The two families were already at work—the women of both working together to mix mortar and crack the old off the stones—by the time Groghe and Robinton were ready to mount. Robinton’s parting gift was a sheaf of songs, which he gave to Pessia.
“You have a good, strong alto. Get them singing again.”
“I will. I’ve missed it fearfully,” she said, holding onto his hand a moment before taking the music. “Thank you,” she added under her breath.
By the time they had reached the trail winding through the forestry, Groghe kicked Robinton’s stirruped foot, grinning. “A wall has two sides, indeed! You’ve a glib tongue on you, Harper, but what a great notion! My father will howl with laughter.”
Robinton grinned, though the image of the dignified Lord Grogellan howling with laughter was more than he could manage. He was, in truth, rather pleased with himself for the success of their interference.
CHAPTER XII
BY THE TIME they got to Tillek Hold, however, he had tired of hearing Groghe repeat the tale of their little foray into arbitration at every hold they sheltered in on the long coastline leading to the tip of Tillek and the Hold. Lord Melongel was relieved to hear that the situation had been remedied—and very pleased to procure Journeyman Robinton’s addition to his staff with such an instance of his abilities in the field. To offset this minor success, Robinton felt obliged to explain the circumstances under which he had left Benden Hold.
“He’ll learn, young Raid will,” Melongel said after Robinton had been candid with him. “His loss, Tillek’s gain. Come, meet my Lady and my tribe of promising Bloods. Master Minnarden’s off doing an arbitration service for me, so you’ll have to wait to hear what your precise duties are here. However, I’ll warn you now that I like to change journeymen every three to four Turns, so don’t take it personally when either Minnarden or I suggest we make a change.”
Robinton grinned back, liking the man’s manner: a refreshing change from the two much older Lords he had served, and a decided relief after Raid’s didacticism. Melongel was in his prime, active, vigorous, with rugged good looks, though not quite as tall as his harper. He seemed to have time to attend to all his duties and still go out with the fishing fleet from time to time. Since Tillek Hold not only hosted the Fishercrafthall but the Masterfisher, and did most of the western shipbuilding, Melongel thoroughly understood the needs of that Craft as well as the agriculture and forestry that made Tillek a profitable Hold. He had even qualified for his captaincy, but had never taken a command. On one cruise around the Southern Sea to Nerat, Melongel had found a major holder’s daughter, espoused her, and carried her back to his hold. Robinton heard him call that the most profitable journey he’d ever made.
When Master Minnarden returned two days later, he welcomed his new journeyman effusively, with reminiscences of earlier days spent at the Harper Hall, and duets sung with the Mastersinger Merelan. Robinton held his breath, but the Masterharper did not embarrass him in front of the other two journeymen with tales of Merelan’s little boy.
“I understand you’re very patient with the slow and I’ve several here I’d like to see you bring up to the level the others are at. With one it may not be possible. But if you can do anything, his parents and I would be grateful.”
Robinton murmured something polite.
“To offset that chore, I’d like you to take the singers of the Hold for choral practice. I’ve had to do so much mediation lately that I’ve had to give up a steady progression for them. You’ll stand the necessary drum tower watches.” At that, Minnarden grimaced, for the long hours of listening and little action were a penance for most harpers, who tended to be gregarious by nature. “If you can find a couple of lads in the Hold to train up to drumming, I’d be grateful. Shorten our hours. I’ve not had the time, and neither Mumolon nor Ifor have the top rating you got from the Hall Drum Master.”
Again Robinton nodded. He had had the advantage of being raised in the Harper Hall and learning to decipher messages long before he took the actual course.
“The usual evening divertissements, but we trade off..” Then Master Minnarden looked quizzically at him. “Bring any new songs with you?” When Robinton smiled in assent, Minnarden sighed with relief. “Both Mumolon and Ifor are good harpers, excellent teachers, but couldn’t compose if you gave them words and music to put together. That’s your special skill, I understand . . . and don’t turn modest on me.”
Robinton chuckled.
“You’re quartered well?”
Robinton bowed his head gratefully, for he had an outside room, small but private, with a window facing east, and a bath next door.
“Need anything?”
Robinton shook his head.
“Good. Tillek is not as much a warren as many big Holds. But that’s because the cliff doesn’t have that many caves, so they’ve used the local stone to build sturdy, Threadproof housing.”
Robinton looked at him sharply. This was the first time anyone had mentioned Thread.
“Hmmm, yes, young harper, I believe we’ll see Thread again,” Minnarden said solemnly. “I’ve read too much in the Archives to think Pern will escape its return—in due time. Are you of my mind? Which, I must add, is not shared by many, including Melongel, though he’s a well-read man.”
“The dragons told me. And I’ve friends in the Weyr . . .” Robinton admitted hesitantly. But if Minnarden believed Thread would return, he wouldn’t object to Robinton’s friendship with a dragonnder.
“Keep them. Cherish them,” Minnarden said. Then he cocked his head to one side. “Is that why young Lord Raid let you go?” He held up his hand when Robinton moved uneasily in the chair. “I know, I know. If you believe in anything—anything—keep that faith. Now,” he went on, rising, “if you’ve any questions after you’ve settled in, I prefer my harpers talking to me rather than complaining to each other. One last item, though, since this Hold’s main source of income is from fishing, I’d like it if you could see your way clear to learn as much of this different lifestyle as you could. Never hurts. Even the hull of a ship has two sides.”
Robinton groaned: he was getting mighty tired of that reference! But he had to grin at Minnarden, who was clearly delighted with his new journeyman’s adventure.
Minnarden then retrieved from the shelf behind him a squared-off leatherbound record book and slid it across the table to Robinton. “If you haven’t memorized the Charter, you’d better, and study the examples of some of the more common infractions.” Minnarden grinned. “That aspect of our job can be quite interesting at times . . .” He paused to sigh. “And at others, about as infuriating as dealing with the dumbest, most insubordinate, mentally deficient adolescent male.”
Melongel’s middle children—he had nine—were part of the chorus group that Robinton was to rehearse. Bright, intelligent, and curious, the two boys and one girl were musical enough so that any of the three could have apprenticed in the Harper Hall. His oldest, just a year younger than Robinton, was Oterel, a rangy awkward lad needing to grow into his bones. Oterel was delighted to have Groghe share both his room and his duties, for he already had stewardship responsibilities, which went more swiftly with help.
And then there was Kasia, Lady Juvana’s youngest sister, who was living at Tillek Hold.
Robinton felt a decided attraction in his first meeting with the lovely young woman. In the previous Turn, she had tragically lost her lover to a storm at sea off Nerat coast, half a month before their espousal. Her parents had sent her to Juvana to ease her grief. It was the aura of sadness that caught his eye, the sorrow that lurked in her lovely sea-green eyes. And the tremulous smile that, only occasionally, briefly lifted it. But she was cheerful, helpful, and kind, with a real understanding of the trials of her younger nieces and nephews. She was obviously their confidante, as well as her sister’s. She had a comprehensive memory and was able to come out with astonishing bits and pieces of information that she had tunneled away.
“I ju
st remember things,” she said with a little shrug when Robinton asked her if she knew all the words to an old Teaching Song, one he was revitalizing. Which she did—word-perfect. “I can’t say why I know that particular ballad, but you’ll find it on the second shelf from the top of the right-hand side of the library.”
And sure enough, there it was, with Kasia grinning with delight at her accuracy: an occasion when the sadness disappeared. He became determined to lift the shadow completely. He was chagrined to discover that he was not the only young man in the Hold who had the same ambition, including his fellow harpers.
Robinton was only twenty, a fact he kept hidden since he didn’t look so young and could cite five Turns of active Harpering. Neither Mumolon nor Ifor knew that he had been fifteen when he walked the tables to collect his Journeyman’s knot. Minnarden knew, and probably Melongel, but his youth was not a factor in assigning him difficult tasks. Especially after the Wall Incident. If Ifor and Mumolon suspected, it didn’t matter to them, as he performed his duties too well to require criticism.
Kasia was several Turns older and looked younger: except for the harbored grief. However, that age difference, as well as her continued mourning for her lost lover, were the reasons why Robinton was hesitant in discovering if the sudden, keen attraction was mutual. Their ordinary tasks often brought them together. In that he was luckier than the others who sighed over her.
He contented himself with enjoying her company, her bright humor, her lovingness, and sparring with her in duels of memory and, often, song. She had had excellent training: she sang with a sweet light soprano and played fiddle and pipe. She was envious of his harp, which she played middling well, not having an instrument of her own. So he concocted the notion of making one for her in his spare time. Tillek’s port shipped quantities of timber, as well as storing it for the building of hulls. He made himself agreeable to the local Masterwoodsmith, an accomplished carver named Marlifin, who was only too happy, when requested, to find him well-seasoned and unusual woods. Tillek Hold had a well-equipped workshop, as most large establishments did, so Robinton had only to start his project. He did ask Marlifin to do the carving of the forepillar patterns of the flowers that Kasia had said she loved. Robinton couldn’t carve fancywork without ruining a lot of good wood, and this harp had to be special. It was going to take long enough as it was. He did manage, after several faulty starts and not a few cuts on his hands, to carve the harmonic curve and the neck, which would hold the pegs to tune the strings of the harp . . . when he got that far.
He also took Minnarden’s advice to learn more about a fishing hold and found great favor with Melongel, and incidentally with Kasia, when he volunteered to go out on a fishing run with Captain Gostol, whom he had met at the Harper Hall. Kasia shipped out on the same voyage, as galley cook and companion to Gostol’s daughter, Vesna, who was going for her second’s ticket. There were two other women in the crew of fourteen, for the Northern Maid was the length of a queen dragon. The female sailors surprised Robinton. He was accustomed, being Harper-trained, to women having equal status as performers and composers, but it had never occurred to him that other Crafts also promoted women to positions of trust and responsibility. He was astonished to find them fishing, since that was a hard life. He discovered just how hard on that trip. Fortunately his immunity to seasickness was a great mark in his favor. He struggled to help lower and haul in the trawling nets, slipped on fish guts, laughed when he got up covered with gore and slime—and was teased for the stench of him until the job was done and he could change. If he wasn’t considered able to stand a watch, he was available to heat soup or klah in the galley for those who did.
Of course, Kasia’s post was the galley, though she was also a dab hand at gutting and salting the catch. So they had time to talk. He was as subtle as he could be, lighthearted, and finding odd bits and pieces of humorous things to tell her, to dispel the sadness that still lurked. And, of an evening, or sailing to another likely spot to fish, he would manage to place himself close to her while they helped pass the time by singing. He toned down his heavier baritone to blend with her light voice in duets or choruses. He also picked up a few local worksongs, favored by the Tillek Fishermen.
The most vivid memory he had of that sevenday was of the shipfish who were in the habit, Captain Gostol said, of accompanying the fishing vessels.
“That’s old Scarface, that is,” the captain said, pointing to one whose bottle-nose was indeed scarred. “Got hisself caught somewhere.”
“Are they singing?” Robinton asked, hearing sounds when the leaping shipfish were airborne.
“Naw, just the sounds they make, shooting the air out of them blowholes,” Gostol said. “Though I’ve known instances when a man blown overboard’s been rescued by ’em.” He paused and tilted his head midships. “Storm was too fierce to save that ’un’s man. Shame, too. Good fisher. Nice girl. She shouldn’t pine too long, ya think?” And now he cocked his head at Robinton, a sly grin on his rugged, weather-worn face.
Robinton laughed. “Considering how many fellows come round to see her at Tillek Hold, it’s only a question of her pointing a willing finger.”
“So you say, do you?” Then Gostol pointed. “She’s got another young’un since last time I saw her. That one with the mottled rostrum. See her?”
The shipfish was in fact almost hovering in the air, squeaking, cackling at the humans, whom she knew were admiring her. Her baby, half her size, was doing its best to match her leap.
“Do the same ones swim in these waters all the time?”
“Think so. Recognize ’em certainly.” The captain gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “Like watching them. Sometimes,” he said, leaning his forearms on the rail, “I think they sort of—” He made a slanting motion with his thick-fingered right hand. “—ease us one way or t’other, and we follow, ’cos they seem to know where the fish are schooling.”
“Really?” Robinton leaned his arms on the rail, too, as if he could get closer to the leaping shipfish who were still clicking and squeaking at him, almost as if they were saying something he just couldn’t quite catch.
“They’re good luck, they are. No fisherman ignores them. Always give ’em something from each net.” The captain stood up, peering over the rail, his stance alert. “Watch! Yup! We’re sailing right into a mess a’ bordos. Good eating, bordo. Good for saltin’.” And he started forward, shouting orders to the crew to be ready to drop the nets.
Robinton could actually see the school over the starboard side of the Northern Maid. The sleek thick bodies were gray-striped, as long as his forearm, with bulging eyes on either side of their blunt heads. He’d never seen such a concentration of fish. Oh, he’d fished as a child down at Pierie Hold but had never seen a multitude of fish. However did they wend their way without accident? Did they have a leader, the way some of the herdbeasts did? Or an instinct similar to dragons, who never interfered with each other even when they came out of between in wing formation? He was fascinated.
Then Gostol roared out the command to lower the nets, and Robinton went forward to lend a hand.
That was actually the last fair day of the run, for the clouds closed in and they had to work in a driving rain, making a difficult job even more arduous. Robinton was exhausted, his muscles protesting their abuse and his hands raw. So, when they finally had time to relax over a late meal and he was asked to play, he brought out his faithful pipe as being the easiest for his sore fingers.
He could not help but be relieved when they sailed back into the deep natural harbor that made Tillek the best port on the long western coast. There were long rows of terraced cots carved out, or built out from, the several levels of cliff above the harbor. Some fishermen could anchor their ships right in front of their cotholds. Floats that rose and fell with the tides gave access to stairs, some cut deeply into the cliffside.
As the Northern Maid slid past the breakwaters that extended the arms of the U-shaped harbor, folk waved to the sail
ors who were making right and tight the sheets and lines, preparatory to docking. Gostol was allowing his second to bring his ship in, and Robinton, knowing how important it was for Vesna to complete the maneuver satisfactorily, was holding his breath for her when Kasia joined him. She had changed from her rough-weather gear into a long skirt and a thick woolen jumper against the chilly wind; her hair was newly braided. Her eyes didn’t seem quite as shadowed. Maybe she had sailed with them to dissipate the last vestiges of her sorrow for Merdine. She had actually mentioned his name at one point during the voyage.
“Breathe, Rob,” she said, laughing at him and lightly clasping her hands around his left arm.
The use of a short name for him made him catch his breath twice in a row. Did that mean she liked him?
“Will she make it?” he asked. Kasia had more experience with such things than he.
“The ship’s making just enough way so that I think she’ll nudge the dock and come to a full stop. Which is exactly what she should do.”
The Northern Maid did seem to be moving but imperceptibly, the smallest hint of a wake visible on this side of the bow.
Kasia laughed, leaning into him, as he unconsciously exhaled as if his breath could give the ship just that touch more forward motion. They were nearly broadside of the fishing dock, their destination. Seamen stood fore and aft on the Maid’s deck, ready with mooring lines. They’d already put out the buffers. Men and women on the dock were edging forward, to catch the lines and snag them on the bollards, eager to proceed with unloading the perishable cargo.
Time seemed suspended as the Maid drifted more and more slowly until she just barely touched the dock and slid along it, the protective bumpers kissing the dock edge, coming to a final halt as the mooring lines were secured with deft loopings that stopped all movement with just the least little jar.
Kasia let go of Robinton’s arm and clapped, shouting a “well done” in the direction of Vesna at the wheel. There were other congratulatory roars, and Robinton grinned at Vesna’s pantomime of wiping sweat from her brow. She was smiling happily.
The Masterharper of Pern Page 26