Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Sebell settled in, a quiet lad but endlessly curious about things musical. He kept appearing to ask if Robinton needed anything until everyone took 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 he 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 that Camo cannot return. They deserve it, each in their own way, so you’re taking nothing from Camo.”

  “I would 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 for his mother—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 blue rider, 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 around 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 on the rebound 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 that 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 center of the hot Hatching Ground. 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 led 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 Fallarnon 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.”

  “Fallarnon’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 viselike 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 dragonrider’s fingers free.

  “A bronze first is a good sign,” F’lon told him urgently.

  “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 younger brother 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 grabbed by the arms, lifted and shaken, and dropped back onto his own feet in the next instant as F’lon ran across the hot sands to assist the newly Impressed pa
ir.

  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. 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 dragonet left.

  He cried out, craning his neck as high as he could to see around the others. Then, with a sort of a hiccuping yip, he veered and stumbled toward 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 toward him, and him alone, he raced across the sands to meet him.

  “F’lon!” Robinton shouted over the din made by new dragons and riders and pointed toward this final pairing.

  F’lon swiveled about, his mouth dropping open, and he caught the moment of Impression.

  “His name is Canth!” Famanoran cried, tears of joy marking his face as he patted and stroked his new friend.

  “I told you so,” Robinton remarked frequently to the exultant Weyrleader father that evening at the feasting. He also had a chance to speak to F’lar and F’nor, for that was how they decided to shorten their names in the dragonrider tradition.

  “I don’t think F’lon would have forgiven us if we hadn’t Impressed,” F’lar admitted to the harper with a rueful grin.

  “You had to, Fall—” F’nor began, and then added loudly, “F’lar . . . It didn’t matter that much about me . . .”

  “Of course it did,” Robinton contradicted him immediately. “Canth is rather large for a brown, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” F’nor said with soft pride, grinning foolishly.

  Robinton located Manora, already busy making sure that food was reaching the various tables and that everyone had a seat. He congratulated her and she smiled almost absently, her eyes darting from one corner of the Lower Caverns to the other, checking on servers and the served.

  “Such a good day,” she said with quiet satisfaction.

  “You must be proud of them.”

  “I am,” she said. With her usual understated dignity she moved off to take a seat by Jora, who had been left more or less to herself at the high table. The weyrwoman was paying absolutely no attention to anything but clearing the food from the overflowing plate in front of her. Manora ate slowly and with relish, as dignified as she had been as a young girl.

  Robinton took advantage of the fine Benden white that was being served. Lord Raid was present, as he should be for a Benden Hatching, and he was quite relaxed and pleasant to Robinton when they exchanged greetings and remarked on F’lon’s double joy.

  When he got back to the Hall, Nip had been there and left him a message.

  “And what do you bet me that Nabol will fall to him next?”

  That was one bet that Robinton would never have taken. Even a Bitran would have passed it up.

  Perhaps that acquisition was another reason why Tarathel scheduled an ambitious Gather, inviting everyone, including Fax. Vendross, Tarathel’s invaluable guard captain, had flushed a large group of Fax’s men in the foothills of Telgar where such a party should not have been. Since he was commanding a much larger patrol, he had the advantage. Their excuse that they had had to detour from winter-damaged tracks to get back to the High Reaches was not well received by Vendross, who escorted them as fast as possible back to the main Crom road. Tarathel was determined to have a few private words with this self-styled Lord of Five Holds to ensure Fax did not try to encroach on Telgar lands. Nip was as surprised as Robinton that Fax accepted.

  “As you can see, I maintain several fully trained companies of guards, Master Robinton,” Tarathel told Robinton and F’lon, who had arrived early in the Gather morning. Indeed the Hold and its grounds seemed to be swarming with men in Telgar liveries.

  F’lon nodded approvingly. “The man has got to be stopped, Tarathel.”

  The Telgar Holder scowled, unused to such familiarity from a much younger man, even if a Weyrleader was equal in rank to a Lord Holder. Robinton nudged the bronze rider in the ribs, hoping to jar him into more discretion. F’lon ignored the hint.

  “And it’s up to you Lord Holders to set him right. When Thread comes, he’ll be unable to provide adequate help to the holds he’s taken over.”

  Tarathel raised the black and bushy eyebrows that gave him such a formidable appearance. “Really, Weyrleader? I had no idea the return was so imminent. May I ask what Benden Weyr will be able to do to provide adequate help to us?”

  F’lon stiffened and Robinton kept his expression bland with an effort. As far as the MasterHarper knew, this was the first time a Lord Holder had openly challenged the Weyr. Clearly F’lon didn’t like it one bit.

  “Benden Weyr will be ready to meet Thread when it comes, Lord Tarathel. On that you can rely,” he said with such dignity and purpose that Tarathel nodded approval.

  “When it comes,” he murmured as he moved off to greet the next wave of guests arriving by dragon.

  “Look, F’lon, I’ve been your friend since we were boys,” Robinton said, drawing the dragonrider to one side for privacy, “but you’ve as much tact as a tunnel snake. It doesn’t do the Weyr, or you, any good to antagonize all the Lord Holders.”

  “I don’t mean to, but Tarathel’s as hide-bound as Raid, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Tarathel will be long dead before Thread comes. Were I you, I’d start right now getting young Larad on your side. Unless, of course, Fax decides to duel with him and remove competition.”

  “Humph!”

  Robinton was relieved to note that F’lon did not dismiss that suggestion out of hand. In fact, the bronze rider made a point to seek out the lad who, like any male his age, was gratified to be in a Weyrleader’s company.

  What happened later that afternoon was so grotesque that afterward Robinton cursed himself, plagued with a sense of guilt that his idle remark could have such devastating consequences.

  He saw the beginning: a lad wearing Fax’s colors knocking into Larad, at F’lon’s side, and then irritably demanding an apology.

  Larad was surprised and started to comply but F’lon stopped him.

  “You knocked into Larad, boy,” F’lon told the lad. “You will apologize to young Lord Larad. He ranks you.”

  “I’m with Lord Fax, dragonrider.” The boy’s tone and sneer were contemptuous.

  Robinton had not yet reached the little group when F’lon backhanded the boy, cutting his lip.

  “You will keep a civil tongue in your head and you will apologize to Lord Larad, who is of Telgar Blood. I doubt you can claim even half-Blood rights.”

  “Kepiru? Who gave you a bloody lip?” And a heavyset man, also wearing Fax’s colors and the shoulder knot of a captain—though generally those were reserved for ships’ captains—pushed through those watching the encounter.

  Robinton felt the tension in the air as he reached F’lon.

  “Now, what appears to be the problem?” he said in his best conciliatory manner.

  Larad gratefully turned to the MasterHarper. He was confused and highly embarrassed.

  “That . . . dragonrider—” The captain’s tone was as contemptuous as Kepiru’s had been. “—has struck my young brother, insulting our Blood. The matter requires redress.”

  “Redress from your brother to Lord Larad most certainly,” F’lon said, bristling.

  Robinton caught F’lon by the arm, pressing it hard to cool him down. He was beginning to fear that this trivial incident had been contrived. The underfed lad looked no more like a brother to the captain than Larad did.

  “That’s right. I observed the whole thin
g as I came,” the harper said, smiling pleasantly. “An accident.” He leaned heavily on that word, pulling at F’lon even as he felt the tension and anger building in the dragonrider’s body. “This is a Gather, a meeting of folk in good faith and for pleasant purposes.” He smiled winningly at the two in Fax’s colors, but they were having no more of his mediation than F’lon was.

  Then, to emphasize F’lon’s indignation, Simanith rose from his perch on the heights and spread his wings, bugling.

  “Larad requires an apology,” F’lon insisted. “That lout deliberately knocked into him.”

  “This is a Gather, F’lon,” Robinton said urgently, scanning the growing crowd for anyone he could call upon for assistance. He looked beyond to see if he could spot Lord Tarathel nearby. He was relieved to catch a glimpse of Nip and jerked his head. He saw Nip raise a hand in reply and dash off. “Accidents can occur when folk are sometimes less careful in this relaxed atmosphere.”

  “Enough,” F’lon said, shaking off Robinton’s restraining hand. “It was as deliberate as the slurs on dragonriders.”

  “Ha! Dragonwomen!” the captain said in a scathing tone.

  That insult inflamed F’lon. “I’ll show you dragonwomen,” he said and drew the knife from his belt.

  The captain’s knife seemed to appear with uncanny speed in his hand and Robinton’s fears increased. He made another attempt to gain control of the situation.

  “This is a Gather,” he repeated, stepping between the two men who had eyes for no one but each other.

  “Out of the way, Harper,” the captain snarled. “Your color doesn’t protect you or him.”

  The crowd had backed away the moment the flash of steel was seen and formed a circle around the five. The next moment Kepiru barged out of the way and disappeared from sight.

  “Move off, Robinton. This is not your fight,” F’lon said, crouching as he shoved Robinton out of the way.

  “Wait! The Lord Holder has been summoned!”

  “Then let him watch the Weyrleader die!” the captain cried, a wild smile on his face. Crouching, he stepped sideways, not toward the dragonrider but close enough to Robinton so that when he moved, it was the MasterHarper his blade scored. Robinton clutched at his arm, blood oozing out of the long gash.