Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You’ll be an old rider by then.”

  “I’ll have two sons to take over for me, should I happen to fail . . .” F’lon showed his white teeth in a challenging grin. Then his expression turned grim again. “They’ll know what the Weyr stands for. They’ll know—from me—” he declared, prodding his chest, “what dragonriders are meant to do.”

  “What’s the latest on Fax?” Robinton would never dignify the man with his assumed title. As it was, there never had been a Council of Lord Holders, Craftmasters, and the Weyr to confirm his Holding at High Reaches, usurping Bargen, the old Lord Holder’s oldest surviving son—if he still lived.

  “Oh, he’s busy.” F’lon’s grin turned wickedly malicious. “Still can’t get any male issue, and he’s plowing any pretty girl he can find. Isn’t safe to be female in High Reaches any longer. And his dueling? Ha!” He raised both hands again. “He’s got a grand way to rid himself of any who’d oppose him. He insults a man to the point of a fight. And he always wins. Then he puts in those oafs and dimwits of his in any prosperous hold . . . and continues to encroach whenever he can.”

  “I’d heard.” Reports of Nip’s forays kept Robinton as up to date as possible.

  “What had you heard, Rob?” F’lon asked.

  “I know he’s nibbling away on the borders of Crom and Nabol. He daren’t try his tricks in Tillek or Telgar. Both Melongel and Tarathel have mounted border guards with hill beacons to spread an alarm.”

  “Good, good,” F’lon said, nodding approval. “But tell me when the rest of our languid Lords are going to take action against him. They’re going to have to, you know.”

  Robinton had had arguments with both Lord Grogellan of Fort and Lord Ashmichel of Ruatha. Groghe, fortunately, was more concerned than his father was. The Ruathan heir, Kale, had not been present when Robinton had sounded Ashmichel out. That Lord Holder had discounted Robinton’s apprehensions, which worried Robinton still more, since Ruatha not only bordered Nabol but also was one of the most prosperous holds, due to the fine runnerbeasts it bred. They would be a fine prize for Fax—when he turned his covetous eyes to the grasslands of Telgar and Keroon. “It’s foreign to the nature of Lord Holders to distrust one of their number,” Robinton said flatly.

  “But not to ignore what they don’t wish to admit.”

  “True. I’m doing my best to worry them.”

  “Did you know that he’s espoused a Ruathan Blood?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Robinton leaned forward intently. “Who?”

  “Gemma.” And when Robinton frowned, unable to place her, F’lon identified her: “She may be only a third cousin, but she’s got Ruathan blood if Fax wanted to use that as a pretext to Hold there. A comedown from being nephew or espousing a daughter.”

  “How many has he espoused now?” Robinton demanded.

  “As many as he now has holdings, I suspect,” F’lon said, and added, with a lascivious leer, “the man’s insatiable, and not just for land.”

  “Surely there’s a limit . . .”

  “Let us hope so,” F’lon said.

  The Turn after the birth of Famanoran, Nemorth rose in a mating flight and it was Simanith who flew her. F’lon became Weyrleader at last. M’odon, the oldest of his riders, died quietly in his sleep. This, too, was a bitter winter. Twenty-four dragon-riders fell ill of a fever, and the Weyr echoed with the sounds of keening dragons. Nemorth produced nineteen dragons in her second clutch—not enough to make up the losses.

  The dissatisfaction with the Harper Hall was insidiously spreading. There had been several cases of harpers being waylaid on their routes and beaten. The worst incident occurred in Crom. The young tenor, Evenek, had been specifically employed by the Lord Holder, Lesselden, to entertain. Evenek had had to audition for Lesselden and his Lady, Relna, who wished to have someone who could instruct instrumentalists to accompany her and to help put on the little evening plays she was fond of writing. Evenek sent a runner message back that he had accepted the position since Lady Relna had a good voice and was pleasant enough, and Evenek felt confident he could satisfy her requirement to train players. He added that he felt that he would stick to the music and the musical training, since Lord Lesselden had made it quite clear that the contract did not require him to teach the “usual harper nonsense.” Master Gennell had mentioned some concern for Evenek, but he and the other Masters agreed that the tenor would be clever enough to manage—especially since the terms of the contract had been so specific.

  Then a runner—not Nip this time—came directly to Master Gennell, not even stopping at the Fort Runner Station as the messengers usually did. Immediately Master Gennell called Robinton.

  “Evenek’s been severely beaten and thrown out of the Hold. In fact, if a runner hadn’t found him, he’d probably be dead by now. Go get a healer and pick five of the biggest, strongest apprentices to go with you. The runners got him over the Crom border into Nabol to Station 193. D’you know its location?”

  Robinton did, since he had often studied the disposition of Runner Stations. He gathered up the group, including the sturdiest healer of the journeymen presently in the Healer Hall, and mounted them on the best of the runnerbeasts available. They made it to the Station quickly, riding hard and changing mounts at Ruatha.

  Evenek had been very kindly attended by the Station Master, who had brought in the nearest healer he could reach.

  “I’ve done what I can.” Germathen, the healer, shook his head, clearly distressed by the incident. “They broke every bone in his hands. They also mangled his throat so badly I’d be surprised if he ever sings again.”

  “Does he know who did it?” Robinton demanded, once he had calmed down the vengeful mutterings of his companions: hard to do with rage consuming him, but he knew that retaliation—however satisfying that would be—would achieve nothing helpful to the Harper Hall.

  Germathen shrugged. “I think he does, but he won’t say—and talking is painful enough for him. I’ve set all the bones I could, but I’d wish for someone more adept than I to check my settings.”

  “Can he travel?”

  Robinton noticed the Station Master’s interest in the answer.

  “If you take it by slow stages,” Germathen replied. “In fact, I think Evenek will not feel safe until he is back in the Harper Hall.”

  “If any of us are safe there . . .” one of the apprentices muttered.

  “Fort and Ruatha would protect the Harper Hall to the last man,” Robinton said firmly. “May I see Ev now?”

  The wounded man had been installed in the last, and safest, of the connecting dormitory rooms in the Station. Three older runners were seated outside his door, while the Station Master’s spouse sat inside, mending quietly. She rose, one hand reaching for a stout cudgel, when the harpers entered.

  Evenek was asleep, his hands swathed in bulky bandages and cushioned by pillows. His face was a mass of bruises, and his neck was covered in bandages as far down as his chest. Robinton was sick to his stomach, and one of the other harpers abruptly retreated from the room. As Robinton stood there, a bitterness welled up in him, of a strength he had not imagined himself capable of feeling—far deeper and more primitive even than that which had assailed him after Kasia’s death. He thought, briefly, of asking for F’lon’s help to transport Evenek, but with such injuries the cold of between was inadvisable.

  The joy and relief in Evenek’s eyes, his broken attempts to thank them, had an even more profound effect on those who had come to his aid. He managed to indicate that he would endure any discomfort that traveling might cause him.

  “Home . . . the Hall . . .” he kept repeating.

  Germathen and the journeyman healer had a quiet professional discussion and told Robinton that they could start back the next morning. If those in the Runner Station looked relieved, they had succored Evenek when he had most needed their help and Robinton assured them that the Harper Hall stood in their debt.

  “To do that to a harper, Robinton
, is something I never thought to see,” the Station Master said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to, I don’t.”

  After dinner, the harpers—quietly—entertained those at the Station.

  They brought Evenek safely back to the Harper Hall, where his condition reduced Master Gennell to tears. Later Masterhealer Ginia and her assistant, Oldive, having had a chance to assess his injuries, announced that while they thought they could give him back the use of his hands, he might not be as adept on some instruments as before. About his voice, they could not yet give any reassurance: the trachea had been badly damaged.

  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 the Harper Hall of its 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, began 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 and most of the minor ones, and been in every Crafthold on the continent. What place can I have missed on my travels for you?”

  “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 Master Harpers 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 that 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 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.” He heaved himself to his feet in his restlessness and began to pace the floor. 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 and sank heavily again into his chair, 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 want the job,” Gennell said with grim humor. “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 sarcastically.

  “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 sarcasm 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 Winalla said, weeping. “You can’t. That’s barbaric.”

  Ginia shook her head. “It is not. It’s as simple 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 Winalla shuddered with repugnance, her expression stubborn. “His person cannot be carved like an animal!”

  “Mother, if it’s a question of his life . . .” Groghe said, 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 Winalla 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 . . .”

  Winalla 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 that 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 bit 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.”