The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  F’lon let out an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed the captain. “I’ll see he regrets that, Rob!”

  “Harpers, dragonwomen, much the same cowardly clutch.”

  “Keep your head!” Robinton called to F’lon. He was too alarmed to feel pain and was grateful when someone wrapped a kerchief around the bleeding wound.

  Simanith continued to bugle, and the other dragons picked up the challenge at the top of their lungs. If this didn’t bring the other riders to help, surely the calls would alert the Lord Holder and he would be able to stop the fight before more blood was shed.

  Perhaps that was why the captain surged forward, determined to finish before he could be interrupted. He was fast, he was clever with the blade, and he was determined. F’lon was equally quick on his feet, but he was livid with anger at the attack on the MasterHarper.

  The captain drew first blood, slicing F’lon across the midriff, through the loose shirt, causing a hiss of surprise and pain to escape F’lon’s lips. At that, F’lon lost all caution, rushing in to grapple his opponent’s knife hand, trying to sink his blade in wherever he could. The captain was stronger and far cooler.

  F’lon was accustomed to fair fighting and opponents who would not risk the life of a dragonrider. The captain had no such inhibitions and displayed a knowledge of tricks that had probably brought him victory in other brawls. He was also heavier and, letting fly a kick that had the crowd gasping out “foul play,” he unbalanced the dragonrider and flung him breathless to the dirt. Diving on the prone dragonrider, he brought his knife up under the dragonrider’s guard and into his ribs.

  F’lon gave one massive jerk and died.

  Simanith let out a hideous shriek of anguish and pain, launching between before the last breath of life left his rider. Robinton was rocked to his soul by that sound and the death of his friend.

  An awful silence fell over the Gather. Even those far from the scene and ignorant of what had just happened were stunned by the dragon’s cry and his disappearance. Then the keening of the other dragons informed the entire Gather that a dragonrider had died.

  “Seize him,” Robinton said, pointing to the captain before he, too, could slip away as Kepiru had.

  He knelt by F’lon, whose amber eyes were wide open in surprise, their light already fading. Robinton closed them and bowed his head, reeling emotionally and physically from the hideous end to a stupid, senseless encounter.

  “I would have apologized,” a small, scared voice said beside him.

  Robinton lifted his head and put his hand on Larad’s shoulder. “No, Larad, you were not at fault.”

  “But he’s dead,” Larad said, his voice breaking. “A dragonrider’s dead!”

  “What’s this? What . . . Shards!” Lord Tarathel broke through the crowd and stumbled into the dusty circle. Larad ran to his father, burying his head against him and weeping.

  “It was no accident, Lord Tarathel,” Robinton said quietly and for the holder’s ears only. “No accident.”

  The captain was struggling with those who were quite glad to hold him, and less than gently. If no one had wanted to interfere in a dagger duel, no one had wanted the death of a dragonrider—nor the ear-splitting sounds of the grieving dragons.

  R’gul and S’lel, with C’gan right behind them, arrived, their faces anguished. Seeing F’lon’s lifeless body, R’gul’s face became a study in conflicting emotions, none of which did the dragonrider any credit in Robinton’s eyes. S’lel was at least honestly distressed, while unashamed tears streaked down C’gan’s boyish face as he knelt, hands hovering hopelessly over his Weyrleader’s body.

  “I’ve warned him often enough,” R’gul murmured, shaking his head. “He would never listen.”

  Disgusted, Robinton turned away, and it was then that Tarathel noticed his bloody arm.

  “For that alone, that man goes to the islands,” Tarathel said, his voice taut with anger. “Surely he saw your Master’s knots.”

  “And disregarded them as easily as he ignored F’lon’s rank,” Robinton said, scanning the faces in the crowd. Fax should be arriving to view the result of his scheme. And that could be a second disaster. The law stated unequivocally that any man who deliberately killed a dragonrider was to be transported to one of the islands in the Eastern Sea. No trial was required if there were witnesses. Which there were. “R’gul, convey this man to the islands. Is that not correct, Lord Tarathel?”

  “Yes, it most certainly is,” Tarathel said. He had just listened to his son’s account of what had happened. “Bronze rider, do your duty.”

  “But there’s been no trial,” R’gul protested.

  “By the First Egg, R’gul,” C’gan said, horrified at the hesitation. “I’ll take him myself.” He stepped forward to grab the captain by the arm.

  “Release my captain!” cried Fax, shoving a rough path through the crowd. He caught the captain by the arm and started to pull him away from C’gan, glaring menacingly at the shorter blue rider. C’gan had his knife drawn and, though he was much lighter than his would-be captive, his outrage provided him greater strength: he did not relinquish his grip on the murderer.

  “Your captain has just killed the Weyrleader,” Tarathel said, every bit as resolute as C’gan.

  “Who no doubt deserved what he got,” Fax said, grinning and showing his teeth, and glancing about the crowd to gauge reactions.

  “You know the law regarding murder, Fax,” Tarathel replied. “There is no recourse if a dragonrider has been slain. C’gan, since you have—”

  “There’s been no trial,” Fax said.

  “Since when did you reinstate trials?” Tarathel said ominously, his hand going to his knife hilt. “I am Lord Holder here. The death occurred on my lands and at my Gather. I judge your man guilty of unprovoked attack: first against my son, second against the MasterHarper, and finally and most outrageously against the Benden Weyrleader—an attack that ended in murder. For either of the two second counts, he merits banishment”

  “I think not,” Fax said. “Release him!”

  Suddenly there were other men ruthlessly penetrating the crowd and stepping up to Fax, their aggression obvious in their eyes and manner. They all wore Fax’s colors. Tarathel’s eyes widened with fury.

  “No!” Robinton cried, gesturing to the crowd. Fax’s crew might be armed and dangerous, but there were only eight of them, while the crowd must number close to a hundred. “Telgar! Defend your Holder!”

  With a mar of protest, Fax and his men were overwhelmed as those around them grabbed at their arms and bodies, preventing them from drawing their weapons. Even R’gul and S’lel assisted while C’gan tried to keep a firm grip on the murderer. Suddenly the blue rider cried for assistance as the man sagged and collapsed, a dagger through one eye.

  And the dragons bellowed with triumph.

  One look at the hilt of that slender throwing knife and Robinton knew who had cast it. He marveled that Nip had been able to fling it so accurately through the milling crowd.

  Fax and his men were hurried away to their camp, where they were made to pack up. A force of fifty willing holders and crafters assembled to escort the unwelcome guests all the way back to their borders. Lord Tarathel supplied food and Runnerbeasts to those who had none.

  R’gul, S’lel, and the other dragonriders took the body of their dead Weyrleader back to Benden. With a fresh wound, Robinton was prevented by the Hold healer from accompanying his friend, but he drummed the awful message to every Hold and Hall. Only when he had completed that task could he rest.

  Nip slipped into Robinton’s guest room late that night, rousing the MasterHarper from a restless sleep.

  “Bad wound?” Nip asked solicitously.

  “Annoying,” Robinton replied, pulling himself carefully up in the bed as Nip kindly stuck pillows behind him. He grimaced at the pain of resettling the arm. The Hold healer had given him quite a lecture on the stupidity of drumming messages with an arm in that condition. It shouldn�
��t have required stitching if it had been attended to immediately, he was told in a sour voice. So he had endured the process, well-fortified by a hefty fellis draft. “Good throw.”

  “You saved my knife? I’m fond of that blade. Superb balance,” Nip said.

  “Over there in the first drawer,” Robinton said, nodding to the chest opposite the bed. “You’d no idea what Fax had planned?”

  “None.” Nip shook his head sadly as he retrieved his knife.

  “You may be sure I would have warned you had I had any idea. I’ve been lurking”—he grinned—“where I might overhear something of value. But going after the Weyrleader . . .” Nip paused, again shaking his head. “That was something else. I do know that Fax intended to take F’lon out as soon as he could. Tarathel just gave him the perfect opportunity, with his invitation to show off his guard companies. And they were taking no chances. I saw several other unlikely pairs—a lad and a bruising fighter—circulating the Gather. Wondered at such a pairing for Fax’s men. My wits are slowing down, I think. And then it was too late.”

  “My feeling, too. Shards, they may have been planning such an assault since the last Telgar Gather was canceled when Grogellan died.” Robinton sighed heavily and reached for the numbweed salve.

  As he fumbled with the sling around his arm, Nip took over and, with unusually gentle fingers, daubed the sewn wound with the salve. The relief was intense.

  “Didn’t realize Gifflen got you.”

  “Gifflen?”

  “That was the man’s name. I’d marked him as a troublemaker. He’s been thrown out of several holds and his apprentice hall for provoking fights and bullying. He’s killed often. I preferred that he didn’t walk away from this one.”

  Robinton nodded in agreement. “More would thank you if they knew. I thank you.”

  “Clever of you to shout like that. Stirred them all to their senses.”

  Robinton exhaled, remembering. “We’ve all become soft, you know. Letting someone else take the blame or do the disagreeable.”

  “That’s why Fax controls as many holds as he does.” Nip’s tone was harsh. “Rob, you’ve got to shake the Lord Holders awake before he takes another one.”

  “I’ve done what I can. Groghe’s training men, so is Oterel, and, after this, Tarathel will be wary.”

  “What about Kale at Ruatha?”

  “I plan to see him on my way back.”

  “How soon before you could travel a-dragonback?”

  “I think I’ve lost that privilege.”

  “No.” Nip shook his head. “Drum C’gan. He’ll come anytime. Too bad F’lon’s sons aren’t a little older.”

  Robinton frowned. “I haven’t had a chance to get to know them, not as I did their father. I should go . . .”

  “You should not. You should get to Ruatha Hold as fast as you can.” Then Nip was on his feet and at the door. “See you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Nip, where . . .” But the door was already closing silently behind the man.

  Despite the fellis and the numbweed, it took Robinton a long while to sleep again.

  Tarathel reluctantly let him start the journey back to the Harper Hall two days later when an equally reluctant healer permitted it. The Lord Holder sent six men as escort.

  “Don’t be a fool, Master Robinton,” Tarathel said, scowling. “The Hall may have played down the attacks made on harpers over the last few Turns, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t known. And Gifflen’s attack on you was inexcusable. I’ve even heard that Evenek was lured to Crom, at Fax’s instigation, so he could make him an example.” He paused, his voice becoming more gentle. “Did Evenek ever play again?”

  “He can play. He’ll never sing again.”

  “Well, then,” Tarathel said, stern again, “you’ll travel back from here without incident and as I deem you should go—with an escort.” He scowled. “It is bad enough that you were attacked at all. I fear a man so lost to honor as Fax has proved himself would not hesitate to attempt your life again if you were not close-guarded.”

  “He has scarcely had time to return to—” Robinton paused.

  “I will believe anything of that man, now,” Tarathel said. “You’d do well to limit your wanderings, MasterHarper, or ride with an escort.”

  “Limit my wanderings? That I cannot in conscience do—not now.”

  “Be careful then, Robinton.” Tarathel pressed his hand warningly against Robinton’s uninjured shoulder. “I’ve put one of my best runnerbeasts at your disposal.”

  Robinton thanked the Lord Holder . . . though he wasn’t so sure how thankful he should be when he tried to mount it. Three men had to hold the black’s head. Once he was in the saddle, the runner became obedient . . . at least to Robinton. No one on foot could get near enough to hand the harper his saddlebags. After that, his gear was attached to the saddle when the runner was tacked—and even that took several men.

  The runnerbeast was, however, a very smooth-gaited, powerful creature with a habit of charging on ahead, so that Robinton’s escort was hard put to keep up with him. Gradually, he got the trick of dealing with Big Black and they came to an understanding—largely encouraged by the sweetener which Robinton would offer the animal when he had reached the saddle unscathed. But reining him in was another story: the trip went faster than perhaps the healer could have wished. Robinton was almost faint with relief when he saw the children playing on the front court of Ruatha Hold.

  The journey was seven days of hard travel. If Robinton regretted the absence of dragon wings, he knew more now about this area than he previously had—information that might prove valuable. The way into Ruatha Hold was appallingly open. He would have to incite Lord Kale to post guards, raise beacons, and alert the outlying cots and holds, in case Fax had his eye on this prosperous Hold.

  “Surely there must have been some good reason behind the captain’s attack on F’lon,” Lord Kale remarked to Robinton as he offered hospitality to the MasterHarper.

  He was a tall, slender man with dark hair and gray eyes, but his manner was gentle and it was obvious from the affection in which his stewards held him that he was a good Holder, considerate of his people and painstaking in his dealings with them. That made for contented holders, but it was a frail weapon against a man of Fax’s proven character. Robinton was more fearful than ever.

  “If you’d been there, Lord Holder,” said Macester, the leader of the escort, with an earnest scowl of anxiety, “you’d’ve known it was no accident, and we’re lucky the MasterHarper wasn’t killed, too. Gifflen was out to do as much damage as he could. And then try to snake his way out of banishment.”

  “Heat of the moment.” Kale smiled patronizingly.

  Just then a small girl, her wide gray eyes immediately establishing her as Kale’s daughter, toddled up to him, holding her arms out.

  “Ah, Lessa, not now, pet.” But he picked her up and carried her to the door, where the attendant she had escaped appeared to take her away.

  She kicked and screamed, straining backward so that Robinton saw the thin face and the immense eyes, framed by a tangle of dark curly hair.

  “Spirited at just four Turns,” Kale said with an indulgent smile.

  “Lord Kale, as MasterHarper of Pern I implore you to follow the examples of the other Lord Holders in the west, to train men to defend this Hold. To set up a border guard with beacons to alert—”

  Kale held up his hand, smiling in condescension. “My people are very busy with ordinary tasks, Master Robinton. It is spring, you know, and we’ve herds to manage and young animals to train to saddle.”

  “Did it never occur to you that your fine runnerbeast would be invaluable to Fax when he needs to cover the plains to Telgar?” Robinton said insistently.

  “Oh, come now, Master Robinton, he buys our runnerbeasts, and that’s good for Ruatha,” Kale replied with a laugh. “More klah? Surely you have time to stay the night Ruatha Hold would be honored.”

  Suddenly Robinton
wanted to put distance between himself and this trusting fool. He got purposefully to his feet, about to refuse, when he saw the weary look on Macester’s face and the man’s obvious inclination to spend a night in the comfortable surroundings of one of the major Holds.

  “And we are extremely grateful for the courtesy,” he said as graciously as he could.

  The door to Kale’s private office was still open after his daughter’s entrance and the sounds of a struggle, man against a furious animal, could be heard.

  “He’s at it again,” Macester said under his breath as both he and Robinton moved to the door. Kale, curious, followed them out to the broad outer court, where Big Black was attempting to take chunks out of the Ruathan who had hold of his reins. Robinton noted wryly that none of the escort had taken charge of the beast.

  “That’s a splendid animal,” Kale said, pausing on the top step to take in the scene. “Circle him, Jez,” he called to the handler. “One of Tarathel’s mountain breeds, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Robinton agreed, dispassionately watching the beast’s antics. He felt for a sweetener lump in his pocket and, finding one, stepped forward, speaking in soothing tones and reaching for the reins as a very wary Jez circled.

  “Easy now, there’s a fine lad.” His voice got through to Big Black and the animal extended his nose toward the MasterHarper, seeking the treat he expected.

  “Quite a handful,” Kale remarked.

  “Until you’re in the saddle,” Robinton said, rather pleased he could say that honestly in front of a noted rider like Lord Kale.

  Kale chuckled. “Now, Macester, if you’ll have your men lead your mounts up to the beasthold”—he pointed up the lane to the left—“we’ll see to your comfort.”

  “And if your healer would check Master Robinton’s arm,” Macester said, ignoring Robinton’s protest, “I would be easier.”