling cauldron swung over the fire. Saday was busy tearing greens into a beautifully crafted wooden bowl, while Klada, still in shock from being in the presence of a stranger, and a harper at that, was trying to put cups on a tray without dropping them. With an exclamation at her awkwardness, Torlin took the tray from her and, grabbing up a wineskin, gestured for the harper to take a seat at the table.

  Foxy though the wine was, Robinton was grateful for the cup and gave a proper Harper toast to his hosts, smiling at Saday when she shyly placed the salad bowl on the table.

  “That’s beautifully done, Holder Saday,” he said pleasantly, rubbing a finger along the rim. “Local wood?”

  She nodded, managing a smile, and then looked anywhere but at him, taking a long drink from her cup.

  By the time dinner was served and eaten, she had grown accustomed enough to him that she suddenly blurted out that she had turned the bowl herself.

  “Do you send your wares to the Gathers?” he asked. Many people made a few extra marks from their homemade things.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Not good enough.”

  “I think so,” he said kindly, “and I’ve worked in wood. I make my own instruments.”

  She bent her head, and that was the last he heard from her in conversation. His reassurance sat well with Tortole, though, who was far more amiable as the meal progressed. The men dominated the talk, asking questions and listening eagerly to Robinton’s answers; their original rancor over his solution to the wall problem was easing. Pessia, having been reared in a large community, felt comfortable enough to break in several times with cogent queries about the rest of Pern, and Valrol beamed proudly at her. Seen in a less threatening posture, Valrol was a good-looking young man. Robinton noticed the fond glances exchanged by the two and understood why she had taken him, despite the hold’s isolation. Klada was attractive, too, or would be if she looked up at anyone.

  The pleasant after-dinner talk was truncated by a knock on the door. All three men lurched to their feet and Saday gave a fearful squeak, but it was Robinton who reached the door first, forestalling further unpleasantness.

  Groghe stood in the doorway, a glowbasket in one hand and his pipe in the other.

  “Damned near broke my neck over that sharding wall,” he muttered under his breath. “Are you finished eating, Journeyman Robinton, so that we can have the soothing benefit of new songs?”

  A glowbasket appeared in Tortole’s hand. Shawls and jackets appeared on the Tortole contingent as they all stepped out, forming a sort of cordon that moved with Robinton.

  “Pessia, grab my gitar, would you please?” he asked, pointing to th
e side room where he had put his things.

  Once she returned, smiling at being given such an honorable task, he joined Groghe and they all made their way to the post where he had said he would sing. The Sucho group had brought out chairs, and instantly Tortole ordered his sons to bring seating for his folk.

  “Lovely evening,” Robinton said as Groghe found himself a seat on the broken wall and settled down. The harper returned the Holder’s wink with a nod and a grin and tuned his gitar.

  Despite this being a very small gathering, he started off with the Duty Song, Groghe joining him with his pipes.

  The look on the faces lit by the glowbasket, their hunger for music, for companionship—which made this estrangement over a wall even more ridiculous—was a scene that Robinton doubted he would forget. And one that made his profession all the more important in his own eyes. He had taken so much for granted in his own life.

  He played and sang until he went hoarse. As the gathering progressed, one after another of his listeners began to sing choruses with him. In fact, by the time he could sing no more, he had quite a good chorus going, with three-part harmony in places.

  It was Groghe who called a halt. Robinton could no longer feel his own buttocks, they’d been mashed against the post so long.

  “We have had a long day’s travel, my friends, and you have a wall to build tomorrow,” the holder said. “You have sung in harmony this evening. Continue that mood tomorrow.”

  “I’ll only build my half of the wall,” Tortole said, unwilling to concede.

  “And Sucho will build his,” Robinton said quickly, pointing at Sucho, who hesitated briefly before nodding. “Your women don’t need you two fighting,” he added. “They are lonely enough up on this hill without being able to share their lives with another family.”

  The women agreed loudly.