The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  The first man made an inarticulate sound in his throat that was half snarl. “Goin’ on wiv ’em then?”

  “Not goin’ nowhere but here,” Robinton said in a dour voice.

  They made for the kitchen entrance and the first man recoiled, startled at the chaos within, the slamming and clanging of pots, and the screams as a drudge was hit. One male voice rose above the others, giving orders, yelling if the response wasn’t immediate.

  “Shards, it’s burned on the one side and raw on the others!” That sentence was bellowed in a tone of fury and frustration. A canine yipped piteously. Robinton could hear slapping and more screams and groans as the cook evidently vented his feelings on his helpless drudges.

  “Us’ns’d have it, if it’s meat,” the first drudge muttered to himself, wistfully licking lips. He took a deep breath.

  “Smell’s all we’s likely to have,” the other said.

  Not that the smell was at all appetizing. But Robinton used their interest in the kitchen activities to cover his movements as he stealthily backed off into the shadows. He had noticed as they passed the main Hold door that there were no guards either at the door or in the Hall. He couldn’t enter in his guise of a drudge, but surely he could sneak into the guard barracks and change into something . . . more appropriate.

  He slipped in just in time to hear one of the underleaders assigning posts for the evening, and he ducked into an alcove as they tramped past him, the dim glowbaskets neatly shadowing him.

  Fortunately many of Fax’s soldiers were of a generous size and they had brought several changes of clothes with them. He found the cleanest and, happily shedding his filthy, sweaty rags, put them on. A bit loose at the waist and a bit short in the leg, but he used his own belt and secured the trousers. He took the sleeve of his shirt and scrubbed at his boots, getting the worst of the stable muck off them.

  “Where the shards were you?” a harsh voice called.

  Robinton whirled around to see a guard underleader in the doorway. “Relieved me’sel,” he muttered, wondering if the sudden pounding of his heart would give him away.

  “Up to the Hall, then. Want every one of you up there ’case those sharding dragonriders doan know they’s manners.” The grin suggested that the man was aching to teach dragonriders manners.

  “Yuss,” Robinton said. He squared his shoulders, which was not easy after a day’s crouching, and passed the underleader cautiously, as if expecting a kick on his way. But no kick came. A quick look back told him that the man was bending over his saddlebags, extracting his sword belt.

  Reaching the Hall, Robinton slowed before he stepped on the heels of Fax’s two underleaders, who were escorting their Lord into the Hall with one of his ladies. The Warder was effusively bowing them in. Robinton slipped along the wall as if he had been in the wake of the latest arrivals and took a position halfway between the guards already in place. Neither took note of him, their attention focused on the dragonriders seated at one of the trestle tables set up perpendicular to the raised dais that held the head table. With relief, Robinton spotted C’gan’s silvery head and then looked up the table to spot the young rider, F’nor. There was no mistaking his lineage as F’lon’s son: it was there in the cocked head and the slight smile. F’nor was watching his half brother at the head table, talking to one of Fax’s ladies seated beside him. Lady Gemma occupied the seat on the other side. F’lar didn’t seem all that happy in such company. Just then a crawler dropped from the ceiling onto the table, and Lady Gemma noticeably winced.

  Fax went stamping up the steps to the head table. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma’s before he seated himself. He pulled the chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the none-too-stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he inspected his goblet and plate.

  The Warder approached the head table, clearly apprehensive.

  “A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and roots as are left.”

  “Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested here.”

  The Warder’s eyes bulged and he gulped. “Nothing to be sent on,” he stammered. “Nothing good enough to be sent on. Nothing. Had I but known of your arrival, I could have sent to Crom—”

  “Sent to Crom?” roared Fax, slamming the plate he was inspecting onto the table so forcefully that the rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again.

  “For decent foodstuffs, my Lord,” he quavered.

  Robinton felt a sudden ripple, like an odd push at his mind.

  “The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it.”

  The Lady Gemma gasped, and Robinton wondered if she had felt the same remarkable ripple he did. As if confirming that, the dragons roared. And Robinton felt the surge of . . . something.

  F’lar felt it, too, the MasterHarper thought, for he sought his half brother’s eyes and saw F’nor’s almost imperceptible nod. And those of the other wingriders.

  “What’s wrong, dragonman?” snapped Fax. Robinton admired the way in which F’lar affected no concern, stretching his long legs and assuming an indolent posture in the heavy chair.

  “Wrong?” He had a voice like F’lon’s, a good baritone with flexible intonations. Robinton wondered if the man could sing.

  “The dragons!” Fax said.

  “Oh, nothing. They often roar . . . at the sunset, at a flock of passing wherries, at mealtimes.” F’lar smiled amiably at Fax. His tablemate, however, was not so sanguine and gave a squeak.

  “Mealtimes? Have they not been fed?”

  “Oh, yes. Five days ago.”

  “Oh. Five . . . days ago? And are they hungry . . . now?” Her voice trailed into a whisper of fear, and her eyes grew round.

  “In a few days,” F’lar assured her. Robinton watched him scan the hall with a good appearance of detached amusement “You mount a guard?” he asked Fax casually.

  “Double at Ruatha Hold,” Fax replied in a tight, hard voice.

  “Here?” F’lar all but laughed, gesturing around the sadly unkempt chamber.

  “Here!” Fax changed the subject with a roar. “Food!”

  Five drudges staggered in under the weight of the roast herdbeast. The aroma that reached Robinton’s nostrils had not improved in the short while since he had left the kitchen courtyard. The odor of singed bone was most prevalent. And there was the Warder, sharpening his tools for carving.

  Robinton was not the only one to see Lady Gemma catch her breath, her hands curling tightly around the armrests.

  The drudges returned with wooden trays of bread. Burnt crusts had been scraped and cut from the loaves. As other trays were borne in by the drudges and passed before Lady Gemma, Robinton could see her expression turning to unmistakable nausea. Then he saw her convulsive clutch at the armrest and realized that the food was not the principal problem. He saw F’lar lean toward her to say something, but she stopped him with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, closing her eyes and trying to mask the shudder that ran down her body.

  The poor woman looked to be going into labor, Robinton thought.

  The Warder, with shaking hands, was now presenting Fax with a plate of the sliced meats . . . the more edible-looking portions.

  “You call this food? You call this food?” Fax bellowed. More crawlers were shaken from their webs as the sound of his voice shattered fragile strands. “Slop! Slop!” And he threw the plate at the Warder.

  “It’s all we had on such short notice,” the Warder squealed, bloody juices streaking down his cheeks. Fax threw his goblet at him, and the wine went streaming down the man’s chest. The steaming dish of roots followed; the Warder yelped in pain as the hot liquid splashed over him.

  “My Lord, my Lord, had I but known!”

  Robinton felt a repeat of the powerful ripple, and thought it was triumphant.

  “Obviously, Ruatha cannot support the visit of its Lord.” F’lar’s
voice rang out. “You must renounce it.”

  Robinton stared at the dragonnder. Everyone else did, too. The MasterHarper also caught the sudden blinking of F’lar’s eyes, as if the bronze rider had astonished himself, as well. But F’lar straightened his shoulders and regarded Fax in the silence that fell over the Hall, broken only by the splat of crawlers and the drip of the root liquid from the Warder’s shoulders to the rushes on the floor. The grating of Fax’s boot heel was clearly audible as he swung slowly around to face the bronze rider. From his vantage point, Robinton could see F’nor rise, hand on dagger hilt. It was all he could do not to gesture for F’nor to stay seated, to take his hand off the knife.

  “I did not hear you correctly?” Fax asked. His voice was expressionless, and Robinton was glad that the man’s back was to him.

  “You did mention, my Lord,” F’lar drawled with a good command of himself, Robinton noted with almost paternal pride, “that if any of your Holds could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord, you would renounce it.”

  Then, with admirable self-possession, the dragonrider, his eyes still on Fax, speared some vegetables from a serving dish and began to eat. F’nor, still on his feet, was glancing around the Hall as if he thought someone else had spoken, not F’lar. That was when Robinton realized that those odd ripples of power had not emanated from the dragonriders, or the dragons. But where had they come from?

  Fax and F’lar were silent, their gazes locked. Suddenly a groan escaped Lady Gemma. Fax glanced at her in irritation, his fist clenched and half-raised to strike her. But the contraction that rippled across her swollen belly was as obvious as her pain.

  Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head, showing big, stained teeth, and roared.

  “Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if it is male . . . and lives!” he crowed.

  “Heard and witnessed!” F’lar snapped, jumping to his feet and pointing to his riders. They were on their feet in an instant.

  “Heard and witnessed!” they responded in the traditional manner.

  Robinton had seen the guards slip hands to their belts and did the same with his hand when the dragonriders rose. But as there was no sign from Fax, who continued to howl with contemptuous laughter, they all relaxed and some even had half-grins of snide amusement.

  The lady beside F’lar, Lady Tela, was obviously concerned about Lady Gemma, but clearly didn’t know what to do. Someone had better help her, Robinton thought. She was in obvious pain and distress.

  It was F’lar who acted, bending to assist her out of her chair. She grabbed his arm and murmured something, her lips turned away from Fax’s eyes. F’lar’s eyebrows rose, and Robinton saw him press her hands reassuringly. He wondered what they were saying.

  F’lar beckoned to two of the Warder’s men and pushed Lady Tela to Gemma’s side.

  “What do you need?” the bronze rider asked her, his voice carrying. Fax snorted.

  “Oh, oh . . .” Her face was twisted with panic. “Water, hot, clean. Cloths. And a birthing-woman. Oh, yes, we must have a birthing-woman.”

  F’lar looked about the Hall, then signaled to the Warder. “Have you one in this Hold?”

  “Of course.” The Warder sounded affronted.

  “Then send for her.”

  The Warder caught Fax’s nod and then kicked the drudge on the floor. “You . . . you! Whatever your name is, go get her from the Crafthold. You must know who she is.”

  With a nimbleness probably developed from years of avoiding kicks, the drudge moved with astonishing speed and scurried across the Hall and out the door to the kitchen.

  Fax came down to the platter of roast and began slicing meat, which he speared on the point of his knife and ate from the blade. Occasionally he would glance up in the direction the women had taken and bark out a laugh. F’lar sauntered down to the carcass and, without waiting for a direct invitation, began to carve neat slices, beckoning his men over. Those of Fax’s men who were seated at the table waited, however, until Fax had eaten his fill.

  The men standing on guard were not relieved, and the proximity to food became almost unendurable. Bad as the roast was, it was food, and Robinton’s belly rumbled. He was also very thirsty and his feet hurt. His whole body hurt, for that matter. He vowed not to get so unfit ever again. A MasterHarper ought to be ready for anything. Clearly he was not.

  The drudge returned rather more quickly than he had thought possible. She strode right through the main door, leading a woman at least slightly cleaner than herself, though almost as ancient. The birthing-woman stopped in the doorway, frozen by the sight of those in the Hall.

  F’lar strode up to her and took her by the arm, leading her toward the steps.

  “Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time.” He was frowning with concern. The drudge caught the other arm and pulled the old woman past the guards and to the stairway.

  F’lar stood watching until they disappeared into the upper level. Then he made his way to the riders’ table, where he spoke quietly to F’nor and the rider Robinton recognized as bronze Piyanth’s rider, K’net

  Robinton would have given anything to sit, or to have apiece of the trimmed bread that lay in a bowl two strides from him on the guards’ table. He noticed that the other two guards were surreptitiously shifting their feet and easing their shoulders.

  The waiting continued. Nothing could be heard from the upper level, but there were sounds of weeping and scufflings rising from the kitchen: no doubt the Warder rewarding the drudges for their efforts.

  Then suddenly there was a screeching, and one of the women came running out of the upper hall and paused briefly at the top.

  “She’s dead . . . dead . . . dead . . .” Her cry reverberated down the staircase and through the Hall, causing yet more crawlers to be loosened from their strands.

  “Dead?” Fax whirled, watching the woman’s hysterical progress down the stairs.

  “Oh, dead, dead, poor Gemma. Oh, Lord Fax, we did all we could, but the journey . . .” She ran to where Fax was sitting.

  Casually Fax slapped her and she fell sobbing in a heap at his feet.

  Robinton saw F’lar reach for his dagger hilt. Women in the Weyr were rarely treated in such a harsh manner. It would definitely go against a dragonrider’s grain. Robinton tightened his hands into fists, willing the bronze rider to relax.

  The men were muttering, not all of them happy to hear that their Lady had died. Fax, however, seemed decidedly pleased.

  “The child lives,” cried a voice from the top of the stairs. Robinton looked up to see the drudge who had gone for the birthing-woman. “It is male.” Her voice was rough with anger and . . . hatred? Robinton was astonished.

  Rising, Fax shoved the weeping woman out of the way with a heartless kick and scowled at the drudge. “What are you saying, woman?”

  “The child lives. It is male,” she repeated in a firm voice that belied her apparent age.

  Incredulity and rage suffused Fax’s face. The Warder’s men, on the verge of cheering, stifled themselves.

  “Ruatha has a new Lord,” the drudge continued.

  The dragons roared.

  The drudge’s eyes appeared to be focused on Fax as she made her way down the stairs. Robinton was altogether astonished at her sudden assertive behavior, as well as the robust quality of her voice. She even seemed oblivious to the roar of the dragons outside.

  She didn’t see her danger, as Robinton certainly did, when Fax erupted into action, leaping across the intervening space, bellowing denials of her news. Before the drudge could realize his intent, his fist crashed across her face. She was swept off her feet and off the steps, and fell heavily to the stone floor where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.

  “Hold, Fax!” F’lar cried as the Lord of the High Reaches lifted his foot to kick the unconscious body.

  Robinton had started forward, too, but caught himself before he inadvertently dropped out of disguise.

 
Fax whirled, his hand closing on his knife hilt.

  “It was heard and witnessed, Fax,” F’lar cautioned him, one hand outstretched, “by dragonmen. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!”

  In spite of himself, Robinton shook his head at such a challenge, made to Fax of all people.

  “Witnessed? By dragonmen?” cried Fax. He gave a derisive laugh, his eyes blazing with contempt, one sweeping gesture of scorn dismissing them all—just as he had dismissed the Lord Holders and Masters in the hall at Nabol. “Dragonwomen, you mean.”

  But he took a backward step as the dragonrider moved forward, knife in hand.

  “Dragonwomen?” F’lar queried, his voice dangerously soft. Glowlight flickered off his circling blade as he advanced on Fax.

  That’s right, F’lar, Robinton thought, remembering another scene all too vividly. But this young man had his temper well in hand, unlike his father, and he had the same lean powerful build the younger F’lon had possessed.

  “Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over! Over for good,” roared Fax, leaping forward to land in a combat crouch.

  Robinton spared a look at the others in the Hall. Fax’s men were obviously looking forward to a good fight and the death of this unwary adversary. The dragonriders had spread out, circling, as if to keep the guards from interfering. Their expressions reflected confidence in the abilities of their wingleader, especially C’gan, whose grinning face reassured Robinton.

  Fax feinted, and F’lar neatly swayed away. They crouched again, facing each other across six feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands spread-fingered, ready to grab.

  Again Fax pressed the attack. F’lar allowed him to close, just near enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe. Fabric tore and Fax snarled. He lunged immediately, faster on his feet than Robinton would have expected for such a bulky man. F’lar was forced again to dodge; this time Fax’s knife scored across the dragonrider’s wher-hide jerkin.

  Fax plowed in again, trying to corner F’lar between the raised platform and the wall. Robinton caught his breath, hoping that neither would stumble over the unconscious drudge.