Masterharper of Pern Page 29

  “Keep you from being nervous about the afternoon,” she said, teasingly.

  “Ha! The morning’ll make me worse. Having to sit through Court will give me indigestion, having to listen to all those half-truths and alibis . . .” He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair, which had a soothing effect on his disturbed digestion. Kissing her provoked other sensations, and once again he didn’t get around to mentioning the Sonata for Sea-Green Eyes.

  Of course, the longer he delayed, the harder it was going to be to work in a playing of it before the Gather. And suddenly he wasn’t at all sure of its worth. It was definitely the most serious music he had ever written, and he was quite unsure of its merit. He could be fooling himself. It wasn’t as if he could play for a critical listener, like Minnarden, who had seen the rest of his travel songs and liked them. They were insignificant compared to the Sonata—if it was any good at all. Yet whenever he heard the music in his head, it thrilled him, and he felt a tremendous lift at the finale of the final movement. Like making love. And that’s what he wanted people to hear when they listened to it—the crescendo that was also an orgasm.

  Then it was the day before the Gather and his mother arrived with Master Gennell. What with the necessary hospitality accorded them, he had trouble finding a few moments alone with Merelan, when he could chide her for making such a long journey when she was obviously tired.

  “Tired of riding, yes,” she said, her voice vigorous. “Your father has sent a short piece, which I’m to sing at your espousal.”

  “He did?” Robinton was flabbergasted as he took the score from his mother’s hand.

  “It’s not in his usual style, either. I do believe your father is mellowing with age.”

  Robinton snorted, but as he scanned the music, he realized that this was a softer music, almost gentle, and quite simple, considering the usual style in which his father wrote.

  “Minnarden said he would accompany me, as you’ll be otherwise occupied . . .” And then Merelan hugged him fiercely. “She’s lovely, your Kasia, and she is besotted with you. You’ll be happy, Robie. I know you’ll be happy.”

  “I am already,” he said with a silly grin on his face. “And, Mother, I have some music I need you to look over.”

  “You do? Just like old times,” she said, waiting as he rummaged in his drawers to find the Sonata. “I’m almost jealous that others get to see your music now before I do.”

  “I always send—”

  “I know you do, lovey, but it was such fun to be the first to—” She had unrolled the score and blinked at the first measures. She read on, and started to hum the opening melody. Cocking her head, she took to walking as she read, sometimes half-singing, sometimes nodding her head to the tempi, her eyes never leaving the page.

  While his stomach churned and his heart seemed to be squeezed tight, he watched. Fortunately he had moved into their new quarters on the uppermost level of the Hold, well down the corridors from the rooms the old aunties and uncles occupied. There were two rooms with a small bathing facility in what Kasia called a walk-into closet. So there was space for her to pace from the bedroom door across the wide living area.

  Abruptly Merelan paused, gave him a bemused look, sat herself down on the stool by his gitar stand and, propping up the music and picking up the gitar, she started to play it.

  He had arranged it for first fiddle, or a gitar, harp, and pipes, with occasional emphasis of a flat drum. It wasn’t that long a piece, for all its three movements. He had not added a fourth, as his father would have, because he had said, musically, all he needed to in the allegro, adagio, and rondo. A scherzo would have fractured the mood.

  When his mother played the final chords, her hands remained motionless on the strings for a long moment Then she gave a funny little shake as if she’d had a spasm and looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Robie, that is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written. Does Kasia like it? For I know you wrote it for her.”

  Robinton gulped. “I haven’t shown it to her. I didn’t—know— if it was any good or not.” The last phrase came out fast.

  “Not good! Not good!” His mother returned the gitar to its stand and rose in indignation. “Robinton, you have never written a bad piece of music yet, and that”—she pointed a stiff forefinger at the roll—“is the best composition to date. How dare you not give it to her? You said she plays harp. Why, it’s the most romantic piece of music I have ever heard. Even better . . .” She closed her lips. “No, there is no comparison. You have a far more romantic soul, my dearest son.” She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “If you don’t show her that before tomorrow . . .”

  “When will I have the time? It is nearly tomorrow now, Mother!” He hugged her tightly to him, smelling the scent she packed her clothing with and wondering at how the two women he loved felt much the same in his arms.

  “You’d better do it soon, then,” Merelan said. “She’ll never forgive you for not doing it sooner . . . unless, of course, you’ve just finished the piece.”

  “No, I wrote it this summer.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in explosive dismay. “If you were so worried about it, why didn’t you send it to me? I’d have reassured you.”

  Why he hadn’t sent it was no mystery to either of them, but he felt relieved and more confident than ever, having her positive opinion. And he knew that she would never have been so enthusiastic if she didn’t truly find it good. That courtesy had nothing to do with his being her son.

  “Is there a copy of it, Rob? Master Gennell will want to use it for other espousals. It’s so . . . so lyric. So romantic. Oh, Robinton, you are such a comfort to me.” Abruptly she changed moods. “I’m exhausted after that, love. Will you escort me to my room? I don’t think I could find my way back down.”

  When he had returned from escorting his mother, he prepared for bed himself, since it was late and tomorrow would be an exceedingly eventful day. He smiled and then broke into a chuckle as he shucked off his clothes and settled into the wide bed that he and Kasia would be sharing. It was far too warm to require night-wear, and besides, he seldom bothered and now probably never would, it being so comforting to snuggle Kasia into his arms and have her skin next to his all night long. He exhaled deeply, and then realized that he was far too excited to sleep yet.

  So he threw off the light fur and found a long-tailed shirt. His new clothes for the Espousal—well, Gather Day, if he wasn’t being self-centered—were hanging on the closet door. He ran a hand down the fine, brocaded fabric which Clostan had talked him into having made up. It really was a fine set, and he could see why cut and fit were so important.

  “Do harpers really like wearing bags?” Clostan had sarcastically demanded when Robinton would have settled for the first outfit long enough to fit his torso and legs at Tillek’s Weavercrafthall. The Masterhealer was as tall as Robinton, dark-haired and handsome, with fine, long hands that were clever in sewing up wounds and gently strong in setting broken bones. He had been at Tillek for the past seven Turns, ever since he attained his Mastery, for the Hold required an experienced healer and Clostan had worked hard to adapt treatment to the needs of a fishing community. “By the Egg, man, you do yourself no favors. You’ve broad shoulders . . .” Clostan flicked fingers at them. “You’ve a trim waist—” He couldn’t pinch much there. “—and long shanks . . . Show them off.” Clostan’s trousers tended to cling to his strong, muscular legs, just missing a tension that could be called lewd. “Especially during your Espousal . . . show all the girls what a fine one they missed out on. And allow Kasia to be proud of you.”

  “Because I show off?” Robinton had demanded, almost indignant.

  “I can’t imagine you ever showing off, Rob,” Clostan had said, shaking his head in mock despair. He grinned, a smile that showed his excellent white teeth and echoed in his dark eyes. He turned serious then and grabbed up the swatch of materials the tailor had on hand. He held them u
p to Robinton’s face to see how they looked against the weather-tan the harper had acquired over the summer. “Hmmm, yes. I know what Kasia’s wearing, so we must also consider her colors. Can’t clash. Hmmm. I think this rich russet shade of the brocade . . .”

  “Brocade?” Robinton was aghast. He was prudent with his marks, and he had brought the sum he felt adequate with him. But brocade . . .

  “Well, you can hardly appear in something shabby for your Espousal, can you?” Clostan remarked in disgust. “Look at it this way,” he said, mastering his impatience, “you’ll be able to wear this to Gathers for Turns before it frays.” He rubbed the sample roughly between his fingers, and then pulled both ends of the swatch to show its strength. “You’d have to spend far more to match it for quality over the same period of Turns. Good clothing is an investment.”

  “And you make many,” Robinton said, stung to retort.

  Clostan gave him a slightly malicious grin. “I may, but they have all been wise choices, and I can change to fit the mood of the day and the weather of the season. Besides, it heartens my patients to see me well-dressed.”

  Dispassionately, and because it was his espousal to Kasia, Robinton fingered the swatch, then held it against his face, noting that the rich russet shade did enhance his skin color.

  “Tailored correctly”—Clostan gestured for the tailor to take measurements—“you’ll be glad you took the time and effort. And you might consider a few new shirts, too,” he added, waving another set of colors. “You’ve only three.”

  Robinton, extending his arms for their measure, was half-tempted to clout Clostan for his manners. Then he started to laugh. At himself.

  “And a new pair of pants. The ones you came with are all but threadbare—in embarrassing spots—since you rode out of here,” Clostan added, peering down at Robinton’s backside.

  Since the harper had that very morning realized that Clostan’s observation was all too true, he also ordered shirts and pants, including a pair of leather which would take the harder wear. He had, secretly, coveted the leather pants he had seen Ifor and Mumolon wearing.

  When he had returned for the fitting, he had been very pleased with the result and admired himself in the tailor’s long mirror. Furthermore, they all fit so comfortably that he wondered why he had never thought of having tailor-made clothing before. But it had been as easy to find something in a Gather stall that was reasonably priced and fit—more or less.

  He was grateful to Clostan and brought him a skin of good Benden wine.

  “Well, you do me proud,” Clostan said, gratefully accepting the skin. “The one drawback with this Hold is its wretched wines.” With which sentiment Robinton totally agreed.

  Smiling over that episode, he opened the glowbasket over the new worktop he and Kasia had had such fun finding and setting up in their room. He snagged the Sonata from where his mother had left it on the music stand, and taking pen and a new square of hide—Kasia had said she was going to make sure he always had good, fresh writing materials—he began to make a copy of the Sonata for his mother to take back to the Harper Hall. Maybe Petiron would even see it and find few faults, since it was written in a classic style. He grinned ruefully even as his fingers flew across the sheet: Robinton could not really see his father approving of anything his son wrote.

  He looked back over the score to be sure he had annotated it properly, and mused over Kasia’s possible reactions to it when she heard it the first time. If she was even half as pleased as his mother . . .

  He paced back and forth, paused to pour himself a glass of wine, and then went back to the table and proceeded to copy out his Kasia songs. His mother would like them, too. She might even want to sing a few as encores to recitals. He finished those, drinking as he worked, and rolled up the music with a neat ribbon tying the packet, ready to give to his mother. He had a final glass of wine and then, realizing that dawn was not far away, took himself back to bed and willed himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER XIII

  DESPITE HIS LATE night activities, Robinton was up at dawn: he’d forgotten to close the curtains over the small round windows, and the sun was shining in his eyes. But he felt rested enough and sprang from his bed. The day was so clear that he fancied he could see the High Reaches shore across the wide bay . . . which reminded him that he hadn’t heard whether Lord Faroguy had accepted Lord Melongel’s invitation to come to his Espousal Day. Not that it was his alone, he corrected himself, for others would be taking vows at this Gather, as well. As he dressed, he groaned as he thought of having to waste this morning at the Gather Court, but at least it would keep him too occupied to worry about anything else.

  He joined Clostan at the table for breakfast, and the healer inspected him critically in his new clothing.

  “Yes, I did you a favor, old thing,” Clostan said, sniffing a little as he turned back to his bread and cheese.

  “You’re looking splendid yourself,” Robinton replied, now able to recognize good tailoring when he saw it.

  Clostan glanced down at himself, as if he couldn’t remember what he had put on that morning. “Oh, well enough. I may change for the dancing. That is,” he added, nudging Robinton in the ribs and rolling his eyes slyly, “if I’m allowed to dance with the fair spouse Kasia.”

  “Since it’s you and I owe you a favor, I’ll let you dance with Kasia when I have to play.”

  “What?” Clostan affected great horror and surprise. “They make you do a set on your Espousal Day?”

  Robinton hushed him. “I’m a harper. I take my turn. You wouldn’t turn away a sick person today, would you?”

  “Well, I’d change my clothes first,” Clostan replied, flicking an errant crumb off his sleeve. “I’ll hold you to that dance,” he said, rising. “I do have rounds to make now.” And he was off.

  Lord Melongel, looking austere in dark brown with just a piping of gold at the neck and sleeves, entered the dining hall. An approving smile appeared on his face as he noted Robinton’s new clothes.

  “You are looking the part, that’s certain,” he said. “Oh, a message was drummed in yesterday from High Reaches. Lord Faroguy regrets.”

  “Well, I didn’t think he’d be able. Is he well?”

  Melongel frowned slightly, rubbing at his chin. “Now that’s the oddity. I’ve known Faroguy along time. Had many messages from him, and he always inquires after Juvana. She spent a Turn with Lady Evelene, you know. Odd that he didn’t this time.”

  Robinton felt a surge of concern. “If he is ill, could the message have come from someone else?”

  “Farevene would have asked, too.” Melongel frowned. “Well, we’ve enough to do today without adding other problems. I see you’ve finished your meal so we’d best adjourn to the Court Hall. We’ve a full morning.”

  Robinton rose, suppressing a sigh. Unlike some of the larger Holds, Tillek used a stone building closer to the center of the Holding for such proceedings—right in the middle of the Gather, which was already in full swing. Both official crafthall and independent booths were doing a good business. The entire fishing fleet was moored in the harbor or alongside the wharves, and distant sails indicated that the home crowd would swell even more with the passengers coming in from up the coast. Melongel and Robinton had to slow their steps to the crowd’s pace, with people either smiling a greeting or nodding courteously as Lord Holder and harper passed.

  Robinton felt a tug on his sleeve and was surprised to see Pessia at his side, and beyond her, the gaggle of Sucho, Tortole, Valrol, and Klada, who peered out from behind the protective bulk of her father until Robinton’s eyes fell on her and she ducked away.

  “Good Gather Day to you, Lord Melongel,” Pessia said with a polite jerk of her head, and then she looked right back at Robinton, a proud if shy smile on her face. “You did a great deal for us, and especially Saday. This is for you and your spouse.” She threw a cloth-wrapped parcel at him and, before he could prevent her, ran off, the others following like leaves blown fro
m a tree in a high wind.

  “Your Wall folk?” Melongel asked.

  “Yes.” Robinton tried to see in which direction they had run, but there were too many people milling around, and despite his advantage of height, he couldn’t find them.

  At Melongel’s gesture, he unwrapped the parcel, as gatherers politely skirted the two stationary men.

  The cloth was new, the smell of the dye acrid, and when he had removed it, he gasped as he held up the wooden bowl.

  “Elegant!” Melongel said. “Truly elegant.”

  They both examined it with their fingers, feeling the thin, smooth wall and then discovering the band of tiny flowers that ringed the top, so perfectly done that they seemed to blossom from the wood, rather than having been carved from it.

  “A beautiful gift, Harper. And deserved.”

  Then Melongel touched Robinton’s sleeve and indicated that they should proceed. They were not far from the Court Hall and the knots of anxious men and women looking their way. Carefully rewrapping his gift, Robinton matched strides with the shorter-legged Lord Holder, and they were soon being smiled into the building by those they would shortly be judging.

  Good fortune seemed to favor Robinton that day. They were hearing the representations and alibis of a Holder who had been delinquent in managing his fields and cot when a messenger slipped in and handed Lord Melongel a message. He read it, gave a sniff, and then with a slight grin on his face, handed it over to the harper to read.

  “You may leave. Other duties take precedence,” Melongel murmured.

  Reading the note, Robinton wasn’t at all sure if he should take the excuse to leave. The note told him that F’lon had arrived with Holder Bourdon and his spouse, Brashia, who were awaiting him in Juvana’s apartment. He dreaded meeting Kasia’s parents far more than he dreaded being bored by the Court proceedings. When he did not immediately rise, Melongel gave him a stern look. And so he pushed back his chair, nodded to Minnarden and to the faltering Holder, and left.