Masterharper of Pern Read online

The tears were nearly dry, but the gift brought the winsome smile back and a clear “t’ank you” from the recipient. He pushed himself straighter on his mother’s lap, accepted the offering, and leaned back against his mother’s comforting body as he sucked happily on the sweet.

  “I’m not criticizing Petiron, Merelan,” Betrice said earnestly.

  Merelan smiled gently. “You say nothing that isn’t the truth, but he’s much easier to deal with, generally speaking, when he’s composing.”

  “Which seems to be often . . .”

  Merelan laughed. “Petiron naturally complicates things. It’s a knack he has,” she said indulgently.

  “Humph. He’s a very lucky man to have such an understanding mate,” Betrice said emphatically, “as well as one who can sing what he writes as easily as she breathes.”

  “Ssssh.” Merelan put a finger to her lips. “Sometimes I have to work very hard to keep up with him.”

  “Never!” Betrice pretended disbelief, then grinned broadly at the Mastersinger.

  “It’s true, nevertheless, but,” and Merelan’s expression softened with pride, “it’s wonderful to have such challenging music to sing.”

  Betrice pointed to Robie, happily sticky-ing up fingers, face, and blanket. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “Well, first off, I shall see that Master Washell never has need of Petiron’s studio again,” Merelan replied, her usually serene expression resolute, “and I shan’t leave the pair of them together unless I’m positive Robie’s fast asleep.”

  “That sort of limits you, doesn’t it?” Betrice said with a snort.

  Merelan shrugged. “In a Turn or so, Robie will be in with the other Hall children during the day. It’s a small enough sacrifice to make for him. Isn’t it, love?”

  “It’s all too true,” Betrice said with a wistful sigh. “They’re young such a short time—even if it feels like an age while they’re growing up and away from you.” She sighed again.

  Merelan felt something sticky and, looking down at her son, saw that the sweet had fallen from his hand to hers.

  “Will you look at this?” she said softly, peering with a loving smile at the thick lashes closed on his cheek.

  “Here, put him on the daybed.”

  “I don’t mind holding him,” Merelan protested. “You’ve work to do.”

  “Nothing I can’t do while minding a sleeping child. Go on off and do something by yourself for a change. If you aren’t tending him—” She pointed to Robinton. “—you’re minding him.” Her finger jerked in the direction of Merelan’s quarters.

  “If you don’t mind . . .”

  “Not at all. Unless you want to help with my mending?”

  Betrice chuckled over the alacrity with which Merelan rose.

  When Robie was well into his third Turn, he picked up a small pipe that had been left on the table. It wasn’t his father’s, because Robie knew his father did not actually play a pipe or a flute. And since this wasn’t his father’s belonging, he could touch it—and experiment with it. He blew in it, masking the holes with his fingers as he had seen others do. When the tones that came out were not similar to the ones so effortlessly made by the other players, Robie tried different ways until he did make the proper sounds. As quietly as he could.

  He did not know, of course, that his mother’s well-attuned ear heard his initial attempts. Since they improved as he continued, she was inordinately pleased. Sometimes, despite a strong musical tradition in a family, there was one born who was tone-deaf or totally disinclined to do much about an innate ability. She had wondered how she would be able to placate Petiron if his son turned out to be musically incompetent. Because one way or another, Petiron would be determined to impart suitable musical training to his only child. Now she did not have to worry about that. Her son was not only inclined to musical experimentation, he also had a good ear and, it would seem, perfect pitch.

  When Petiron was busy with students, Merelan would often whistle simple tunes within her son’s hearing. Petiron did not like her whistling—possibly because he couldn’t, but more likely because he felt that girls shouldn’t. Despite how much she loved him, she privately admitted that some of his attitudes, including this one, made no sense to her.

  Robie picked up the tunes she whistled as effortlessly as he had learned the scales on the pipe. When he started doing variations on the airs, she had to restrain herself. She wanted desperately to tell Petiron that his son was musical, but she did not want her three-Turn-old son suddenly rushed into training. It could turn the boy off music entirely. Petiron was marvelous with the older lads, but far too strict for the youngest apprentices. She worried about the zeal with which he would train Robinton.

  So one afternoon, she asked Washell, the Master who taught the youngest, to help her with the dynamics in a quartet they were both rehearsing for Turnover. A jovial, easygoing man in his sixth decade with a rich deep bass voice, he arrived with some cakes just out of the Hall ovens and a fresh pot of klah.

  “So why is it that you really want to see me, Merelan?” he asked after she had profusely thanked him for the refreshments and served them. “The day you can’t carry your own part in anything Petiron writes, I’ll resign my Mastery.”

  “Oh, but I do need help, Wash,” she said airily. “Robie, come see what Master Washell has brought us!”

  She hadn’t needed to call him. The delectable aroma of warm pastry had wafted into the next room, where he had been flat on his stomach, making doodles in a sand-tray that had been a recent gift from his mother—a preparation to teaching him his letters and, possibly, the scales.

  “I ’mell ’em,” he said, still not quite able to pronounce the sibilants with the gap in his front baby teeth. “I ’mell ’em. T’ank you, Master Wa’ell.”

  “My pleasure, young’un.”

  Merelan’s stage setting was complete. “Here!” she said briskly. “This measure where the tempo changes so rapidly—I’m not sure I’ve the beat correctly. Robie, give me an A, please.”

  Washell’s gray brows went up his balding head and his eyes glittered as Robie produced the tiny pipe from his trouser waistband and played the required note.

  Then Merelan sang the troublesome measures, deliberately shorting the full quality of one whole note. Robie shook his head and with his fingers beat out the appropriate time.

  “If you’ve got it right, m’lad, you play it the way I should sing it,” Merelan said casually.

  Young Robinton played the entire measure and Washell, who looked first at Merelan and then at her son, folded his hands across his stomach and caught her eyes, nodding with comprehension.

  “Thank you, dear. That was well done,” Merelan said, and she allowed Robinton to have a second cake. He stuffed his pipe away under his trousers’ waistband and sat on the little stool to eat the cake.

  “Indeed and I couldn’t have done better myself, young Robinton,” Washell said solemnly. “You played that perfectly, young man. I’m glad that your mother has you here to keep her strictly in tempo. Do you know any other tunes on that pipe?”

  Robie glanced at his mother for permission. She nodded, and he licked his lips free of crumbs, pulled out the pipe and lifted it to his mouth, and began to play one of his own favorites. When he had finished, he gave his mother a second look.

  “Yes, go on,” she said with a little flick of her fingers.

  He looked for a moment at Washell, who knew enough to keep his expression polite, and then the boy closed his eyes and started the round of variations he liked to wind about that tune.

  Washell bent his head down, over his heavy chest, until he was peering directly at Robinton, who was now oblivious, wrapped up in his piping, fingers dancing, stopping, busy over the little pipe’s holes. The instrument was small and could have produced an unpleasantly shrill sound, but the way the youngster handled his breathing and instinctive dynamics sweetened it to a delightful lilt.

  As one variation followed
another, Washell cocked his head in amazement and gradually turned his eyes to Merelan, who was totally relaxed, as if this performance were a daily marvel. Suddenly the muted sounds of the choristers ended. Immediately Merelan leaned forward and tapped Robinton out of his concentration. He looked almost rebellious.

  “That was a very good one,” his mother said, casually appreciative. “New, isn’t it?”

  “I t’ought it up a’ I wa’ playing,” he said and then glanced coyly up at Washell. “It fitted in.”

  “Yes, dear, it did,” Merelan replied agreeably. “The trills were very well done.”

  “Nice to have a pipe just the right size for you, isn’t it?” Washell began, extending his hand for the instrument. Robinton, with a touch of reluctance, handed it over. Washell tried to put his large fingers over the stops and ran out of pipe, looking so surprised that Robinton giggled, covering his mouth and glancing quickly at his mother to be sure this was acceptable behavior. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the other instruments I have that might also be the right size for a lad like you to play on. This one is much too small for me. Isn’t it?” And Washell handed it back with a little flourish. Robinton grinned up at the big man and tucked his pipe back under the waistband, out of sight under his loose shirt.

  “I think you could manage to get the pitcher and the cake plate back down to the kitchen, couldn’t you, Robie dear?” Merelan asked, rising to open the door as she spoke.

  “Can. Will. Bye.” And he walked quite sedately down the hallway with his burden. Merelan closed the door.

  “Yes, my dear Merelan, you do have a problem growing up here. May I extend you my compliments as well as my assistance? If we move patiently, what is an astonishing natural talent can be nurtured. I admire Petiron in many matters, Singer, but . . .” Washell sighed with a rueful smile. “He can be single-minded to the point of irrationality. He will, of course, be delighted to discover his son’s musicality, but quite frankly, my dear, I would be sorry to be that son when he does. Which is obviously why you have sent for me, and I take that as the highest compliment you could pay me.”

  “Petiron will push him too far and too fast . . .”

  “Therefore we will lay the groundwork carefully, so that his father’s tuition will not be the sudden shock it could be.”

  “I feel so . . . treacherous, going behind Petiron’s back like this,” Merelan said, “but I know what he’s like and Robie loves to make music. I don’t want that to be taken from him.”

  Washell reached across and patted her nervously drumming fingers. “My dear, we can put Petiron’s single-mindedness to our advantage. I gather he has no idea that the boy has learned to pipe?”

  Merelan shook her head.

  “Right now, of course,” he went on, “he’s up to his inky fingers with Turnover music to write and the rehearsals and then the Spring Gathers, and I shall have a word with Gennell myself about this. If you permit?”

  She nodded.

  “Why, I do believe the entire Hall could be in on the secret education of our burgeoning young genius . . .”

  “Genius?” Merelan’s hand went to her throat.

  “Of course, Robinton’s a musical genius. Though I’ve never encountered one before in my decades here, I can certainly recognize one when I get the chance. Petiron’s good, but he is not quite in the same class as his son.”

  “Oh!” The little exclamation she let slip before she guarded her mouth with her hand was far more eloquent than she intended.

  “A child who can tootle that ridiculous little pipe into the sweetest tone and then produce rather sophisticated variations on a simple theme at three Turns is, unquestionably, a genius. And we must all protect him.”

  “Oh! Protect him? Petiron’s not a monster, Washell . . .” She shook her head vigorously.

  “No, of course, he isn’t, but he does have rather strong views about his competence and achievements. On the other hand, what else could he expect of a child from such a fine musical background, who is being raised in the Harper Hall with music all around him.”

  “Not all the Hall children are musical by virtue of their environment,” Merelan said in a droll tone.

  “But when one is, as your Robinton, there couldn’t be a better environment, and we shall see that the matter is handled as diplomatically and . . . kindly as possible. I give you my hand on that, Mastersinger Merelan.” He held it out and she took it gladly, the relief—and even her guilt at the promised subterfuge—easily read by Master Washell. “We’ll do no more than what the lad is able, and willing, to absorb. Ease him gently”—his thick fingers rippled descriptively—“into the discipline so that when”—and he clapped his hands together—“we suddenly discover that this five . . . maybe six-Turn-old lad is so musically inclined, why we can be as surprised and delighted as Petiron will be.”

  “But won’t Petiron be at all suspicious when he discovers how much Robie already knows?”

  Washell raised his arm in a broad gesture. “Why, the boy absorbed it from his parents, of course. Why would he not, with two such talented musicians?”

  “Oh, come now, Washell. Petiron is scarcely stupid . . .”

  “With musical scores and instruments all around . . . you’ll doubtless mention that you’ve heard him humming tunes now and then . . . on key. That you gave him the little pipe, and a drum, since he begged for them. Bosler will say he only thought to amuse the lad one afternoon while you were busy with rehearsing and taught him how to place his fingers on the gitar strings . . . It won’t be hard to get our Master Archivist to connive to teach the boy more than his letters . . . And we’ll all be so amazed that Petiron will have such a student to bring on. He’s always better with the quicker students, you know. They don’t try his patience the way the younger or slower ones do.” Thoroughly pleased with the plot he was spinning, Washell once more patted Merelan’s hands reassuringly. Then abruptly, he pulled the quartet sheet between them. “Beat it out one more time, Merelan, as I sing the bass line. You should—”

  The door opened, and there were Petiron and Robinton.

  “I really do think, Petiron, that you write some passages just to tease me,” she said. “And did you get the plate and pitcher safely down to Lorra, dear?”

  “I did, Mother.”

  “Well, then, off with you, Rob,” his father said, giving his son a slight push toward the other room. “That you should have any trouble with the tempi surprises me, Merri.”

  “Because your scribbling is almost unreadable, Petiron,” Washell said firmly, his bass voice rumbling in mock rebuke. “See here?” His thick index finger pounded the culprit measure. “One can barely see the dot. No wonder Merelan was having difficulty with the beat when she couldn’t even see the dot after the half note. It’s clearly marked on my copy, but not on this.”

  Petiron peered down at the offending score. “It is a little faint at that. Sing it for me.” And he gave her the upbeat.

  Washell could not resist singing the bass line as Merelan faultlessly sang hers.

  “You did help, Wash, thank you so much,” she said. “And thanks for bringing along the cake and klah.”

  “My pleasure, Mastersinger.” Washell bowed, smiling benignly at both before he turned and left the room.

  “Really, Merelan,” Petiron said, peering at the offending measure, “are you having headaches again?”

  “No, love, but it was faint and I wasn’t expecting a hold just there. How did the rehearsals go? They sounded fine at this distance.”

  He flumped himself down in the stuffed chair and hauled his feet up on the stool, heaving a sigh. “The usual problems. They seem to feel that a glance at the score when they hear me coming up the stairs is sufficient study, but toward the end, they were beginning to grasp the dynamics. Nice of Washell to rehearse with you.”

  “Yes, he’s such a sweet person.”

  “Washell?” Petiron regarded his spouse with some astonishment. “You know what the apprentice
s call him . . .”

  “I know, but you have no need to repeat such a scurrilous title,” she said with a severe scowl. Petiron frowned. “A glass of wine?” she offered, going to the cabinet. “You look tired.”

  “I am. Thank you, love.”

  She poured two glasses. She needed one herself.

  “I’ll join you.” Handing a full glass to him, she slipped to the arm of the seat and pulled his head to her shoulder. Really, in spite of his faults, she did love him most profoundly, especially for his devotion to and composition of music. Until Robie was born, their life together had been idyllic!

  The one aspect that neither Washell nor Robie’s mother had considered was the child’s enthusiasm for things musical. They did not expect quite how swiftly and eagerly, over the next few months, he absorbed his lessons and learned how to play the various instruments. No sooner had Master Ogolly taught him musical notations and the value of the notes on the staff, signatures, clef, and measure, than young Robie jotted down the variations he had created on his first simple tunes.

  Merelan had the hard job of suppressing such enthusiasm within their quarters, especially since Robie wanted to show his father what he was doing because he hoped his father might approve of him then.

  “But Father lik’th muthic. He writ’th it, too,” Robie said plaintively. He still had trouble with his “s” sounds though he had extended his working vocabulary, as well as his musical aptitudes.

  “That’s just it, my love.” Merelan hated herself for such hypocrisy. “He hears it all day long, has to cope with such stupid students and—”

  “Am I thupid, Momma?”

  “No, love, you are not the least bit stupid, but your father does need quiet and a rest from music when he’s here with us . . .”

  “I gueth . . .” Robie said sadly.

  “The Big Spring Gather is so important, and you know how hard your father is working on the new score . . .”

  “Yeth, he ith.” Robie sighed.

  “Can you smell the sweet cakes, dear?” she asked, grateful for that diversion.