The Masterharper of Pern Read online

  Robie dutifully sniffed and a smile broke over his sad little face. “Do you think . . .” he began hopefully, brightening.

  “You’ll never know until you ask Lorra, will you?” Merelan said, turning him toward the door. “And be sure to ask for enough for me and your father, love.”

  Kubisa, who taught the youngsters from Fort Hold as well as the Harper and Healer Halls, allowed young Robie into her classes before his fourth Turn began.

  “He’s well advanced as far as wanting to learn, Merelan,” the woman said. “I could wish half my class were at the same level, but I’ll give him little extra musical type things to do while the others are catching up.”

  Then there was a morning when Kubisa brought a bloody-nosed, sobbing Robinton back to his mother for aid and comfort.

  “Oh, Robie,” Merelan said, folding her weeping child in her arms while Kubisa busied herself getting a wet cloth to clean his face.

  “They wuz hurtin’ him,” Robie sobbed.

  “Hurting who?” Merelan asked, more of Kubisa than her son.

  “I’ll say this for Robie, he may be young and small, but he knows who needs his protection.”

  “Who needs it?” his mother asked, carefully mopping away the blood.

  “The watch-wher,” Kubisa said.

  Merelan paused, surprised and beginning to feel more pride than concern. The apprentices were not above sticking bright glows into the Harper Hall watch-wher’s lair to make the light-sensitive creature cry. Or throwing him noxious things, knowing the creature would eat just about anything that came within the range of its chain. Rob would always run and tell an adult if he saw such antics.

  “Were they being mean to the poor beast again?”

  Sniffling, he nodded his head up and down. “I made ’em stop, but one of ’em busted me one.”

  “So I see,” his mother murmured.

  “Some of the beastholder children who really ought to know better,” Kubisa said. “I’ll have a word with their parents, now that I’ve delivered Rob to you.” She patted his head. “I’d pick on someone my size, next time. Or better still, have your father teach you how to duck.”

  Grinning, she left the apartment.

  “I can teach you how to duck, my brave lad,” Merelan said, hugging him again, knowing that such training did not fall in Petiron’s scope of paternal duties. “I used to be able to beat some of my big brothers and cousins when I got going.”

  “You?” Robie’s eyes widened at the very notion of his mother beating anything, much less big brothers and cousins.

  So she gave him his first lesson in hand-to-hand combat, and showed him how best to head-butt an assailant. “It keeps you from having bloody noses, too, if you use your head in a fight.”

  That daily respite of his hours with Kubisa gave Merelan a rest from constantly being alert to intervene between her son and his father. The subterfuge she had to practice was wearing on her nerves. However, she—and Kubisa—could at least honestly report Robie’s excellent conduct and progress in school.

  “And you’re learning all the Teaching Ballads?” Petiron asked absently.

  “Yes, and I can prove it.” Robinton wanted so desperately to please his father, but he never seemed able to, despite how hard he tried to be good, obedient, courteous, and, most of all, quiet.

  Somewhat surprised at his son’s tone of voice, Petiron leaned back in his chair. With an indolent and supercilious wave of his hand, he indicated that Robie should perform.

  Merelan held her breath, unable to think of a single thing to say to postpone Petiron’s discovery of his son’s talent.

  Robie took a breath—properly, not gasping air into his lungs as so many novices did—and then launched into a note-perfect rendition of the Duty Song. Petiron did look a trifle surprised at the firmness of tone the boy projected in his treble voice. Petiron beat the time with one finger on the armrest but he listened with a much less disdainful expression on his face.

  “That was well done, Robinton,” he said. “Now don’t think that learning one song is all you have to do. There’s a significant number, even for children, to be learned, word- and note-perfect. Continue as you have begun.”

  Robinton beamed with pleasure, turning to his mother to see if she also agreed.

  Merelan could barely keep from sobbing with relief as she came forward and tousled his hair. “You have done very well indeed, my love. I’m proud of you, too. Just as your father is.” She turned to Petiron for his reassurance, but he had already turned back to the apprentice scores he was correcting, oblivious to son and spouse.

  Merelan had to clench her hands to her sides to keep from roaring at him for such a curt dismissal. There was so much more Petiron could have said. He could have mentioned that the boy was on pitch throughout, with good breath support and that his voice was actually very good. But she controlled her anger and took Robie, who couldn’t quite understand why he hadn’t pleased his father more, by the hand.

  “We’ll just see,” she said in a firm, loud voice, “what Lorra might have as a reward for knowing all the verses and the tempi perfectly!”

  When she slammed the door behind her, Petiron glanced over his shoulder, then went back to marking a very poorly executed apprentice lesson.

  “Really, I wanted to . . .” Merelan’s fists were clenched as she paced about the small floor space in Lorra’s little office-sitting room off the main Hall kitchens. “I wanted to kick him.”

  “Really?” Lorra recoiled a bit from her friend’s vehemence. She had taken one look at Merelan’s expression when she stalked into the kitchen and immediately assigned the two scullery girls to feed Robinton some of the freshly baked bubbly pies while she took the Mastersinger into her office. Lorra knew that Betrice was away from the Hall on a confinement, and she was rather complimented that Merelan would turn to her at all.

  “I mean, I’ve heard third-year apprentices who couldn’t sing the Duty Song as well,” Merelan said, venting both anger and frustration as she pounded around the room. “Not a note wrong, not even a poorly timed breath. Why, the performance was excellent.”

  “Petiron said that much, didn’t he?” Lorra asked, hoping to soothe the singer.

  “Yes, but there was so much more he could have said. Robie sang splendidly, better than a lad of fourteen, and he’s barely four Turns! And Petiron acted as if it was no more than he expected of his son.”

  “Ah!” Lorra pointed a finger at her distraught visitor. “You’ve said it. He expected such excellence from his own son! If Robie hadn’t been as accurate and correct as Petiron expected, then you’d’ve heard all about it, now wouldn’t you?”

  Merelan paused in her pacing and stared at the headwoman. Then, with a rueful laugh, her anger dissipating, she sat herself down in the other comfortable chair, chuckling.

  “You’re right, of course. If Robie hadn’t been note-perfect, he would have had to repeat the Duty Song until he was. Oh, by the First Egg, what am I to do? The boy so much needs, and wants, his father’s approval. He’s never, never going to get it.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder, since Petiron’s shyer about giving credit where it’s due than any other harper in the Hall. But,” Lorra pointed out, “now you don’t have to fret so much about when Petiron finds out his own son is lengths ahead of him musically.”

  Merelan shot Lorra a stunned look.

  “Oh, c’mon, Merelan,” Lorra returned, “you know it yourself. The boy’s already more of a musician than apprentices three times his age. I shouldn’t wonder but that he makes journeyman by the time he’s sixteen.”

  “A journeyman has to be eighteen . . .” Merelan began in a feeble denial.

  “Well, by the time he’s sixteen, we’ll see. Meanwhile, I’d say that after today, you won’t have to watch Robie around his father so carefully. It’ll be easier for Rob, too. It’s obvious to me that Petiron won’t notice much until Robie’s voice breaks and he realizes his ‘infant’ son is nearly a man.”
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  “Really?” Merelan asked pensively, considering Lorra’s facetious words seriously.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Lorra replied with a flick of her fingers. “Now you stop fretting so much. The strain’s coming out in your voice—I’m sorry to mention that to you, but I don’t think anyone else would. Except Petiron, and it’s as well he hasn’t noticed. Or am I overstepping the line?”

  “No, you’re not, Lorra. Never.” Merelan hastily laid her hand on Lorra’s plump forearm. “I just didn’t think anyone would notice. I’ve just been vocalizing and tried to go easy on my voice . . .”

  “Not easy when you’re in between a rock and a hard place with those two men in your life.” Lorra leaned forward and patted Merelan’s nervously drumming fingers. “I’m not a healer, but a glass of wine would not go amiss right now. For both of us.” She rose and went to the cabinet, taking down a wineskin and two glasses. Merelan waved away the courtesy but Lorra insisted. “There’re a lot of things Petiron won’t notice, including wine on your breath, if that’s what you’re worried about. And right now you need to relax, which is what my herbal cordial will help you do.”

  Merelan glanced out of the office at Robie, who was making the girls giggle, his round, happy face smeared with deep purplish berry juice. She settled back, accepting the glass.

  “Has Master Gennell told you about the new girl yet?” Lorra asked.

  “Halanna?” When Lorra nodded, Merelan went on. “Yes, I’d a letter from the Hold’s harper, Maxilant. He’s done as much as he can with her vocal training and says she’s too good to be messed up by an amateur like himself.” She smiled over Maxilant’s modesty.

  “Petiron would be happy to have a good contralto on hand, too,” Lorra said. She sang in that range, though never as a soloist. “Odd, isn’t life? You never really know how things’ll turn out until they do, do you?”

  “No, you don’t.” As Merelan sipped, she could feel the cordial seeping down her veins and the knot of tension in her belly beginning to ease.

  “She’s of an age with the Hold daughters here, so I’ve placed her with them in the cottage,” Lorra said. “They may be here only until Turnover, but they’ll help her ease into the routine here. It can take a bit of getting used to, can’t it?”

  Merelan couldn’t help smiling at Lorra’s use of the word “routine” in connection with the Harper Hall. No two days were ever alike in the fascinating, and sometimes frantic, atmosphere within this rectangle. She did very vividly remember her own first days there and would help young Halanna as much as she could, to become accustomed to the requisite study and practice. In fact, if Lorra was correct about Petiron, and she rather suspected the headwoman was, Merelan herself would welcome having a female student to bring on. She’d have less time to fret herself into stress over all the confrontations she imagined between son and spouse.

  CHAPTER III

  HALANNA ARRIVED, AND created an instant impression on all who met her of an overly self-confident seventeen-Turn-old young woman who found fault with everything at the Harper Hall, and especially the cottage where she was lodged. She was accustomed to a room of her own, she informed Isla, who acted as foster mother to her charges; she’d never be able to sleep, sharing a room. Why was there so little fresh food to be had when she was used to plenty of fruit? The weather was dreadful and she hadn’t the right clothing, though the three large bundles laboriously taken up by carrier beast from the ship that had delivered her at Fort Hold Harbor contained an immense quantity of clothing. Nor had she sufficient space to arrange half her things in the dinky room she had to share! And where could she practice in peace and quiet with all the instruments and voices blaring constant cacophony into the quadrangle.

  The only one who found her at all bearable was Petiron. Once he heard her sing, he dismissed Merelan’s remarks about her lack of discipline and a lack of general information about music that was close to illiteracy. He was jubilant over having a contralto with such a rich timbre and wide range with no “break” whatever. He immediately began to write contralto solos into the Turnover music he was currently composing. He discounted Merelan’s suggestions that the girl would not be able to “read” the contralto line, much less manage the tempi changes or the cadenzas.

  Unfortunately, Petiron’s approval merely increased Halanna’s already overbearing manner. Merelan needed all her tact, and the weight of her position as Mastersinger, to get the girl to do the vocalizes that would strengthen her breath control, sustain her range, and prepare her for the rigors of singing Petiron’s sort of vocally extravagant music. That Petiron had also envisaged a soprano/contralto duet did nothing to help Merelan, for it automatically put the girl on a par with a Mastersinger, which Halanna clearly was not, despite an amazing natural voice.

  Merelan hadn’t a jealous bone in her body and was quite willing to prepare the girl or remedy the gaps in her education—if Halanna had been the least bit amenable. But the younger singer decided that, if she was good enough to sing a duet with the leading Mastersinger of Pern, she had no need to do such dull exercises and study vocal scores. She sang loudly, completely ignoring any dynamic alteration for the appropriate performance of a song or aria, concerned only with showing off the power of her vocal equipment. “Soft” was an unknown quality.

  “If she keeps on shrieking like that,” Washell said to Merelan when she approached him for advice on how to deal with Halanna, “she won’t have a voice in a couple of Turns. That’ll solve that problem rather neatly, I’d say.”

  “Washell!” Merelan was shocked by the acid tone of his voice.

  He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead, and gave her a long look.

  “Of course, it’s a lot harder to sing softly, since it requires considerable breath control. I’ve had many difficult students in my life as a teacher, m’dear, but that one is unique in my experience. Whatever was Maxilant thinking of to encourage her to think so highly of her ability?”

  “Sheer desperation, I’d imagine,” Merelan replied with understandable disgust. “And a chance to get her out of his hair.”

  “You may be right. Though how he could let her get away with so little fundamental understanding of note values is really beyond me.”

  “And quite possibly beyond Halanna,” Merelan added. They exchanged understanding grins.

  “Let Petiron handle this one, m’dear,” Washell said, winking. “He won’t like her messing up his music, you know.”

  “There is that,” Merelan mused, and then grimaced. “Only he’s likely to find me lacking as an instructor. And I’m not!” she added with a touch of desperate anger in her voice.

  “By no means, m’dear, as everyone else in the Hall will vouch.” Washell patted her arm. Then he paused, thinking. “There may be another way. We’ll contrive. Just you wait and see.”

  Many of the masters, and even journeymen, at the Harper Hall were eccentric in one fashion or another, traits that were respected or, sometimes, endured as a necessary evil. But they had all put in the essential work to master the basic mechanics of music. Halanna could not be bothered with such slogging. Merelan kept at it, as obstinate in her attempts to instruct Halanna as the girl was to avoid such lessons.

  Halanna was an accomplished flirt, and quickly isolated those whom she would favor—because of their rank, either within the Hall, or from prestigious holds. She chose only the attractive journeymen and masters, of whom there were quite a few just then, back at the Hall either for reassignment or to take part in the Turnover rehearsals. Not only did she have a voice, even her worst enemies had to admit that she was a beauty. Blond hair bleached almost silver by the sun of Ista, a flawless tan that accentuated her light green eyes and white, even teeth, a figure more mature than that of most girls her age—and she knew far more than she ought of how to flaunt her sensuality. She did not obey the cottage keeper’s basic rules, deciding they were for children and not the daughter of a holder, though all the other boarders w
ere the same rank, and some more prestigious than hers. She was caught time and again sneaking in late at night.

  Then Halanna took a dislike to Robinton.

  Merelan conducted her voice lessons in her own quarters, as they were spacious enough and offered some privacy. Right now, preparing for the Turnover celebrations, she was coaching quite a few students and often had to schedule them when Robie was not in the Hall nursery school. He had always played quite happily and quietly in the other room. Halanna said his very presence so close to her was distracting, even with the connecting door closed, and she hated anyone to overhear her lessons.

  That was too much for Merelan. Nor was that an excuse to find favor with Petiron, who was busy dreaming of the success of his new composition.

  “Since it is so important to you, love,” Merelan said from behind gritted teeth, “I really think you ought to take over her coaching. As you may have observed,” she added, knowing perfectly well that he hadn’t, “she will probably do better with a male coach. I’ve already more than I can handle with the secondary parts.”

  “But I can’t teach her what you can,” Petiron protested in surprise. Merelan was, in his estimation, much the better vocal coach, and he couldn’t quite understand how she was having difficulties with a voice as fine as Halanna’s. “You’re not annoyed that I’ve written in a duet for you to sing with her?”

  “Me? No, why should I be? She has a magnificent voice, but she’s a little shy on technique and I know she’ll respond better to your comments.”

  Petiron was not at all sure of that, but there was something about Merelan’s attitude that made him keep his private views to himself. He anticipated no trouble at all.

  “She’s a musical idiot!” he railed when he returned from her first lesson with him. “Haven’t you been able to teach her anything in the full month she’s been here?”

  “No,” Merelan said quietly, and pointed to the closed door where Robinton was taking a nap.