That question was answered, in part or in whole, when the 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. There Silvina, Lorra’s capable daughter, kept him company and poured out the numerous cups of klah 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 toward the duties and the disasters of the Hall—and the fact that she had been quite willing to bed him whenever he stopped long enough at the Hall to renew their friendship. She had more sense than to mention any sadness in his eyes, though he 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 bighearted as her mother had been.
“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. Two people, at least, were approaching.
Silvina reached a hand out 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 responsibilities 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 honors, 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 wineskin, which she held out to Robinton so 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 hungover 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 around 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-year 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,” Petiron said, 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.
“By the Egg!” Robinton flopped down into the comfortable chair that Gennell had occupied and wondered if he would ev
er fit in it as well as the dear old man had hoped. He had already made—or had made for him—his first official decision. He devoutly hoped it was the right one.
CHAPTER XVI
MANY OF ROBINTON’S duties that Turn were simply to keep the ordinary daily doings of the Harper Hall going smoothly, accepting new apprentices, conferring journeyman status on those qualifying, and confirming one Master: Jerint, who took over from the frail Gorazde.
F’lon was ecstatic with his friend’s rise to the MasterHarpership and would come at the roll of a drum message to take him to any Hold or Hall that required the presence of the MasterHarper. Robinton often availed himself of that courtesy since, in his role as mediator, he did a great deal of traveling. Too, there was always the hope that he’d find a new candidate for the Harper Hall, recommended by the youngster’s harper. But only one girl singer was brought to his attention and her parents felt she was too young, yet, to be away from home. She was sixteen, with a sweet voice he felt could be trained up, but she also had a young lad from the next hold whom she was keen to espouse. Singing was second best.
Then there were his necessary appearances at Gathers and the once-a-Turn conclave to which Fax was never invited and where his name was never mentioned, even when Robinton, Melongel, or Tarathel tried to initiate a discussion about the man’s totally illegal usurption of power.
“Why do you fuss so?” the grumpy aged Lord Holder of Igen demanded. His face was a sea of lines, engraved by squinting all his life at the hot sun over his Hold. “Fax is, I do believe, a nephew of old Faroguy and if his sons—”
“Farovene was killed.”
“Yes, yes, so everyone says, but Fax is of the Hold’s Bloodline, and if the other one, whatever his name was . . .”
“Is,” Robinton said firmly, “Bargen . . .”
“Bargen, then, can’t stomach a challenge duel, eh? Then he isn’t the sort of Lord his holders will follow, is he?” And when Melongel started to protest, Tesner of Igen interrupted him. “Ever think that Faroguy wanted a stronger man in his Hold? Huh? Ever think Fax might have been told by Faroguy to take Hold?”
No one had an answer for that, even Robinton, though he tried desperately to think of a diplomatic way of expressing his deep and instinctive distrust and anxiety over Fax’s aggressiveness. There had been that time, close to Robinton’s espousal to Kasia, when Melongel had wondered if the drum messages, purported to be sent by Faroguy, had really originated with the old Lord. Robinton did keep F’lon from speaking in his blunt way lest the Weyrleader antagonize the Lord Holders further.
“Why’d you do that?” F’lon growled at Robinton. “At least we had them on the subject.”
“There’s an old maxim: ‘A man convinced against his will, is of his own opinion still.’ ” Robinton sighed, shaking his head. “We’ll have to wait until Fax moves again.”
“Or the next Pass starts!” F’lon said bitterly. “Then it’ll be too late!”
“Or just right,” Robinton added, as he imagined the chaos and backtracking that the return of Thread would cause among those indolent and incredulous Holders and Masters.
Toward the end of the next spring, Nip brought new reports on Fax’s activities.
“Man’s taken over another hold,” he said, slipping into Robinton’s room late one night, wearing runner’s shorts. He was barefooted, carrying spiked running shoes in one hand. “It’s late, I know, but your glows guided my steps to your door again,” he added with a grin as he stopped by the chest where Robinton stored wineskins and glasses. The running shoes clattered to the floor.
“Which one?” Robinton asked, gesturing to indicate that he’d need a drink, too, to help swallow the news.
“Not a big one,” Nip said. “Not greedy is our self-styled Lord of Three Holds. Just a prosperous one. And he plays no favorites . . .”
Robinton said nothing, letting Nip vent his fury.
“Just ventures a little ways into Tillek to nobble Radharc.”
“It’s not like Melongel to allow him to get away with that.”
“Ah . . .” Nip held up a forefinger. “You hadn’t heard that Melongel’s ill?”
Robinton sat up. “No, I hadn’t.”
“Had a fall off a runner-beast.”
“Melongel’s a good rider . . .”
Nip’s smile was grim. “So he is, but not when the animal is fed something that sends it into convulsions and pins the rider under him in its death throes.”
“How could Fax . . .”
“Who knows, but Melongel is lucky to be still alive.”
“Clostan’s a very good healer.”
Nip nodded. “He is, but he’s worried. Almost every bone in Melongel’s body was broken. He may never walk again.”
Robinton’s fist hit the table. “How could—”
Nip was rubbing his finger and thumb together, a very cynical expression on his face. “Fax buys loyalty and service—with the added incentive of fear. Who knows how he managed it. But I’d say he did. Which means there’ll be no opposition from that quarter. Oterel’s a good lad, but who would expect him to have to deal with this sort of crisis so early in his Holding?”
“How is Juvana?” Robinton owed her for her support when Kasia had died.
“Working as hard as Clostan to save her spouse. They may bring it off yet.”
“Is it just your suspicion that Fax was behind the . . . accident?”
Nip laughed. “Who else? It is so timely. Fax espouses the recently”—and he gave another false smile—“orphaned eldest daughter of the deceased holder on Tillek lands—no mention, of course, of any male siblings or relatives.”
Robinton thumped the table again in frustration. “Can’t something be done?”
“Off-hand, since no one will give us a hand, no,” Nip said pragmatically. “That man’s determined to own the entire west coast. Slowly, by inches, he moves into an area, eliminating”—Nip drew a finger across his throat—“any opposition. He’s got many spouses now, more than a sane man would wish. Doesn’t the Charter restrict how many a man can have?”
“No,” Robinton replied thoughtfully, pinching at his upper lip. “Actually it doesn’t deal with personal relationships at all—at least the usual variety, though it is specific in the violations—” Robinton paused. “—such as rape or other unwanted acts.”
“Damned Charter was written by idealists.”
“Quite likely, but the Charter does work for the majority.”
Nip grimaced. “It’s the minority, the damaged and oppressed minority in Fax’s general area, we’re talking about.”
Robinton shook his head. “I’ve done all I can with the Lord Holders.”
Nip leaned across the table, the expression in his eyes anxious and intent. “You’re the one good with words, Harper. Find some stronger ones before it’s too late!”
Robinton nodded though both he and Nip understood the reluctance of any of the Lord Holders to act—singly or together. What would it take to force them out of their comfortable—and, they hoped, impregnable—Holds to act? He shuddered. Fax had already committed many offences against the peace of Pern. He shook his head, unable to contemplate the kind of disaster needed. F’lon? . . . no, Fax would enjoy taking him on but Pern needed the Weyrleader’s strength and belief as much as Gennell had needed Robinton’s in the position of MasterHarper.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled and my ears open,” Nip told Robinton, draining the last of his wine and setting it down. “I’ll borrow your spare room . . . since you’re all alone tonight?”
Robinton chose to ignore the cocky grin and knowing eyes of his roving harper, but he wasn’t at all surprised that Nip knew that he and Silvina often spent nights together.
“Are you officially running, Nip?” he called out, sitting down. He would write Juvana a letter. The MasterHarper was at her disposal, if his presence would help.
“Aye, I’ll see the letter into Juvana’s hands,” Nip said, leaning back into the r
oom, one hand on the doorjamb. “She’ll like to hear from you.”
Not much escaped Nip at all.
Not much seemed to be escaping Fax’s greed either, Robinton thought. And, though he heard that Tarathel had sent protests to Fax over the minor holdings that had come so fortuitously under Fax’s control, that was the end of the matter.
Except that it wasn’t. Before Turn’s End, Melongel succumbed to one of the fevers so prevalent in the winters at Tillek Hold.
Robinton immediately sent for F’lon and the two went to Tillek Hold to comfort Juvana. The visit was hard for Robinton, since Kasia’s spirit was still vivid in his mind in this place, but he tried not to remember, concentrating his attention on Juvana and her grieving children.
“Did you hear that Melongel’s . . . fall . . . might not have been accidental?” Groghe murmured to Robinton as they followed those carrying Melongel’s body to the Northern Maid.
“I had. Do you concur?”
“It’s all a bit too convenient, isn’t it? A previously sound, sure-footed animal going into convulsions and rolling on its rider?” Groghe snorted. “Runner-beasts don’t eat lur-weed, and farmers clean it out of their fields whenever it sprouts. So someone would have had to put it in the animal’s manger on purpose.”
Robinton nodded agreement, and then had to take his place with Minnarden on the prow of the ship to harp Melongel to his last resting place. When the last harp note was whipped by the breeze, as Melongel’s body slid into the sea, he must have only thought he heard another harp’s last dissonant strum.
He bowed his head and others respected his solitude.
During the next Turn, Robinton kept wondering what would happen next. Fax made no further obvious moves to extend his holdings. Not that Nip, or Robinton, trusted him. Oterel, confirmed at the Conclave following his father’s funeral, enlarged the guard posts along his borders. That had been Nip’s advice, filtered through Robinton. The MasterHarper also recommended that Oterel make as many tours of his border with the High Reaches as he could to reinforce the determination of his folk. Since most of the border holders, like Chochol, had succored refugees from Fax’s initial expansion, they were only too eager to comply.
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