Masterharper of Pern Page 17

  “I don’t have much else to do. Even this,” he told her, gesturing around the Harper Hall court, “is sort of work. We have to know how to get to any place on Pern, so actually, this is seen as a legitimate visit. I can come as often as I like.”

  F’lon had increased his assertiveness, Robinton noticed, exchanging a knowing glance with his mother.

  “You can drum me if I’m needed,” F’lon said, awarding Rob another of his affectionate punches before he leaped to Simanith’s raised forearm and vaulted from there to the bronze’s back.

  “He’s very much the rider, isn’t he?” Merelan murmured to her son as they both waved farewell. “What a charming lad.”

  “You used to call him a devil, Mother,” Robinton said chidingly.

  “Shortening his name will have had no change on his essential nature, love. In fact, it’s probably compounded the problem,” she said tersely. “But I like it in him that he would honor that promise to you.” She gave his arm a final squeeze and a gentle push toward the workroom and his interrupted session.

  Master Gennell did pause on his way to the head table to inquire if the visitor had been Robinton’s friend at Benden Weyr. Robinton apologized for the interruption.

  “No need, lad, not when a dragonrider favors you with his company.”

  Petiron, whose rehearsal had been interrupted by the dragon’s arrival, scowled at him, but Robinton looked away as if he hadn’t seen. It wasn’t as if he had asked F’lon to visit. He disliked being discourteous to anyone, especially his own father, but he had learned, painfully, that anything he did annoyed his father, even when he did nothing. He tried not to remember things his dorm mates had said about their fathers, and special things their fathers had done for—and, more importantly in Rob’s eyes, with—them. Harpers, of course, were different, and he shouldn’t judge one by another’s standards. Yet . . . that didn’t make it easier being his father’s son.

  He completed all projects and passed all the examinations that would promote him to the rank of journeyman by the time he was halfway through his third Turn of training. Of course, he had had a head start, having begun his training sooner than any of the other lads in his group, who learned to come to him for help with any difficulties in their studies or their projects. Not even Lear teased him about his competence because, by the time they reached Third with him, they knew all about his problems with his father—and sympathized—and they all adored his mother. That was easier for Robinton to deal with: he adored her, too. But he knew, if his father didn’t, that every performance took more out of her than it should. He even took his worry to Masterhealer Ginia, when Maizella told him his mother had fainted after one intense rehearsal prior to the Spring Equinox Gather at Fort.

  “I really don’t know what’s ailing her, Rob,” Ginia said, frowning slightly, “though I’ve made her promise to take the summer off and rest. Let Petiron handle whatever vocal training has to be done—” She shot him a searching look. “Or you.” Her expression softened and she patted his hand. “You almost do anyway, from what I’ve heard.”

  Robinton sat up straighter in the chair, alarmed. All he needed was for his father to know about his coaching some of the chorus.

  “Now, don’t fret. Your father notices only what he wishes, and he certainly has not seen what’s happening to Merelan.”

  “But you don’t know what is happening,” Robinton protested.

  “I know that rest, a lack of tension—you know how your mother is before a performance, learning new music . . .”

  He nodded, because she often worked herself as hard bringing the soloists up to the level Petiron expected as he did his instrumentalists and chorus.

  “I think a summer down in South Boll with her family, with absolutely no performances and responsibilities, will see her right. It has been a very hard winter.”

  She patted Robinton’s hand again. “You’re a good son, Rob, and your concern does you credit. Now, I’ll keep you informed, but you help me in getting her to take a good long rest, will you?”

  “Have you spoken to Master Gennell?”

  “Repeatedly,” Ginia said, pursing her full mouth with indignation. “But we all know that the Spring Equinox is important in our calendar and had better go off with no problems . . .” She rose, a signal that their interview was at an end, and smiled at him. “You should go with her and be sure she eats well and rests every day.”

  “I’ll try.” And he’d take F’lon up on his offer to fly Mastersinger Merelan anywhere.

  As it happened, he didn’t go with his mother: his father did. Merelan collapsed after singing the exacting solo at the end of the Equinox Ceremony, and Petiron could no longer ignore the fact that his spouse was ill.

  Robinton did send the drum message, requesting F’lon’s assistance, and he did help his mother onto Simanith’s back. He had to step away as his father mounted behind her. The fact that his father looked distinctly nervous, anxious, and worried did not at all alleviate his own fears for her. Just this once, he sent his thoughts at his father, just this once, think of her first!

  An hour later, F’lon returned and, over a cool juice drink and more of Lorra’s light pastries, gave details of how he had installed Merelan in the cliffside dwelling with its splendid view of the sea, and how Petiron had hovered like an old wherry, fussing until F’lon was sure he’d drive Merelan insane with his attentions. Her youngest sister had appealed to her spouse to take the man away and let Merelan rest, and promised to see that Merelan did rest.

  “She was upset when she saw your mother. I remember her being slight at Benden but not . . . not . . . frail,” F’lon said, glancing at Lorra, who nodded.

  “I spoke to Ginia, and she believes that a full summer off will restore my mother’s health.” Even as Rob spoke he caught Lorra and F’lon exchanging glances. “Now, look, if there’s something I should know, tell me. She’s my mother! I have a right to know.”

  Lorra turned to him, making a sudden decision. “Ginia doesn’t know, so what can she tell you? But she’s hoping the rest will help. Merelan has never been very strong . . .”

  “You mean, after giving birth to a big lug like me?” Robinton demanded. He had overheard his father complaining that having a child had seriously damaged her.

  “You weren’t that big at birth, for all of you now,” Lorra said in her droll fashion, “so don’t cover yourself with midden dung in guilty reparation. You have never been at fault.” She cleared her throat, realizing that her emphasis implied that she knew who was. “Merelan’s always lived on nerve. It’s the energy she uses to sing and perform at the level she does that drains her so. But there comes a time in a woman’s life when she isn’t as resilient as she was in her twenties.”

  “Mother would die if she couldn’t sing . . .”

  “It’s unlikely to come to that,” Lorra said sharply. “But she certainly will have to cut back on these exhausting performances. It isn’t as if Maizella’s not capable; or he can write for Halanna, who’d only be too happy to take on Merelan’s First Singer duties.” Her eyes flashed, and Robinton couldn’t resist chuckling at her comment about Halanna. “Your father needs a scare like this,” she went on. “He takes Merelan too much for granted.”

  “She’s really the only one capable of singing some of his scores,” Robinton said, oddly on the defensive.

  “Well, he can just write simpler. Anyway, your songs are the ones anyone can sing and enjoy, Rob.” When he started to demur, she flicked her fingers at him. “Oh, I know, I know, but it’s the truth, isn’t it, dragonrider?”

  F’lon grinned, nodding vehemently. Then he rose, brushing pastry flakes from his lips and off his undershirt.

  “Any time you want to visit her, give me a roll,” he said, beginning to close the fastening on his jacket. “I’ve got to hunt Simanith on the way back.”

  When Merelan returned to the Harper Hall in the autumn, she was sun-browned and appeared much restored. Petiron continued to be sol
icitous and, as Robinton heard Master Bosler remark to a journeyman, he seemed to have mellowed. Well, he may have mellowed toward others, Robinton realized later, but never toward him. In fact, if anything, Petiron ignored his son more thoroughly than ever. There were not even any of the usual pithy complaints leveled at the baritone section. But then, because Robinton was more or less the leader of the baritone section, Petiron had no real cause for complaint. Everyone did better than their best at all times, as a sort of aid to keep him from his father’s shafts of criticism. Petiron did smile more frequently, if mainly at the sopranos and altos, and he did praise the treble more often. Merelan did still coach his soloists, but she was given fewer voices to train.

  Master Gennell called Robinton in one morning two sevendays after his parents’ return. Sensitive to appearances now, Robinton thought the MasterHarper looked tired, as well as older.

  “You’ve turned fifteen, now, haven’t you, Rob?” Gennell began. Robinton nodded. “So how are we going to keep you busy this term?”

  The question shook Robinton and he shifted nervously in the chair. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” He paused, cleared his throat, and then blurted out, “Theory and composition are usually next term . . .”

  “Ah, my lad, you’ve mastered those long since. I saw the orchestral piece you did for Washell, and none of us can fault it.” Gennell smiled reassuringly. Then his expression altered. “But I cannot assign you to your father’s class. And I must find suitable studies for you.”

  Robinton closed his eyes in relief at the knowledge that he would not have to endure a class with his father.

  “I’ll be plain, Rob, I’ve never understood your father’s antipathy toward you, yet there’s never been a word of complaint from you.”

  “He’s my father, Master Gennell . . .”

  “Well, we won’t go into that any further since, in effect, the entire Hall has fostered you—and your talent.” When Robinton ducked his head with embarrassment, Master Gennell prodded his knee. “Modesty is all very well and good, Robinton, but don’t let it get in your way.”

  Robinton didn’t know what to do and looked all around the comfortable office for inspiration. His glance caught the map, with its little colored pegs signifying the position of journeymen and masters across the continent. There were many places without pegs, which meant they were waiting to be assigned a harper.

  “Sir, I like teaching,” he said, pointing to the map, “and I’ve had good results with those I’ve tutored.”

  “Not that all those unassigned holdings would accept a harper if I had one to send them,” Gennell said drolly. And when Robinton looked apprehensive, he added with a sigh, “There are some holds that profess not to require the services we provide.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Robinton said, appalled. Not want to learn how to read, and write, and reckon? How could people get along in life without such basic skills?

  “Believe it, Rob,” Gennell said, shifting in his chair. “At least, since there are so many still who do, we’re not in any danger of going empty the way the Weyrs did.” He cleared his throat, and moved records about on his desk. “You may discover that not everyone respects harpers as we would like them to. However, to a happier topic, would you take on a purely teaching assignment?”

  Robinton shifted again, this time with excitement. He knew his dorm mates thought him daft to enjoy teaching—lighting the dim wits, they called it. But Robinton never saw the task as a chore. He looked for the end result, the bright smile of understanding on a student’s face when knowledge suddenly seeped in.

  “I think I’d like that, sir.” He took a surreptitious glance at the map but then realized a fact. “But, Master Gennell, who’s going to take instruction from someone only fifteen? I know I’m well grown, but . . .” He flicked his fingers out in a helpless gesture.

  “If you’re assigned to work under a more experienced teacher, you’d be welcome anywhere,” Gennell said, rubbing his chin, “especially if you promise me to continue writing those songs and ballads.”

  Robinton flushed. “I can’t seem to stop writing them,” he said meekly.

  “Good. We need to freshen up the repertoire with catchy tunes and musical nonsense. People like to whistle a tune, like to sing a new song and find harmonies. You’re good at that. I expect you to continue.”

  “As long as it’s all right . . .” Robinton said in an almost unintelligible murmur.

  “It is more than ‘all right,’ Robinton, it is essential. Now, stop coloring up like a glowbasket. Learn to take honest praise with the same dignity with which you’ve received criticism.” Abruptly, Gennell cleared his throat. “Well, that’s decided, but l wanted to know if you wished to stay on in the Hall. We’d find something to keep you busy, if you did, though your mother’s much better since she came back.”

  Robinton met Master Gennell’s concerned gray eyes and gave a grateful smile. “I’m your apprentice, sir, you can assign me where you will. Where I’d do some good.” What he didn’t add hung in the air: Because I can’t do any good here.

  “Well then, that’s settled. I’ll see who can use an assistant harper.”

  Robinton was still trying to absorb this astonishing news when he found himself out in the corridor.

  To be utterly truthful, he looked forward to leaving the Harper Hall and getting away from the constant censorious glances of his father. Privately he thought this was what was eating away at his mother: this tension and having to placate his father all the time. He wanted to get on with his own life—without constraint and with an enthusiasm he wasn’t able to give scope to, here in the Harper Hall. He’d really enjoy being away—and as Master Gennell had promised to keep him informed about his mother’s health, he could go with an easy conscience. It’d be so much better for her, too, if she didn’t have to worry about him, had a reason to be proud of him.

  He went back to putting the final coat of varnish on the lap harp he was making. He would take that with him, he thought, though originally he had made it to sell. He had already earned quite a few marks at Gathers with his output. When Jerint asked him what the MasterHarper had wanted him for, Robinton shrugged it off.

  “Next term’s duties,” he said, which had the advantage of being the truth.

  Robinton had become so adept at keeping emotions to himself that it had become a habit. And though he yearned to tell his mother, he knew she was busy with lessons this afternoon. He’d just have to hold his good news in. It was something to relish, anyway. As relieved as he was that he wouldn’t have to take Theory under his father, he was most excited at the prospect of leaving the Hall on his first official assignment. He also knew he’d had a hint of something the oldest apprentices would die to hear: he suspected that Master Gennell was about to reveal who would walk the tables—the best of all the traditions in the Harper Hall. The announcement of who had made journeyman rank could be any day now; there was a lot of talk about its imminence in the dorms.

  Sometimes the lucky ones were warned to pack what they’d need, but just as often, no clue at all was given until Master Gennell called out the names. That was always a great evening. The masters loved to surprise the fourths, make them sweat a little before giving them the reward for four Turns’ work. At least he’d have time to warn his mother of his leaving; but he knew she’d be pleased for him. Even being assigned as assistant harper was an honor.

  Robinton paused in his varnishing, whooshing the fumes away from his nose. The reek was stifling.

  “That’s the ticket,” Master Bosler said, pausing by Robinton’s work station. He gave him a quick pat on the back. “One of the nicer ones with all that careful inlaid pattern. And the skybroom wood! Very good! We can get a good price for it at the next Gather.”

  “With skybroom wood hard to come by, I think I might just keep it for a while,” Robinton said, watching Bosler’s expression. Would the Master have an idea of Robinton’s immediate future? He knew that Master Genne
ll listened to the opinions of his masters. As an apprentice, Robinton’s studies were governed by what all the masters—probably his father, too—thought of his progress, so maybe Master Bosler was aware of his good news. But no, the lined face and keen eyes did not alter.

  So much for that, Robinton thought, and with a smile for his Master, he went back to applying the varnish. He wasn’t using a quick-drying type because he wanted to avoid leaving any brush strokes.

  By dinnertime, his mood had swung in the opposite direction and his stomach was churning. Maybe it had been his father’s idea in the first place, removing the unwanted son from the Hall? His father was more likely to suggest he go drudge for someone in a back-of-beyond small hold, too far away for him to take time off and come back to the Hall. It’d be ironic if Robinton was assigned to Master Ricardy at Fort Hold. He already had three assistants, and another, elderly harper who did nothing but entertain for the old aunties and uncles of the Hold. No, definitely, Master Gennell wanted him to help teach. That had been the crux of the interview: would he be willing to teach?

  Though the dinner was one of Lorra’s better ones, Robinton found himself unable to eat, a fact immediately noted by his table companions, who were well aware of his voracious appetite.

  “Inhaling varnish all afternoon has put me off,” he offered as explanation.

  Falawny gave him a startled look. “First time in three Turns it ever has,” he remarked. “Ah, well, more for us, certainly, eh, fellows?” And he speared a third slice of roast from the platter being passed.

  Robinton hadn’t seen any packs in the hallway, so no one had been warned that tonight might be the night to walk the tables. He sneaked a glance at the fourth-term table: judging by the way dinner was being consumed, their appetites weren’t being affected. Determinedly, he mopped his bread in the gravy and ate that, though his stomach roiled with either hunger or nerves. He actually hadn’t had all that much experience with either condition. He’d never gone hungry, and he refused to let himself get nervous just over a hunch that tonight might be the night.