Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  There was something about his mother that was different, not quite right, despite all the assurances he had been given. He gave her a goodnight hug and kiss.

  “I’ve several days before I have to take ship,” he told her.

  “Where did Gennell assign you?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  She laughed. “Gennell keeps his own business to himself, but he did assure me that it was a posting worthy of your abilities.”

  She was delighted when he informed her that he’d been assigned to Benden.

  “I’d hoped that you might. I know Evarel is thinking about retiring,” she said, hugging him fiercely. Then she gave him a mock coy glance. “Why, I’d even thought of asking Gennell if he wouldn’t consider you, but that would be favoritism.”

  “And my mother wouldn’t stoop to that?” he said, teasing her lightly. “Even for her own son?”

  “I have my scruples, dear,” she replied, affecting a prim manner.

  Silvina served him his dinner first at the journeymen’s table, gave him larger portions than she gave the others, and hung around, asking him about High Reaches and being not quite a nuisance. Two or three harpers he didn’t know very well grinned at him until he became a little uncomfortable about her attentiveness.

  She was pretty—prettier than Sitta or Marcine—but he wasn’t going to be around long enough to get to know the adult Vina.

  Anyway, Master Gennell rose to his feet and started the ceremonies that made apprentices into journeymen—always a marvelous occasion. His new posting was included, and he saw how proud his mother was when it was announced. He wondered what his father would have said.

  So he traveled by ship, runnerbeast, and foot to Benden, a journey that not only made him appreciate the speed of transport a-dragonback, but also impressed on him the size of the continent, which until then had only been a map, not actual lengths he had set foot on.

  He discovered that he could sail without getting seasick—which pleased the captain no end when a storm made half the crew too nauseated to work and Robinton was pressed into service. And he saw the Dawn Sisters for the first time.

  He’d come on deck just at dawn and noticed the bright spark in the sky.

  “That can’t be a star,” he said.

  “Ent one,” the dog-watch sailor said with a grin. “We calls ’em the Dawn Sisters. Why, I dunno. We sees ’em just as clear at dusk, too. Only from this latitude, though. You won’t see ’em up north where you comes from.”

  “Amazing,” Robinton said, leaning against the cabin housing, unable to take his eyes from the shining spot. Then, abruptly, the sun raised itself above the horizon and the spot winked out. He meant to come back and test the sailor’s word that the phenomenon occurred at dusk as well, but he forgot about it.

  He liked Ista Island—what he saw of it sailing past the coastline—and admired the black diamond beach around the little off-shore island, which was no more than an old volcano sticking its crater head up out of the water. He found he could manage a runnerbeast adequately to help drive burden beasts and other runners to their destination, and all his travels up the High Reaches mountain tracks made the rest of his journey more of a delight than a problem. Especially since, as a harper, he was welcome in any small hold, where, in return for an evening’s songs, he got the best meal available, as well as the best bed.

  Except for one night when he had left the drovers who’d sold him an elderly but sturdy packbeast to carry his possessions and was proceeding on his own. He was nearly to the Benden Hold borders, the head drover had told him, and recommended the inland road as being the shorter way. He’d passed a Runner Station midafternoon but decided to travel as far as he could that night. As the sun was nearly down over the mountains, he was beginning to look around for any shelter, even an old Thread halt, when he came across a runner trace. These were always laid out as the straightest distance between two points, so he switched to the narrow, mossy trace. He was ascending a hill when he saw lights ahead, off to his left, snug against a forest. The trace was bisected by a wider road that appeared to lead directly to the hold so he turned, his elderly pack animal moaning a bit.

  “It’s nearby. Not much further, and you can eat, too.”

  The animal groaned on a different note. If Robinton hadn’t been so tired and hungry, he’d have been amused at the variety of sounds the beast could make.

  As he approached the cothold, he smelled tantalizing odors coming from within and his stomach growled. So did several canines within the cot. The packbeast gave off a loud, slightly fearful protest.

  “They’re inside and can’t hurt you,” he told the beast as he resettled his tunic, pushed his hair neatly behind his ears, and courteously rapped at the door.

  “Who’s there?” a sharp male voice demanded, and then told the canines to shut their fuss. “Can’t hear over the noise.”

  A female voice murmured something.

  “A traveler, in need of a night’s lodging,” Robinton said.

  “Can you pay?”

  “Certainly.” A harper was expected to sing and entertain for supper. He would usually offer a half mark, but was always refused.

  The door opened a crack, and he couldn’t see the face of the man, the light being behind him.

  “Who be you?” the man asked.

  “Robinton’s my name,” the journeyman replied with a slight bow and put his hand to his belt pouch. “I have good Harper Hall marks—”

  “Ha! Harper Hall.” There was contempt in the voice.

  “They’re good at any Gather,” Robinton said, more than a little taken aback by the response.

  “Do let him in, Targus. We’ve more than enough stew,” the woman said. She pulled the door open, peering out at him. “Why, it’s only one man, Targus. And carries no weapons but an eating knife.” She swung the door wider and Robinton could see four large men seated at the table. “Sortie, boy, go put his packbeast in the lean-to, and come in. Robinton, you said your name was? I’m Kulla.”

  A gawky lad appeared and slipped past Targus, taking the lead rope from Robinton’s hand and clucking encouragingly at the packbeast. The beast started to resist, but Robinton swatted him across his stubborn rump and he followed the boy.

  “I really appreciate your hospitality, lady,” he said, ducking his head to step into the room. He nodded impartially around at the others. “I’m on my way to Benden Hold.”

  “He’s a harper, Pa. That’s blue cords on his shoulder,” one of the diners said, pointing with his knife at Robinton’s left arm.

  Targus, scowling deeply, hauled Robinton around so he could see the offensive cords himself.

  “Now, you see here, Targus,” Kulla said, planting both fists on her ample hips and glaring at her spouse. “You keep me from Gathering, but if a harper comes to my door, I’m not turning him out. Not that I’d turn anyone away so late in the night.”

  She grabbed Robinton’s other arm and pulled him away from Targus’s grasp and toward the table.

  “Brodo, get a plate. Mosser, a cup. All we’ve got’s beer, but it’ll quench a thirst.” She angled Robinton toward the table and pushed him into what he took to be her own chair. Taking the plate from Brodo, who was grinning as he passed it to his mother, she filled it amply and gestured for him to be seated. “Erkin, the bread’s by you. And, Targus, you sit. I’m so eager to see a smiling face that I’d eat with a watch-wher who did.”

  Jutting his jaw out, Targus held out his hand to Robinton, his eyes suspicious. “Said you could pay?”

  “Indeed, and I can,” Robinton said, half-rising to reach his pouch.

  Kulla pushed Targus’s hand away. “Harpers shouldn’t have to pay, Targus. You weren’t ever brought up right by that family of yours.”

  “I insist,” Robinton said earnestly because he didn’t like the expression on Targus’s face. He kept only a few small pieces in his belt pouch—the rest were in a sash inside his shirt—and he displayed them all. “
This one is smithcraft. Will that be preferable?”

  “Preferable?” sneered Targus as his thick and slightly greasy fingers gathered the mark piece from Robinton’s palm. “Harper words. What’s wrong with ‘Is that good?’ Or do you always have to show off your larnin’?”

  Kulla pulled Robinton back down. “Eat. You look peaked, and don’t mind Targus.”

  Robinton decided to concentrate on eating. There was nothing wrong with the flavorsome stew, or the quality of the tubers and greens that accompanied it. The bread had been made fresh that day, and when the last piece was taken by Erkin, or maybe that was Mosser, the woman sliced up another loaf and filled the dish. Though his hunger would have been sated by the first helping, she served Robinton a second, equally large portion while Targus grumbled.

  “I’ll feed whoever I choose in this house, Targus. This hold has always been hospitable. You can dislike harpers all you want, but I don’t,” she said fiercely. Then in a completely different tone of voice she turned and smiled with genuine appeal in her eyes. “Would you mind playing for us after?” When Targus started to growl, she turned on him. “And you shut your face, Targus. I haven’t heard any music since last Solstice, and I promise you’ll eat nothing but cold porridge for the month if you say another nasty thing.”

  The young boy had slipped back in and helped himself to more stew and bread, shooting glances at the other end of the table where Robinton ate, solidly protected by Kulla.

  “Music!” Targus did growl when Robinton brought out his pipes.

  “You’ve no gitar?” Kulla asked plaintively. “I was hoping you’d sing for me.”

  “It’s on my pack animal . . .”

  She sent the boy, Sheve, for the instrument. “And handle it careful, y’hear?”

  The moment Robinton started playing, Targus stamped toward a half-open door, turned, and glared at his sons expressively, but all of them pretended not to see and he slammed the door behind him.

  Robinton played and sang far more softly than was his habit. When he finally made a few bad chords from sheer fatigue, Brodo touched his mother’s arm. “He’s sung for a week of suppers, Ma.”

  “Why’s Pa hate music so?” Erkin asked.

  “He says harpers sing lies,” Mosser said, malice in his twinkling eyes.

  “Didn’t hear a one,” their mother said stoutly. Then she waggled her finger at Mosser. “Nor you, neither, or you’d’ve stirred yourself out of the room when your pa left. You’ll sleep in here, Harper. Erkin, get the furs. Sheve, throw down that spare mattress from the loft. I’ll just bank the fire.”

  His bed was quickly organized and the final nighttime chores completed, leaving him in sole possession of the main room. He was relieved to see the canines follow the boys out to another part of the cot.

  The thud of wood going into the fireplace roused him from a deep sleep and he saw his hostess taking the porridge pot from the back of the hearth where it had simmered all night.

  “You’ll want to travel soon’s it’s light, Harper,” she said in a soft voice.

  “He hasn’t given you any trouble . . .” Robinton began.

  Her snort of denial was soft, but he could see her lips were smiling. “He knows better,” she said, still quietly, and then reached for a cup to pour him klah.

  It was thick and very strong; the jolt of the liquid in his belly woke him up completely. She set a bowl of porridge on the table and began to slice more bread, which she then covered with a worn but clean napkin.

  “The beast’ll be to the left as you leave the cot,” she said.

  He finished his breakfast quickly, accepting her haste, hospitable though it remained. With the bread in one hand and his gitar in the other, he murmured his thanks again and left.

  The sun was not yet up, but there was light enough to show him the beasthold. He’d had plenty of practice now in settling the pack so that he was off down the road again within minutes.

  “And let that be a lesson to you,” he murmured to himself. “Harper lies? Whatever would he mean by that?”

  He passed over the Benden border late that morning, and that night stayed at a friendly Runner Station where harpers were always welcome.

  When he finally arrived at the Hold, no one was on the steps waiting to welcome him. Just as he was climbing up to the entryway, a party of riders clattered in on the northern road and he recognized Raid, Lord Maidir’s eldest son.

  “Ah, journeyman, we’ve been expecting you,” Raid said, swinging down from his mount and throwing the reins of the tired beast to the holder who came running up from the beasthold.

  “Raid, it’s good to see you again,” Robinton said genially.

  Raid peered up at the harper. “I know you?”

  “Robinton. Mastersinger Merelan’s son,” Robinton said, taken aback.

  But Raid responded with a wide grin and an extended hand, then a clout on the arm. “I wouldn’t have recognized you from that scrawny kid!”

  Robinton had to laugh—Raid was in no way altered from his memory of the young man.

  “I have earnestly tried to improve myself,” he admitted.

  “Glad to hear that,” Raid said, characteristically unable to spot irony. “Come, there’ll be hot klah or wine, now that you’re old enough, to wash away the travel dust. Been long on the way?”

  “Yes, and fully appreciate the size of this continent now in a manner I had not experienced.”

  “Yes, well, there’s that, isn’t there?”

  Robinton reflected that Raid had been born in a mold and not altered the framework one bit in his nearly thirty Turns. Well, there is something to be said about predictability, for a harper’s purposes, he thought.

  “Your father’s well? And Lady Hayara?” he asked politely.

  “My father is much bothered by joint-ail.” Raid frowned with concern. “Our healer can relieve the discomfort only for short periods of time.” He sighed and, also characteristically, did not mention his father’s second wife.

  But she had been alerted by the return of the work party and was sailing into the Hall, a woman whose proportions seemed to be a permanent appearance of late pregnancy. Her smile when she recognized Robinton—and she had no trouble doing so—was all he could wish for, both as a returned guest and a new harper.

  Talking away furiously, which permitted her to ignore Raid beyond a brief nod, she called for a drudge to take Robinton’s carisaks to his quarters, then urged him into the Hall where food and drink were being brought in and set on a table. She ordered chairs to be set for her and the harper, and apologized for Lord Maidir’s absence, and told him that Maizella was about to be espoused to a fine young holder, and said that she was so glad he had come so that he could plan the music because she really didn’t have anything new, and if Robinton did, that would be splendid but only music that had a tune that people could enjoy. Then she realized what she had said and started apologizing about his father’s sooo impressive music, but really that sort of thing wouldn’t do for such a happy occasion, would it?

  At some point during that monologue, when she stopped to draw a breath, Raid said that he would inform Lord Maidir of the harper’s arrival and see when it would be convenient for Robinton to officially present himself to the Lord Holder. He would also apprise Harper Evarel that his journeyman had arrived.

  Breath taken, Lady Hayara, whose ebullience had not altered, brought him up to date on how many students there were currently, and told him that Maizella, in her spare time, was conducting lessons with Harper Evarel, who was nearly as crippled with joint-ail as her spouse but carrying on bravely until Robinton could arrive, and exclaimed at how happy Evarel would be to have a trained assistant because—she didn’t know why—the holders seemed to be breeding enormous families.

  Robinton managed to stifle a laugh. He had counted up the number of offspring she had presented Lord Maidir in the Turns since Rob and his mother had been at Benden Hold: she was a fine one to talk about large families, with
seven more in the intervening years, making a total of ten. Small wonder that Raid said little to her. She was presenting him with problems; although, undoubtedly, Raid would delegate the more responsible males to assist him, while espousing the girls as creditably as possible. Robinton just hoped there wasn’t an ambitious and scheming nephew in Benden Hold, too.

  Then, his klah finished, he said that he would go to the schoolrooms and see if he could help Master Evarel.

  “But you’ve just arrived from a long and terrible journey. He won’t be expecting you to pitch in . . . right away!”

  “I shall see what Evarel wishes, Lady Hayara, but I assure you that I have traveled at a leisurely enough pace and been well treated by everyone on the way.”

  So he thanked her again for the welcome and the refreshment and would have used the backstairs when she called him sharply back and pointed to the main ones at the side of the Hall.

  “Journeyman Robinton, kindly remember your new status,” she said with a hint of dismay. “You are not a child anymore.” It was the closest he had ever heard her come to disapproval.

  He bowed and, muttering something about old habits dying hard, strode across the floor to the appropriate staircase.

  Master Evarel was quietly delighted at his arrival—and at his willingness to get right to work if that was required, for the older man’s hands were badly gnarled with the joint-ail and were obviously paining him.

  “Maizella usually plays for me, but she’s away this morning,” Evarel said gruffly, leading Robinton to suspect that the harper’s voice was also going. He had sung bass: it was the tenor range that was apt to go first. “That is, if you’re not fatigued . . .”

  “I’m fine, Master Evarel. I’d be happy to assist. Perhaps I should have pushed on last night . . .”

  “No, no, the last part of the track could be dangerous at night.” Evarel put up a hand to reassure Robinton even as he passed the gitar over.

  The youngsters in the room giggled and squirmed in their seats at the changeover, looking over the lanky journeyman with eager expressions.