The Master Harper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  It was some time before the shock of Evenek's injuries was absorbed by the Hall. But Lord Grogellan, with his sons, made a formal visit to Master Gennell, assuring Harper Hall of their firm and unequivocal support, and protection, of the Hall and any harpers wherever they might need assistance.

  While such brutality seemed to be an isolated incident, harpers everywhere were warned to be on their guard and to travel with traders or other known-to-be-friendly groups.

  Master Gennell, who suffered badly now from joint-ail, continued to send Robinton as his representative – and as another set of "eyes and ears'. This morning, when Gennell sent an apprentice to ask Robinton to join him in his office, Robinton registered a mild and humorous complaint.

  "So where can you send me this time, Master? I do believe that I've met every Lord Holder, most of the minor ones, and been in every Crafthold on the continent. What place can I have missed on my travels for you?"

  "Oh, I've found one," Gennell replied with a smile, gesturing for Robinton to be seated. "Not that you haven't been at Telgar often enough, but there's to be a big Gather and Lord Tarathel has invited Fax."

  "What?"

  "I thought that would get your attention. Tarathel means to have a chat with the man. He's annoyed over certain problems on his borders with Fax."

  "I shouldn't wonder."

  "Nip tells me that Fax is planning something. He can't figure out what, but Fax is far too eager to attend and has been drilling his men...

  "In what?"

  "Parades. And wrestling. With daggers."

  "How are you with a dagger, Rob?"

  "I've pinned Shonagar with my blade at his throat," the young Master said.

  "Oh, really?" Gennell's eyebrows raised high in surprise. "That's good. But ... you're to keep your dagger in its sheath. I've more use for you than being pincushion to one of Fax's louts."

  "Oh?"

  Gennell shifted in his chair, clasping his stiff, knotted fingers across his increasing paunch. He tilted his head to one side, observing Robinton for such a long moment that, in spite of himself, Robinton shifted at such scrutiny.

  "I've had a purpose in sending you here and there, to every major Hold and Hall on pern."

  "Really!" With great difficulty, Robinton kept curiosity out of his response. But it was hard.

  "Yes, I'm growing old, Rob, and I've to look for a replacement. Of course all the MasterHarpers vote as their conscience dictates, but I've made my wish clear. You!"

  Robinton stared at his old friend. He hadn't expected that.

  "You'll be around a long time yet, Gennell," he said with a laugh which died when he saw the expression on Gennell's face.

  "No, I think not," the MasterHarper said. "What with this joint-ail and no Betrice to fuss' – Gennell smiled fondly at the thought of his spouse – "the heart's gone out of me. I may call for the

  election and spend my remaining time on a warm beach in Ista." "Now, wait a minute, Gennell, I'm much too young ...

  "The Hall must have someone young and vigorous as MasterHarper, Rob." Gennell's manner turned resolute, as well as anxious. "Now more than ever before. I can't leave the CraftHall without someone who appreciates the threat Fax poses to the entire world. I must know that other holds will not suffer the same future that High Reaches and now Crom are facing: illiteracy and oppression." Watching intently, Robinton could see clearly how age and infirmity were hampering the once brisk and energetic MasterHarper. "And someone," Gennell continued, pointing a gnarled forefinger at the seated harper, "who believes, as I do, that Thread will return to menace the land." He wearily brushed back

  thinning hair. "I don't know what the Weyr is going to do, but it is our beholden duty as harpers to support Benden in any way we can.

  Your going there as a child, and as a journeyman, has given you an admirable contact in F'lon. He's making himself a shade unpopular with some of the Lord Holders. If you could give him some advice ..."

  "Which F'lon's not likely to take from anyone. Including me," Robinton said sourly.

  "I think you underestimate your influence on him, Rob," Gennell said; he sank heavily into his chair again, grimacing at the pain.

  "And I think you've more influence throughout the land now than you may realize. Are you still able to talk to dragons?"

  Robinton nodded. "Simanith, at any rate. I suspect that's only because of F'lon. Not that our conversations are anything to write ballads about."

  Gennell waggled a finger at him. "It's more than most non-weyrfolk ever have."

  "That's true enough."

  Gennell smiled briefly. "Nip reports that of all the harpers, you're one that even the Hall's worst critics will accept."

  "Except in the High Reaches."

  "Fax will overstep himself. That sort of man always does. There've been others like him before; there will be more like him in the future. When we live by the Charter, everyone prospers. When it is abrogated, the whole continent suffers."

  Robinton nodded in complete agreement, though the prospect of trying to ensure that the Charter was obeyed was daunting. Especially in the face of Fax's active aggression.

  "So, Master Robinton, I have named you my choice of successor."

  Robinton demurred, muttering about his youth and the fact that there were plenty of men who would be more logical choices.

  "None of them wants the job," Gennell said with grim humour.

  "Minnarden strongly urged me to consider you, as did Evarel, and certainly I've had support from all the resident Masters."

  "Including ... Petiron?" Robinton asked, grinning.

  "Oddly enough, yes. Oh, I doubt he would have suggested you, but he did not oppose the selection."

  That did surprise Robinton.

  "I admit that I got the position more by default than ambition," Gennell said with a hearty chuckle. "I have served the Hall to the best of my ability ..." Robinton concurred: Gennell was exceedingly popular as MasterHarper. The old Master went on: "I shouldn't care to take on the responsibilities of dealing with Fax, much less Thread."

  "You're too kind," Robinton murmured ironically.

  "I've had you marked as my successor from the moment I saw you talking to the dragons. Do you remember that day?"

  Robinton nodded; that had been one of the high points of his childhood. Once F'lon had mentioned that dragons were whimsical about talking to non-weyrfolk. Sometimes they would. More often they would not. F'lon had added with one of his mischievous smiles, "The dragons do like you, Rob." But Robinton had thought that was a secret between himself, the dragons and their riders.

  "I didn't realize that anyone was watching."

  Gennell grinned. "I've watched you from the moment your mother told me you were piping variations on a theme."

  "Have I ever thanked you, Gennell, for all you've done for me?" There was no irony in Robinton's voice now.

  "Pssst." Gennell dismissed the matter with a flick of his fingers.

  "I was your MasterHarper then, as I am now. Be a good Master to all within this Hall and I am doubly repaid. Do not let a tyrant like Fax still the voices of any more harpers."

  To that Robinton swore purpose and loyalty.

  "Did you hear the drum message this morning?" Gennell asked in a complete change of subject.

  "Yes." Robinton smiled. "A new baby at Ruatha Hold. A girl, small but healthy."

  Two days later, both Robinton and Gennell were called to Fort Hold. Lord Grogellan had refused the advice of MasterHealer Ginia, her very capable young journeyman Oldive, and the Hold's healer. He would not allow them to attempt surgery.

  "Talk some sense into him, can you, Gennell?" Ginia said, her face red with frustration. "I've done this operation – so has Oldive – and it takes but minutes. If we can't remove the inflamed appendix, he will die from a poisoning of his system."

  "You can't cut into him," Lady Winalia said, weeping. "You can't. That's barbaric."

  Ginia shook her head. "It is not. It's as si
mple as removing infected tonsils from a throat, and you permitted me to do that for your children."

  "Lord Grogellan will not have his body violated, mutilated ..." Lady Winalia shuddered with repugnance, her expression stubborn. "His person cannot be carved like an animal!"

  "Mother, if it's a question of his life ..." said Groghe, trying to reason with his parent. "I saw it done at Tillek, didn't I, Rob?"

  Robinton nodded. "Clostan performed it on a seaman taken with terrible belly pain. He was back on his ship the next week."

  Lady Winalia kept shaking her head, her lips pressed together.

  "We will not permit it," she repeated, pressing her handkerchief to her lips as she opened the door to her spouse's room. Grogellan's moans could be heard. "Oh, he must be in such pain, Ginia. More fellis, please. How can you let him suffer so?"

  "He wouldn't if he would permit me to..."

  "No, no, never. How can you even suggest such a thing?"

  "He didn't object when I sewed up that shin wound ... it's much the same thing," Ginia said urgently.

  "But that was a natural wound," Lady Winalla protested. "Oh, listen to him. Surely you can give him more fellis?"

  "Yes, I can give him more fellis," Ginia said through gritted teeth. "I can fellis him right into death!"

  "Oh, no, don't say that, Ginia. Please don't say he'll die."

  "I can't say anything else and be honest, Winalla. If I do not operate..."

  Winalia clamped her hands to her ears and, with a little shriek of protest, half-ran to her spouse, where he twisted and writhed in bed.

  He died later that day, in a terrible agony which not even the massive doses of fellis or the application of numbweed on his abdomen could dull.

  "No violation, no mutilation, just death," Ginia murmured as she wearily stumbled away from the tragedy. "Once we knew so much more ..." She shook a little and leaned on Oldive.

  So the Telgar Gather was cancelled and, instead, the Lord Holders came to Fort Hold to confirm Groghe as the new Lord Holder. Fax was conspicuous by his absence.

  "But then, he wasn't invited," Gennell said grimly, "because he has not followed the established procedure of taking formal Hold."

  "I doubt that bothers him," Robinton remarked. "I wish I knew what he had planned at Telgar."

  That question was answered, in part or in whole, when Lady Relna of Crom and her two youngest children begged sanctuary from Lord Ashmichel and Lady Adessa at Ruatha Hold. Neither her spouse nor their two oldest boys had survived Fax's forcible entry into their Hold.

  Groghe began to drill every man in Fort between the ages of sixteen and fifty. Tarathel and Melongel grimly followed his example and doubled their border patrols.

  The following winter, another bitterly cold one, MasterHarper Gennell died of a failing heart. Ogolly, Washell, and Gorazde -frail though he was – drummed messages about the country. They had known that Master Robinton was the named successor, but it would be spring before the requisite number of Masters could return to the Hall for a formal election. No one wished the Harper Hall to be leaderless at such a time. Robinton could hear the messages coming in and going out. He found that their import was muffled down in the kitchen of the Harper Hall – where Silvina, Lorra's capable daughter, kept him company and poured out the numerous cups of clah he drank during the long wait.

  Her mother had retired to her family home in South Boll three turns before and Silvina, as dark-haired and energetic as her mother had been, was headwoman in the Hall. Robinton liked her matter-of-fact attitude towards the duties and the disasters of the Hall – and the fact that she had been quite willing to bed him whenever he stopped there long enough to renew their friendship. She had more sense than to mention any sadness in his eyes, though she knew the memory of Kasia had not dimmed in the ten turns since her death. Vina accepted him as he was and made no demands, and gave him considerable relief and kindness. He was grateful, and that seemed to be enough for her. She was as big-hearted as her mother.

  "The drums have stopped," she said suddenly, about to pour him yet another cup of klah.

  "So they have," he said, realizing that he could no longer feel the vibrations through the stone walls of the Hall. He swallowed and she grinned at his discomfort.

  "You could have stayed above and kept count."

  "What if--' He stopped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. At least two people were approaching.

  Silvina reached out a hand and gripped his.

  A grinning Ogolly and Jerint appeared, a sheaf of small square hides in hand.

  "Master Robinton, would you be willing to assume the responsibility of the Master of the Hall and Craft?" Ogolly asked formally, his tone belied by his wide grin and happy eyes.

  "I would be willing," Robinton said, though his throat had gone dry.

  "It is the unanimous..." Jerint paused to be sure Robinton appreciated that "... decision of all the Masters of this Craft that you accept this position and all its honours, privileges, prerogatives and ... all that hard work!" He stepped forward, gripping Robinton's hand in his and shaking it hard. "I bless the Egg that it's you, Rob!"

  "Who else?" Ogolly demanded, taking his turn to pump the hand of the newly appointed MasterHarper of the Craft. "Who else, dear boy? Who else? Merelan would be so -' Ogolly's eyes teared up and his voice cracked, but he went on "– so very, very proud of you right now."

  Robinton, gripping Ogolly's hand, felt his throat close in response to the mention of his beloved mother. "She would, she would."

  "She always said you would be Master," Silvina said. She threw her arms about Robinton's neck to kiss him soundly. "Mother'll be so happy, Rob. So happy. The day you were born, she said she knew you were destined for great things."

  "Petiron helped take the count, Rob," Jerint put in, and there was a wicked sparkle in his eyes.

  "He's proud of you, too, Robinton ..." Ogolly said quite solemnly. "Really, he is."

  Robinton only nodded. Silvina, busy at one of the cupboards, produced glasses and a wine-skin, which she held out to Robinton so that he could see the label.

  "Benden?" he exclaimed.

  "Gennell ordered in a supply just for today!" she said. "I've kept it safe," she added, casting a reproving glare at Jerint, "so open this skin. There'll be enough to get every last one of you legless tonight."

  Robinton was still hung over the next morning when he entered the office of the MasterHarper. He stopped when he saw there was someone waiting: Petiron. His father had not been backward in toasting and drinking the health of the new MasterHarper the previous night, a fact of which Robinton had taken wary note.

  "As one of your first duties as MasterHarper, Robinton, I wish you will assign me to a post," his father said in a stiff and formal tone. "I think you will do well in this office. I wish you the best, but I feel that my presence here in the Hall might cause you embarrassment..."

  "Really ... Father ..." Robinton mentally berated himself that the unused title came out so awkwardly.

  Petiron gave a little smile, as if that hesitation was proof enough of his contention. "I think it would be easier for you to assume your responsibilities without ... feeling ... well, that I might not agree."

  Robinton caught his father's eyes and slowly nodded. "That is considerate, most considerate, but hardly necessary ...

  "I insist," Petiron said, raising his chin in a stubborn pose his son knew all too well.

  "There aren't any major Holds ..."

  "I would prefer a minor one--"

  "You are a Master and as such deserve--"

  "What I ask for."

  "But you have that fine new apprentice – Domick? I thought you were very pleased with his progress."

  Petiron gave a snort and dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "That young man thinks he knows everything. You can have the pleasure of dealing with him."

  Robinton managed not to grin. He had heard about the fine rows his father had with Domick, arguing chromatic
variations, and he rather thought Petiron might have met his match.

  "I just thought that ..." he tried again.

  "Well, you thought wrong. What contracts are available?" And Petiron held out his hand, all but snapping his fingers at his son to speed him up.

  Robinton stepped round to the front of the desk where messages were piled in order and by subject. For the last few weeks of his life, Gennell had kept Robinton up to date on all Hall matters, so he knew which pile contained the requests for harpers. He picked it up and handed it to Petiron.

  "See if one of these suits," he said, acquiescing to the inevitable.

  In a way, he was relieved. He would indeed feel a slight inhibition that his father might question some of the decisions he would have to make – especially as Petiron had widely opposite notions about the imminence of Threadfall and what fourth-turn composition apprentices had to learn even if they were unlikely ever to have to teach theory and composition. It would be easier if Petiron were not here.

  "I have made it quite clear to my peers that this is my choice, Robinton, and none of your doing," said Petiron, picking out one message and handing it to his son. "This one will suit me."

  Robinton looked at it and blinked. "Half Circle SeaHold? Father, you can't! It's the back end of nowhere. I've been there. The only ways in are by sea or dragonback."

  "Still, it is right on Nerat Bay, and any halfway decent captain can get me there. They haven't had a harper in six turns. There'll be a lot of work to remedy that sort of neglect. You are so determined that everyone shall know the Teaching Ballads: here's a challenge for me."

  "But there are holds in Keroon, and that one on the Telgar River..."

  "I have chosen Half Circle SeaHold. Do not deny me, Robinton."

  "Please consider another," Robinton insisted, worried about the degree of isolation afforded by Half Circle SeaHold.

  "I have chosen, MasterHarper." With that, Petiron made a formal bow and left the office.