Masterharper of Pern (42 page)

“Enough,” F’lon said, shaking off Robinton’s restraining hand. “It was as deliberate as the slurs on dragonriders.”

“Ha! Dragon
women
!” the captain said in a scathing tone.

That insult inflamed F’lon. “I’ll show you dragon
women
,” he said and drew the knife from his belt.

The captain’s knife seemed to appear with uncanny speed in his hand and Robinton’s fears increased. He made another attempt to gain control of the situation.

“This
is
a Gather,” he repeated, stepping between the two men who had eyes for no one but each other.

“Out of the way, Harper,” the captain snarled. “Your color doesn’t protect you
or
him.”

The crowd had backed away the moment the flash of steel was seen and formed a circle around the five. The next moment Kepiru barged out of the way and disappeared from sight.

“Move off, Robinton. This is not your fight,” F’lon said, crouching as he shoved Robinton out of the way.

“Wait! The Lord Holder has been summoned!”

“Then let him watch the Weyrleader die!” the captain cried, a wild smile on his face. Crouching, he stepped sideways, not toward the dragonrider but close enough to Robinton so that when he moved, it was the MasterHarper his blade scored. Robinton clutched at his arm, blood oozing out of the long gash.

F’lon let out an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed the captain. “I’ll see he regrets that, Rob!”

“Harpers, dragonwomen, much the same cowardly clutch.”

“Keep your head!” Robinton called to F’lon. He was too alarmed to feel pain and was grateful when someone wrapped a kerchief around the bleeding wound.

Simanith continued to bugle, and the other dragons picked up the challenge at the top of their lungs. If this didn’t bring the other riders to help, surely the calls would alert the Lord Holder and he would be able to stop the fight before more blood was shed.

Perhaps that was why the captain surged forward, determined to finish before he could be interrupted. He was fast, he was clever with the blade, and he was determined. F’lon was equally quick on his feet, but he was livid with anger at the attack on the MasterHarper.

The captain drew first blood, slicing F’lon across the midriff, through the loose shirt, causing a hiss of surprise and pain to escape F’lon’s lips. At that, F’lon lost all caution, rushing in to grapple his opponent’s knife hand, trying to sink his blade in wherever he could. The captain was stronger and far cooler.

F’lon was accustomed to fair fighting and opponents who would not risk the life of a dragonrider. The captain had no such inhibitions and displayed a knowledge of tricks that had probably brought him victory in other brawls. He was also heavier and, letting fly a kick that had the crowd gasping out “foul play,” he unbalanced the dragonrider and flung him breathless to the dirt. Diving on the prone dragonrider, he brought his knife up under the dragonrider’s guard and into his ribs.

F’lon gave one massive jerk and died.

Simanith let out a hideous shriek of anguish and pain, launching
between
before the last breath of life left his rider. Robinton was rocked to his soul by that sound and the death of his friend.

An awful silence fell over the Gather. Even those far from the scene and ignorant of what had just happened were stunned by the dragon’s cry and his disappearance. Then the keening of the other dragons informed the entire Gather that a dragonrider had died.

“Seize him,” Robinton said, pointing to the captain before he, too, could slip away as Kepiru had.

He knelt by F’lon, whose amber eyes were wide open in surprise, their light already fading. Robinton closed them and bowed his head, reeling emotionally and physically from the hideous end to a stupid, senseless encounter.

“I would have apologized,” a small, scared voice said beside him.

Robinton lifted his head and put his hand on Larad’s shoulder. “No, Larad, you were not at fault.”

“But he’s dead,” Larad said, his voice breaking. “A dragonrider’s dead!”

“
What’s this? What
 . . . Shards!” Lord Tarathel broke through the crowd and stumbled into the dusty circle. Larad ran to his father, burying his head against him and weeping.

“It was no accident, Lord Tarathel,” Robinton said quietly and for the holder’s ears only. “No accident.”

The captain was struggling with those who were quite glad to hold him, and less than gently. If no one had wanted to interfere in a dagger duel, no one had wanted the death of a dragonrider—nor the ear-splitting sounds of the grieving dragons.

R’gul and S’lel, with C’gan right behind them, arrived, their faces anguished. Seeing F’lon’s lifeless body, R’gul’s face became a study in conflicting emotions, none of which did the dragonrider any credit in Robinton’s eyes. S’lel was at least honestly distressed, while unashamed tears streaked down C’gan’s boyish face as he knelt, hands hovering hopelessly over his Weyrleader’s body.

“I’ve warned him often enough,” R’gul murmured, shaking his head. “He would never listen.”

Disgusted, Robinton turned away, and it was then that Tarathel noticed his bloody arm.

“For that alone, that man goes to the islands,” Tarathel said, his voice taut with anger. “Surely he saw your Master’s knots.”

“And disregarded them as easily as he ignored F’lon’s rank,” Robinton said, scanning the faces in the crowd. Fax should be arriving to view the result of his scheme. And that could be a second disaster. The law stated unequivocally that any man who deliberately killed a dragonrider was to be transported to one of the islands in the Eastern Sea. No trial was required if there were witnesses. Which there were. “R’gul, convey this man to the islands. Is that not correct, Lord Tarathel?”

“Yes, it most certainly is,” Tarathel said. He had just listened to his son’s account of what had happened. “Bronze rider, do your duty.”

“But there’s been no trial,” R’gul protested.

“By the First Egg, R’gul,” C’gan said, horrified at the hesitation. “I’ll take him myself.” He stepped forward to grab the captain by the arm.

“
Release my captain!
” cried Fax, shoving a rough path through the crowd. He caught the captain by the arm and started to pull him away from C’gan, glaring menacingly at the shorter blue rider. C’gan had his knife drawn and, though he was much lighter than his would-be captive, his outrage provided him greater strength: he did not relinquish his grip on the murderer.

“Your captain has just killed the Weyrleader,” Tarathel said, every bit as resolute as C’gan.

“Who no doubt deserved what he got,” Fax said, grinning and showing his teeth, and glancing about the crowd to gauge reactions.

“You know the law regarding murder, Fax,” Tarathel replied. “There is no recourse if a dragonrider has been slain. C’gan, since you have—”

“There’s been no trial,” Fax said.

“Since when did you reinstate trials?” Tarathel said ominously, his hand going to his knife hilt. “I am Lord Holder here. The death occurred on my lands and at my Gather. I judge your man guilty of unprovoked attack: first against my son, second against the MasterHarper, and finally and most outrageously against the Benden Weyrleader—an attack that ended in murder. For either of the two second counts, he merits banishment”

“I think not,” Fax said. “Release him!”

Suddenly there were other men ruthlessly penetrating the crowd and stepping up to Fax, their aggression obvious in their eyes and manner. They all wore Fax’s colors. Tarathel’s eyes widened with fury.

“No!”
Robinton cried, gesturing to the crowd. Fax’s crew might be armed and dangerous, but there were only eight of them, while the crowd must number close to a hundred. “
Telgar! Defend your Holder!
”

With a mar of protest, Fax and his men were overwhelmed as those around them grabbed at their arms and bodies, preventing them from drawing their weapons. Even R’gul and S’lel assisted while C’gan tried to keep a firm grip on the murderer. Suddenly the blue rider cried for assistance as the man sagged and collapsed, a dagger through one eye.

And the dragons bellowed with triumph.

One look at the hilt of that slender throwing knife and Robinton knew who had cast it. He marveled that Nip had been able to fling it so accurately through the milling crowd.

Fax and his men were hurried away to their camp, where they were made to pack up. A force of fifty willing holders and crafters assembled to escort the unwelcome guests all the way back to their borders. Lord Tarathel supplied food and Runnerbeasts to those who had none.

R’gul, S’lel, and the other dragonriders took the body of their dead Weyrleader back to Benden. With a fresh wound, Robinton was prevented by the Hold healer from accompanying his friend, but he drummed the awful message to every Hold and Hall. Only when he had completed that task could he rest.

Nip slipped into Robinton’s guest room late that night, rousing the MasterHarper from a restless sleep.

“Bad wound?” Nip asked solicitously.

“Annoying,” Robinton replied, pulling himself carefully up in the bed as Nip kindly stuck pillows behind him. He grimaced at the pain of resettling the arm. The Hold healer had given him quite a lecture on the stupidity of drumming messages with an arm in that condition. It shouldn’t have required stitching if it had been attended to immediately, he was told in a sour voice. So he had endured the process, well-fortified by a hefty fellis draft. “Good throw.”

“You saved my knife? I’m fond of that blade. Superb balance,” Nip said.

“Over there in the first drawer,” Robinton said, nodding to the chest opposite the bed. “You’d no idea what Fax had planned?”

“None.” Nip shook his head sadly as he retrieved his knife.

“You may be sure I would have warned you had I had any idea. I’ve been lurking”—he grinned—“where I might overhear something of value. But going after the Weyrleader . . .” Nip paused, again shaking his head. “That was something else. I do know that Fax intended to take F’lon out as soon as he could. Tarathel just gave him the perfect opportunity, with his invitation to show off
his
guard companies. And they were taking no chances. I saw several other unlikely pairs—a lad and a bruising fighter—circulating the Gather. Wondered at such a pairing for Fax’s men. My wits are slowing down, I think. And then it was too late.”

“My feeling, too. Shards, they may have been planning such an assault since the last Telgar Gather was canceled when Grogellan died.” Robinton sighed heavily and reached for the numbweed salve.

As he fumbled with the sling around his arm, Nip took over and, with unusually gentle fingers, daubed the sewn wound with the salve. The relief was intense.

“Didn’t realize Gifflen got you.”

“Gifflen?”

“That was the man’s name. I’d marked him as a troublemaker. He’s been thrown out of several holds and his apprentice hall for provoking fights and bullying. He’s killed often. I preferred that he didn’t walk away from this one.”

Robinton nodded in agreement. “More would thank you if they knew. I thank you.”

“Clever of you to shout like that. Stirred them all to their senses.”

Robinton exhaled, remembering. “We’ve all become soft, you know. Letting someone else take the blame or do the disagreeable.”

“That’s why Fax controls as many holds as he does.” Nip’s tone was harsh. “Rob, you’ve got to shake the Lord Holders awake before he takes another one.”

“I’ve done what I can. Groghe’s training men, so is Oterel, and, after this, Tarathel will be wary.”

“What about Kale at Ruatha?”

“I plan to see him on my way back.”

“How soon before you could travel a-dragonback?”

“I think I’ve lost that privilege.”

“No.” Nip shook his head. “Drum C’gan. He’ll come anytime. Too bad F’lon’s sons aren’t a little older.”

Robinton frowned. “I haven’t had a chance to get to know them, not as I did their father. I should go . . .”

“You should not. You should get to Ruatha Hold as fast as you can.” Then Nip was on his feet and at the door. “See you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Nip, where . . .” But the door was already closing silently behind the man.

Despite the fellis and the numbweed, it took Robinton a long while to sleep again.

Tarathel reluctantly let him start the journey back to the Harper Hall two days later when an equally reluctant healer permitted it. The Lord Holder sent six men as escort.

“Don’t be a fool, Master Robinton,” Tarathel said, scowling. “The Hall may have played down the attacks made on harpers over the last few Turns, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t
known.
And Gifflen’s attack on you was inexcusable. I’ve even heard that Evenek was lured to Crom, at Fax’s instigation, so he could make him an example.” He paused, his voice becoming more gentle. “Did Evenek ever play again?”

“He can play. He’ll never sing again.”

“Well, then,” Tarathel said, stern again, “you’ll travel back from here without incident and as I deem you should go—with an escort.” He scowled. “It is bad enough that you were attacked at all. I fear a man so lost to honor as Fax has proved himself would not hesitate to attempt your life again if you were not close-guarded.”

“He has scarcely had time to return to—” Robinton paused.

“I will believe anything of that man, now,” Tarathel said. “You’d do well to limit your wanderings, MasterHarper, or ride with an escort.”

“Limit my wanderings? That I cannot in conscience do—not now.”

“Be careful then, Robinton.” Tarathel pressed his hand warningly against Robinton’s uninjured shoulder. “I’ve put one of my best runnerbeasts at your disposal.”

Robinton thanked the Lord Holder . . . though he wasn’t so sure how thankful he should be when he tried to mount it. Three men had to hold the black’s head. Once he was in the saddle, the runner became obedient . . . at least to Robinton. No one on foot could get near enough to hand the harper his saddlebags. After that, his gear was attached to the saddle when the runner was tacked—and even that took several men.

The runnerbeast was, however, a very smooth-gaited, powerful creature with a habit of charging on ahead, so that Robinton’s escort was hard put to keep up with him. Gradually, he got the trick of dealing with Big Black and they came to an understanding—largely encouraged by the sweetener which Robinton would offer the animal when he had reached the saddle unscathed. But reining him in was another story: the trip went faster than perhaps the healer could have wished. Robinton was almost faint with relief when he saw the children playing on the front court of Ruatha Hold.