The Master Harper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  fields, or whatever, while the holder and his family are away."

  "So that his men become familiar with the place."

  "Exactly." And Nip took a sip. "One man and his family never did get back from that Gather and so Fax has acquired Keogh Hold recently."

  "That makes..."

  "Four."

  "I see. Let me take those boots off for you, Nip. They look soaked." Actually, Robinton had caught sight of the way Nip was shivering despite the wine and the heat.

  "You're the only man I'd allow such a privilege," the irrepressible Nip replied as he lifted his left leg and then placed his right boot on Robinton's butt. "I know many people who'd love to have the MasterHarper of Pern on the end of their boot!" he added, chuckling, and gave Rob a hefty push – all to help remove his boot, of course.

  In spite of Nip's pessimistic report, Fax was quiescent again, seemingly content to ride his extended borders, encouraging, as Nip put it drolly, his dependants to increase their production.

  Robinton could not spend all his time worrying about where Fax would go next. He had the Hall to run, with all its problems and scheduling, especially when the bias against harpers was increasing.

  However, when he heard that Nemorth had actually risen in a good mating flight with Simanith, Robinton sent congratulations and had a special visit from F'lon who looked excessively pleased with himself.

  "How did you manage?" Robinton asked, pouring two glasses from the Benden wine-skin F'lon had brought to celebrate.

  "First we starved the pair of them. I never thought a queen dragon could be so difficult. All the bronzes were needed to snatch anything she killed. She'd sneak out the Weyr at night to get something to eat."

  "Who? Jora or NemorthT

  F'lon blinked and then howled with laughter. "Actually, I meant Nemorth but I think Jora probably had edibles secreted about the place because we never did manage to get her down to a decent size. But Nemorth was our prime worry. Like rider like dragon can be all too true. But we succeeded in keeping her from doing more than blood the next time she turned bright gold. My, she was a nasty one in flight," and F'lon shook his head from side to side, with an odd grin on his face. "Simanith proved his worth. Caught her high and did her well." Then he exhaled noisily.

  Robinton was hard pressed not to laugh out loud, wondering how F'lon had managed his unwieldy mate on that occasion but there were certain matters one did not discuss, even with such a good friend as F'lon.

  "So, she'll clutch in the winter?"

  "So long as she does clutch!"

  "Here's to a triple her last one!"

  "We'll need every one," F'lon said and downed the wine, breaking the glass in the hearth. Robinton, though he regretted losing two such fine goblets, followed suit. "I'll come for you myself when the Hatching's due. Both my sons'll stand." Before Robinton figured that the youngest would be only ten, F'lon was out the door.

  "Well, he is the Weyrleader," Robinton murmured. "And the dragons will make the right choices." He hoped.

  He had another, totally unexpected visit that same seven-day which turned out to have almost as fortuitous a result.

  Silvina tapped on the door of his rooms. "You've two visitors, Rob," she said, smiling broadly as she pushed the door open wider to admit the guests.

  Robinton instantly rose to his feet to greet the arrivals: a grizzled man, and a very gawky shy lad whose eyes were round and so fearful that Robinton increased the warmth in his own smile. The older man pushed the lad forward with a hand that was missing two fingers. He nodded with great dignity to the MasterHarper.

  "You wouldn't remember me, likely," he said, "but I've never forgotten my cousin, Merelan."

  The injured hand, the deep voice, the tanned, weathered and faintly familiar face of the man combined with the heavy boots he wore gave Robinton a clue.

  "RantouT he exclaimed.

  "Aye." A huge grin split the man's face. "Rantou from the woods. Fancy you remembering my name after all these turns."

  Robinton shook the offered hand vigorously and urged the two to take seats, gesturing to Silvina to bring refreshment.

  "Why, it's been ... turns!" Robinton said. "I do remember that summer, and swimming in the sea and all the cousins I didn't know I had ..."

  "Heard Merelan had died a while back," Rantou said, his expression sober. "Heard her sing at South Boll Gathers now and then."

  "You had a fine voice, or so she often said."

  "Did she?" The old man's face lit up. The boy wriggled in his chair, uncomfortable and not certain what to do or how to act.

  "She did," Robinton said warmly, turning kindly to include the boy in the conversation.

  Rantou cleared his throat and sat forward on the chair. "Well, that's what I'm here for."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes." Rantou gripped the boy by the shoulder. "This is my grandson, Sebell. He can sing. I want him to be a harper, if he's good enough."

  "Why, that's wonderful, Rantou."

  "He's better off here, much better than in the woods. I never forgot your father, you know." Rantou grinned slyly. "He didn't think much of us."

  "Oh, now ..."

  "Don't mix the truth up, lad – ! mean, MasterHarper." Rantou suddenly realized that he had no right to reprimand such an important person.

  Robinton laughed. "He hated to lose any promising musical talent."

  "I want Sebell to have the chance," Rantou said. "He's smart, he already plays pipes he's made, and our old gitar. Knows all his Teaching Songs and Ballads. We don't have a regular harper down there – too small – but I've seen that Sebell learned as much as we could teach him."

  Robinton turned to the very nervous boy, who jerked his chin up almost defensively at such scrutiny. He was as tanned as his grandfather, with a shock of sun-bleached hair and wide-set dark eyes which had been surreptitiously noting everything in the room, from the instruments on the walls to the musical notations on the sand table. He was ten or eleven turns, Robinton thought, more bone than flesh, but with the suggestion of height and strength in his frame ... and bony wrists and ankles which protruded from pants legs that were too short.

  "I started on pipes too, you know," he said gently, and pointed to them on the wall.

  The boy looked surprised.

  "Did you bring yours with you?" Robinton asked.

  "He's never without them," his grandfather said proudly and nodded to Sebell.

  The boy reached behind him and produced multiple pipes which he had tucked into his waistband, hidden from view under his shirt.

  Robinton rose and got his own boyhood pipes. He grinned at Sebell as he tried to make his adult fingers fit the stops which had been made for much smaller hands. Then he did a quick scale and glanced at Sebell. The boy's grin was slightly amused as he repeated the scale, quickly and well.

  "How about this one?" And Robinton essayed a more complex arpeggio.

  The boy's grin broadened as he set his lips to the pipes and immediately brought forth the same run.

  "Which is your favourite Teaching Ballad?" Robinton asked.

  The boy began the Duty Song, which was not the simplest of the Ballads, and Robinton joined by piping a descant around the melody. Sebell's eyes twinkled at the challenge, and the two pipers ended the song with quite a flourish, for Sebell had variations of his own.

  Robinton chuckled. "Can you sing it for me too, while I accompany you?"

  The boy's treble voice was not the least bit breathy, so someone had taught him a few vocal tricks. It was a good voice, too, and he had a good sense of rhythm and pitch and imbued the words with appropriate feeling. Shonagar would be overjoyed to have a new student.

  "He's your kin, Rantou."

  "And kin of yourself as well, Master Robinton."

  "Why, so he is!" Robinton quickly suppressed a wish that this had been his son, rather than poor retarded Camo. "Why, so he is," he repeated more firmly and held out his hand to the boy. "The Harper Hall will be pleased to h
ave you join us. Very pleased."

  "He won't expect any favours, kin or not."

  "I do him none by giving any," Robinton said, and then smiled encouragingly at Sebell.

  A tap on the door and Silvina entered with a tray of refreshments, including newly baked cakes which brought an eager expression to the boy's face.

  "Silvina, meet Sebell, grandson of Rantou, and by way of being a relative of mine from my mother's hold," Robinton said.

  Having settled the tray on the long table, Silvina held out her hand to Sebell, who jumped to his feet and gave her a shy bow before accepting her clasp.

  "A new apprentice?" she asked, smiling kindly.

  "And a new treble for Shonagar to train. Pipes well, too," Robinton said with pride. He couldn't resist ruffling the lad's hair in his pleasure at his coming. "I met Rantou when I was much younger than Sebell ..."

  "You are related to MasterSinger Merelan?" Silvina asked as she poured klah and passed around the sweetener.

  "We were very proud of her, we were, Silvina," Rantou replied proudly.

  "We all were," Silvina said and her warm smile included the newest recruit to the Harper Hall, who grinned shyly back at her as she passed him the plate of cakes.

  Sebell settled in, a quiet lad but endlessly curious about things musical. He kept appearing to ask if Robinton needed anything, until everyone took it for granted that he was Robinton's shadow.

  Sebell also began to play with Camo, trying to get him to hold a drumstick and use it properly on the little drum Robinton had made for him. Seeing the two together caused Robinton some heartache, but he could no more ask Sebell to leave his son alone than be could ignore Sebell's deft and discreet services.

  "The lad's so kind to Camo," Silvina remarked one evening to him. "He's not like the other apprentices, helter-skelter and rough, and he seems so genuinely fond of Camo' She broke off and regarded Robinton closely. "You know, you've a true son of your heart in Sebell, Rob. In fact," she added, cocking her head, "Sebell's not the only apprentice who adores you, Rob. Don't hesitate to give them the love which Camo cannot return. They deserve it, each in their own way, so you're taking nothing from Camo."

  "I wish I could give the child something," Robinton said wistfully.

  "Oh, you do. He always smiles when he hears your voice."

  On reflection he realized that Silvina's remark about concentrating on his many "sons' was sound advice. So he stopped yearning for what Camo could never do and, as his mother did, accepted the boy's cheerful smile and praised him for what progress he made: learning to walk, learning to feed himself, learning to do simple tasks. Sebell, as often as not, helping him.

  Robinton had occasional visits from F'lon, especially after Nemorth deposited a very good clutch on the Hatching Ground sands. Not triple her last clutch, but a respectable twenty-four.

  Sometimes when he asked for conveyance a-dragonback, F'lon would send the Weyrsinger, C'gan, but Robinton was just as glad to see the young-faced Weyrsinger. C'gan's infallible good nature was a tonic in itself. In fact, it was C'gan who came to collect the MasterHarper for his first official attendance at a Benden Weyr Hatching. Such an event happened all too infrequently. Harper Records spoke of many more in former times – before the five Weyrs disappeared.

  "The older lad's well grown but, frankly, I think Manora's son's a bit young," C'gan informed the MasterHarper as they hurried to blue Tagath, waiting impatiently in the courtyard. The blue rider had given the MasterHarper only moments to change into appropriate finery, and now he half-boosted him to Tagath's back. "But F'lon was not going to risk not having both sons dragonriders. No, he wasn't. And it's true we don't have as many clutches. Nor as many eggs in "em as we should do. That Nemorth's too fat to fly.

  Up you go!"

  "Good day, Tagath," Robinton said, stroking the blue shoulder as he settled himself between neck ridges. He tried to find the best place for his gitar and ended up cradling it in his arms behind C'gan.

  Tagath turned his head round to look at Robinton. Hatching is always a good day, Harper.

  "He answered me!" Robinton said, delighted. He grinned at C'gan.

  "Ah, he's not much of a talker, is Tagath. Even to me. I think you surprised him, Harper. Does him good."

  Robinton felt his neck snap, and his nose connected with the tuning knobs of the gitar as Tagath made a mighty leap skyward. The power in those blue haunches was formidable. Robinton had time to finger his nose and establish that it wasn't bleeding before he heard C'gan give the command to go between.

  Then they were hanging above Benden Weyr and Robinton caught his breath. The Bowl was alive with people streaming into the Hatching Ground and dragons weaving up to and disappearing down the upper tunnel to where they could watch Impression.

  Dragon eyes gleamed with the brightest of blues and greens, flashed with the yellows of excitement.

  Tagath landed neatly quite close to the entrance to the Hatching Ground, deftly avoiding two groups of holders running in. A hum warned both Harper and dragonrider that the event was almost upon them.

  Robinton slid down the blue's side, thanking him and C'gan, then joined those streaming in.

  "Over here, Rob!" F'lon roared, vigorously beckoning the Harper to join him on the raised section of the Ground where Nemorth was hunched. "I've been waiting for you!" Robinton could not fail to notice Jora on the other side of her queen, a large bulk in a vivid green gown which did nothing to hide her obesity or enhance what had once been a pretty face. He bowed ceremoniously to her and then to Nemorth, whose attention was on the small clutch of eggs in the centre of the hot Hatching Sands.

  Jora gave him a nervous grin, her fat fingers making wet creases in the stuff of her gown. He always tried to be nice to her, knowing that F'lon gave her a difficult time.

  "I was beginning to think you might not be at the Hall," F'lon said, grabbing Robinton by the hand and shaking it so hard that Robinton exclaimed.

  "I'll need it to play for you, F'lon," he said, pulling back his hand and making a show of examining it for injury.

  "Yes, yes, of course, and you'll make a song for my sons" Impression?"

  Robinton did not laugh at the proud and eager father. F'lon's emotions were so obvious: he was torn between the certainty that both his sons must Impress and the fear that neither would.

  "Point them out to me, will you?" Rob asked. "Lads grow so fast at this time of their lives ..."

  "The two there to the left ... See? In white of course, but Fallamon has my hair. And Famanoran resembles his mother. You remember Manora? The one who kept her head the night S'loner died?"

  "They also resemble each other," Robinton remarked, having identified the two by that more than by F'lon's excited description.

  "Well-grown lads."

  "Fallamon's the taller," F'lon added nervously.

  "Relax, F'lon," Robinton said. "They'll Impress."

  "Are you sure?" F'lon's query was anxious.

  "You're asking me?"

  "Yes, I'm asking you."

  He really is asking you, Simanith's voice echoed in Robinton's ears.

  "Of course they will. How could they not, F'lon? Relax. Enjoy this moment."

  F'lon rubbed hands nearly as nervous as Jora's. She kept peeking around her dragon's neck and she certainly looked agitated.

  Robinton felt more sympathy for the poor woman.

  "Simanith says they will," Robinton added mendaciously, glancing up at the bronze who was crouched on the ledge above his queen. Simanith blinked.

  "He would know, wouldn't he?" F'lon said and, at the first sharp cracking sound, took hold of Robinton's arm in a vice-like grip.

  Robinton tried not to wince, highly amused by the spectacle of the usually supremely confident, proud and aggressive Weyrleader in such a state.

  "It's a bronze!" F'lon cried, his hands tightening perceptibly on Robinton's forearm.

  "I'll need this to play," Robinton said again, peeling the drug-onrider's fingers
free.

  "A bronze first is a good sign," F'lon told him urgently. "There're only nine of them, you know."

  "Easy!"

  The little bronze shattered its shell with a second decisive blow of its nose.

  "Oh, well done!" F'lon cried. "Do you see that, Robinton?"

  Robinton nodded, but he'd also seen the expression on Jora's flushed and frantic face. The outcome of this Impression was possibly even more important to her.

  The little bronze creeled his hunger, nodding his head in a semicircle, then without another moment's hesitation he lurched directly at F'lon's two sons. Imperiously he butted the taller lad as the young boy stepped out.of the way.

  "His name is Mnementh!" the boy cried exultantly, clasping the wet head to his chest.

  F'lon let out a gasp that was as much a sob as a cheer. "He's done it. He's done it. He's done it!"

  Robinton was now seized by the arms and shaken, and dropped back on to his own feet in the next instant as F'lon ran across the hot sands to assist the newly Impressed pair.

  Jora gave a mewling sound and tears streamed down her face.

  She gave Robinton a glance both piteous and triumphant.

  Three other eggs cracked and bronze dragons emerged.

  Robinton wondered just how good an omen for the Weyr that was.

  Then he paid more attention to the pairing of the lads. In their white, it was difficult to know if all the candidates were weyrbred or not. Then loud cheers and shrieks of delight from one group informed him that at least one new rider was hold-bred. And so were the newly Impressed blue and the three greens. A brown dragon broke his shell, and suddenly he was the only dragonling left.

  He cried out, craning his neck as high as he could to see around the others. Then, with a sort of hiccuping yip, he veered and stumbled towards the youngest boy on the sands: Famanoran, F'lon's second son. Famanoran had been just standing there quietly, watching, his expression blank, but once he realized that the little brown dragon was heading towards him, and him alone, he raced across the sands to meet him.