Masterharper of Pern (40 page)

She gave a long, sad sigh. “The cord was around his neck when he was born. Ginia said he didn’t get enough air to breathe normally.”

Robinton stared at her, disbelief foremost even as he admitted to himself the hideous fact that this child of his was obviously not normal.

“And?” he asked quietly, slowly sinking to the nearest chair, seeing once again his pleasant dreams turning to ashes.

“He will be . . . slow,” she said. “I’ve seen the same sort of thing before. There’ve been two cot babes the same way. But they are sweet. And docile.”

“Sweet? And docile?”

Robinton tried hard to absorb what that would mean in terms of
his
child. He buried his head in his hands and tried not to think of what could have been. How ironic! That his first—and only—child would be sweet and docile instead of the curious, interested, clever, tall, fine straight child he had yearned for.

“Oh, Robie, you cannot know how sorry I am.” Silvina’s fingers twined in his hair. “Please, don’t hate me. I so wanted to give you a . . . fine child.”

“How can I hate you, Vina?” He glanced sideways at the baby. “Or him. I’ll care for you both . . .”

“I know you will, Rob.”

There was little more he could say, just then. Over the months of Camo’s first Turn, he kept looking for signs that his condition might have been exaggerated and the bright intelligence that should have been his legacy might somehow blossom. He was even somewhat encouraged when Camo first smiled at him.

“He knows your voice, Rob,” Silvina said sadly. “He knows you bring him something good to eat . . .” She ignored the little drum that Robinton had made with his own hands to amuse his son. The child had regarded it with the vacant eyes he turned on anything that was offered him.

“He has a very sweet smile,” Robinton remarked, and then he had to leave the room.

CHAPTER XVII

A
VERY WEARY
Nip appeared late one night in the second month of the new Turn.

“He’s at it again,” he said; dropping a tattered hide coat to the floor and pouring himself a drink, he swallowed it down.

“I can get you soup,” Robinton suggested when he saw how blue Nip was about the lips. He rose from his comfortable chair. Nip shook his head, poured himself a second glass, and came over to the fire. “What’s he at?”

“His tricks,” Nip said, sinking gratefully into the chair Robinton had vacated. “How he plans his invasion of holds, large and small.”

“Really?” Robinton poured wine for himself and, hooking his foot around a stool, slid it to the hearth and made himself comfortable to listen. “Do tell.”

“Oh, you’ll get chapter and verse from me.”

“If you don’t fall asleep first.”

“I won’t. My subject matter will keep me wide awake,” Nip said bitterly. He downed the second glass of wine. “Pity to waste it like that, Rob, I know, when it’s good Benden, but it goes to a good purpose.”

“I’m listening,” Robinton said patiently. He filled Nip’s glass a third time. Nip sipped this one slowly.

“He visits his intended victim, all smiles and reassurances, compliments the man on his fine holding. Buys whatever the hold produces, pays over the mark for what he calls the best quality. He asks how such yields are achieved on such poor, good, medium, excellent soil . . . under such trying, hot, cold, dry conditions . . . In short.”

“He makes himself a friend of the hold,” Robinton said, nodding ruefully.

“Then he sends down a man to learn from the holder. Or he starts buying the produce, at higher prices, and brings others to see how well this holder is doing with his land. I mean, how can they be taken in so easily?”

“Some of those upland holds are isolated. Often they don’t get to but one Gather a Turn.”

“True,” Nip sighed. “Now, he’s very canny about how he insults the Harper Hall, especially if the hold in question has one, or is on a well-traveled route. But he is careful with his slanders.” Nip pantomimed a dagger being inserted gently in and then slowly twisted. “He gives examples of harper lies and exaggerations. So he plants the seeds of doubt.
Then
he invites the man and his family to come to
his
next Gather, and sometimes, if the gullible fool believes him, he offers to send men to tend the herdbeasts or the fields, or whatever, while the holder and his family are away.”

“So that his men become familiar with the place.”

“Exactly.” Nip took a sip. “One man and his family never did get back from that Gather, and so Fax has acquired Keogh Hold recently.”

“That makes . . .”

“Four.”

“I see.”

Then Robinton had caught sight of the way Nip was shivering despite the wine and the heat. “Let me take those boots off for you, Nip. They look soaked.”

“You’re the only man I’d allow such a privilege,” the irrepressible Nip replied as he lifted his left leg and then placed his right boot on Robinton’s butt. “I know many people who’d love to have the MasterHarper of Pern on the end of their boot!” he added, chuckling. He gave Rob a hefty push—all to help remove his boot, of course.

In spite of Nip’s pessimistic report, Fax was quiescent again, seemingly content to ride his extended borders,
encouraging,
as Nip put it drolly, his dependents to increase their production.

Robinton could not spend all his time worrying about where Fax would go next. He had the Hall to run, with all its problems and scheduling, especially when the bias against harpers was increasing. However, when he heard that Nemorth had actually risen in a good mating flight with Simanith, Robinton sent congratulations and had a special visit from F’lon, who looked excessively pleased with himself.

“How did you manage?” Robinton asked, pouring two glasses from the Benden wineskin F’lon had brought to celebrate.

“First we starved the pair of them. I never thought a queen dragon could be so difficult. All the bronzes were needed to snatch anything she killed. She’d sneak out of the weyr at night to get something to eat.”

“Who? Jora or Nemorth?”

F’lon blinked and then howled with laughter. “Actually, I meant Nemorth, but I think Jora probably had edibles secreted about the place, because we never did manage to get her down to a decent size. But Nemorth was our prime worry. Like rider like dragon can be all too true. But we succeeded in keeping her from doing more than blood the next time she turned bright gold. My, she was a nasty one in flight.” F’lon shook his head from side to side, with an odd grin on his face. “Simanith proved his worth. Caught her high and did her well.” Then he exhaled noisily.

Robinton was hard pressed not to laugh out loud, wondering how F’lon had managed his unwieldy mate on that occasion, but there were certain matters one did not discuss, even with such a good friend as F’lon.

“So, she’ll clutch in the winter?”

“So long as she does clutch!”

“Here’s to triple her last one!”

“We’ll need every one,” F’lon said and downed the wine, breaking the glass in the hearth. Robinton, though he regretted losing two such fine goblets, followed suit. “I’ll come for you myself when the Hatching’s due. Both my sons’ll stand.”

Before Robinton figured that the youngest would be only ten, F’lon was out the door.

“Well, he is the Weyrleader,” Robinton murmured. “And the dragons will make the right choices.” He hoped.

He had another, totally unexpected visit that same sevenday, which turned out to have almost as fortuitous a result.

Silvina tapped on the door of his rooms. “You’ve two visitors, Rob,” she said, smiling broadly as she pushed the door open wider to admit the guests.

Robinton instantly rose to his feet to greet the arrivals: a grizzled man and a very gawky shy lad whose eyes were round and so fearful that Robinton increased the warmth in his own smile. The older man pushed the lad forward with a hand that was missing two fingers. He nodded with great dignity to the MasterHarper.

“You wouldn’t remember me, likely,” he said, “but I’ve never forgotten my cousin, Merelan.”

The injured hand, the deep voice, the tanned, weathered, and faintly familiar face of the man combined with the heavy boots he wore gave Robinton a clue.

“Rantou?” he exclaimed.

“Aye.” A huge grin split the man’s face. “Rantou from the woods. Fancy you remembering my name after all this time.”

Robinton shook the offered hand vigorously and urged the two to take seats, gesturing to Silvina to bring refreshment.

“Why, it’s been . . . Turns!” Robinton said. “I do remember that summer, and swimming in the sea and all the cousins I didn’t know I had . . .”

“Heard Merelan had died a while back,” Rantou said, his expression sober. “Heard her sing at South Boll Gathers now and then.”

“You had a fine voice, or so she often said.”

“Did she?” The old man’s face lit up. The boy wriggled in his chair uncomfortable and not certain what to do or how to act.

“She did,” Robinton said warmly, turning kindly to include the boy in the conversation.

Rantou cleared his throat and sat forward on the chair. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Rantou gripped the boy by the shoulder. “This is my grandson, Sebell. He can sing. I want him to be a harper, if he’s good enough.”

“Why, that’s wonderful, Rantou.”

“He’s better off here, much better than in the woods. I never forgot your father, you know.” Rantou grinned slyly. “He didn’t think much of us.”

“Oh, now . . .”

“Don’t mix the truth up, lad—I mean, MasterHarper.” Rantou suddenly realized that he had no right to reprimand such an important person.

Robinton laughed. “He hated to lose any promising musical talent.”

“I want Sebell to have the chance,” Rantou said. “He’s smart, he already plays pipes he’s made, and our old gitar. Knows all his Teaching Songs and Ballads. We don’t have a regular harper down there, too small, but I’ve seen that Sebell learned as much as we could teach him.”

Robinton turned to the very nervous boy, who jerked his chin up almost defensively at such scrutiny. He was as tanned as his grandfather, with a shock of sun-bleached hair and wide-set dark eyes that had been surreptitiously noting everything in the room, from the instruments on the walls to the musical notations on the sandtable. He was ten or eleven Turns, Robinton thought, more bone than flesh, but with the suggestion of height and strength in his frame . . . and bony wrists and ankles that protruded from pants legs that were too short.

“I started on pipes, too, you know,” he said gently and pointed to them on the wall.

The boy looked surprised.

“Did you bring yours with you?” Robinton asked.

“He’s never without them,” his grandfather said proudly and nodded to Sebell.

The boy reached behind him and produced multiple pipes that he had tucked into his waistband, hidden from view under his shirt.

Robinton rose and got his own boyhood pipes. He grinned at Sebell as he tried to make his adult fingers fit the stops that had been made for much smaller hands. Then he did a quick scale and glanced at Sebell. The boy’s grin was slightly amused as he repeated the scale, quickly and well.

“How about this one?” And Robinton essayed a more complex arpeggio.

The boy’s grin broadened as he set his lips to the pipes and immediately brought forth the same run.

“Which is your favorite Teaching Ballad?” Robinton asked.

The boy began the Duty Song, which was not the simplest of the Ballads, and Robinton joined by piping a descant around the melody. Sebell’s eyes twinkled at the challenge, and the two pipers ended the song with quite a flourish, for Sebell had variations of his own.

Robinton chuckled. “Can you sing it for me, too, while I accompany you?”

The boy’s treble voice was not the least bit breathy, so someone had taught him a few vocal tricks. It was a good voice, too, and he had a good sense of rhythm and pitch and imbued the words with appropriate feeling. Shonagar would be overjoyed to have a new student.

“He’s your kin, Rantou.”

“And kin of yourself, as well, Master Robinton.”

“Why so he is!” Robinton quickly suppressed a wish that this had been his son, rather than poor retarded Camo. “Why so he is,” he repeated more firmly and held out his hand to the boy. “The Harper Hall will be pleased to have you join us. Very pleased.”

“He won’t expect any favors, kin or not.”

“I do him none by giving any,” Robinton said and then smiled encouragingly at Sebell.

A tap on the door and Silvina entered with a tray of refreshments, including newly baked cookies that brought an eager expression to the boy’s face.

“Silvina, meet Sebell, grandson of Rantou, from my mother’s hold and by way of being a relative of mine,” Robinton said.

Having settled the tray on the long table, Silvina held out her hand to Sebell, who jumped to his feet and gave her a shy bow before accepting her clasp.

“A new apprentice?” she asked, smiling kindly.

“And a new treble for Shonagar to train. Pipes well, too,” Robinton said with pride. He couldn’t resist ruffling the lad’s hair in his pleasure at his coming. “I met Rantou when I was much younger than Sebell . . .”

“You are related to MasterSinger Merelan?” Silvina asked as she poured klah and passed around the sweetener.

“We were very proud of her, we were, Silvina,” Rantou replied proudly.

“We all were,” Silvina said and her warm smile included the newest recruit to the Harper Hall, who grinned shyly back at her as she passed him the plate of cookies.

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!”