“Ah, but you’re in error, there, my good Petiron,” Master Gennell said in his mildest voice, his round face quite bland. “You”—he pointed his finger at the Mastercomposer—“teach at journeyman level. We must follow the protocol, you know.” And he beamed at a stunned Petiron.
Robinton heard a stifled noise and looked around at his mother, who gave him the oddest smile.
“Robinton is not old enough to be an apprentice, though as our lead treble, he is now definitely under Hall jurisdiction. But,” Gennell went on in a very satisfied tone, “I think that he would benefit from special lessons with his mother, since obviously Merelan had brought his voice along this far with her usual excellent training.” He nodded and bowed to her. “And, of course, he’ll continue his regular lessons with Kubisa, for we can’t short him on general knowledge and the basics, now can we, simply because he has a splendid treble? You did very well, Robinton.” Gennell’s beam now included Robinton and he awarded the boy a proprietary caress on his head and a final decisive pat. “Yes, and I think some of us here—I certainly—will be more than willing to oversee other elements of his training until he does reach apprentice age.” Gennell then sighed abruptly. “Of course, when his voice breaks, we’ll just have to see what his other musical qualifications are.”
Robinton blinked when Gennell, whose wide shoulders shielded him from his father, gave him a solemn wink.
“Thank you, MasterHarper, I’ll do my best not to disappoint,” Robie said in the silence that fell.
Then everyone began to clear throats or shift feet or stand up. His mother moved to his side, hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly to indicate her approval.
“Ah, Petiron, there’s a drum message request from Igen for a repeat of that program you put on for them last year,” Gennell said, taking the Mastercomposer by the arm and leading him out of the audition room. “You might make it the debut for your son. Not surprised he did so well, considering his parentage. You must be proud of him . . .” His voice trailed off down the hall.
“The MasterHarper may appear to be asleep from time to time,” Master Ogolly remarked in his dry, wispy voice, “but he doesn’t miss much, does he, Merelan? What with summer schedules and all, I’m short of apprentices when I need them most. Robie, could you give me a few hours and help me catch up on copying manuscripts?”
Robie looked up at his mother for permission and she nodded.
“He writes the clearest hand, you know, Mere. Have you some free time this afternoon perhaps?” he added wistfully to Robinton.
“I’ll be there after lunch,” Robie said, grateful to be legitimately somewhere other than his own quarters for the rest of the day. Ever since he’d been considered old enough to feed himself, he’d sat at the younglings’ table in the dining hall so he could avoid his father at noon. He’d get a copy from Master Ogolly of the work Londik had sung last year and memorize it. That way he wouldn’t annoy his father.
If Robinton did not realize until he was full-grown how deftly the Harper Hall conspired to save him from his father’s perfectionism, he was consumed with relief when “protocol” required him to join the other apprentices in their dormitory the day after his twelfth birthday. Instead of being on better terms with his father after two Turns of solo work, he seemed to annoy Petiron even more, no matter how hard he tried. In fact, it got so everyone noticed, and the other singers made a point of telling him how well he did, loud enough for his father—who gave him only a nod now and then—to hear.
He knew his transfer upset his mother, and yet he was positive it would make things a lot easier for her. It was only too obvious that his father couldn’t wait to see the back of him. And his case wasn’t the same as that of other apprentice lads: he’d lived in the Hall all his life, so he wouldn’t be homesick in the dormitory. Although he would miss his mother’s loving care, he was earnestly looking forward to leaving the family apartment.
“The boy is not going more than two hundred feet away,” Petiron said as he watched Merelan taking great care in packing Robinton’s belongings. Then he saw the thick roll of music she was stowing. “What’s that?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Rob’s done some exercises,” she replied indifferently, and tried to place them out of sight in the carton.
“Exercises?”
“Classwork, I think,” she added to stress the insignificance. She had it almost packed away when Petiron extracted the roll and pulled it open.
In the exasperating fashion thin hide can have, it resisted, and he was muttering under his breath with frustration. Merelan steeled herself and motioned surreptitiously for Robie to continue folding his clothing into the carisak.
Rob had so hoped that he could leave the apartment without any unpleasantness. Why did his father have to hang around the apartment this afternoon when he could have been anywhere else in the Hall just then?
“Exercises? Exercises!” Petiron glared first at his spouse and then through the doorway at his son. His tendency to use scowls as facial expressions had already carved deep lines in his long face. “These are copies of those ridiculous tunes the apprentices keep asking to sing.”
Robinton couldn’t see his mother’s face because she had risen, hoping to retrieve the roll. Petiron looked from one to the other and, for the first time in his dealings with his son, had a sudden perception.
“You—” He waved the offending roll in his son’s direction. “—wrote these.”
“Yes . . .” Robinton had to tell the truth now, if never again. “As exercises,” he heard himself adding when he saw the deepening of the scowl on his father’s face. “Sort of variations . . .”
“Variations that all the masters use in their classes. Variations that the instrumentalists constantly use. And twaddle at that, silly tunes that anyone can sing or play. Useless nonsense. Just what has been going on behind my back?”
“Since you have heard the masters using Robie’s songs in their classes, and the instrumentalists using them, then nothing has been going on behind your back, has it?” Merelan asked calmly and retrieved the roll from her spouse’s hand.
“He’s been composing?”
“Yes, he’s been composing. Songs.” She did not add that Petiron was looking at some of their son’s very early work. She hoped he did not remember how long he had been hearing his son’s charming, happy tunes. “Wouldn’t it be odd for him to be tone-deaf as well as note-blind in this Hall, saturated by music all the days of his life and two Harper Masters daily drumming sound into his head? I’d say it is only logical that he would write music and sing well. Don’t you?”
Petiron stood, looking from one to the other. He watched as Merelan rolled the songs tight and pushed them back into the box.
“You hid from me the fact that he has perfect pitch, has a good treble voice, and has been writing music?”
“No—one—has—been—hiding—a sharding thing from you, Petiron,” Merelan said tensely, enunciating every syllable and using a swear word that shocked Robinton as much as it did her spouse, who recoiled from her controlled anger. “You—simply—did not hear, and did not see. Now, act the father for once in your life, and carry this carton to the dormitory. It’s much too heavy for Rob.” She pointed at the burden and then at the windows to the dormitory that Robinton would be using.
Without a word, Petiron picked it up and made his way out of the room.
Robinton looped two more carisaks over one shoulder and took one step forward, but his mother, her head turned toward the hallway, held up her hand.
“Wait a minute, dear.” She turned back to him, her face drawn with sadness and despair. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have lost my patience with the man. But I can’t keep on saving his self-esteem, catering to his enormous ego, and always at your expense, Rob.”
“It’s all right, Mother. I understand.”
His mother reached out to caress his cheek—he was nearly her height now—shaking her head sadly, her eyes
full of tears. “I’d be surprised if you really did, love, but it shows your good heart and generous spirit. Always keep that, Robie. It’s a saving grace.”
She let him go then, and though he didn’t see his father on the stairs in the dormitory, the box was on the bed assigned him. He started unpacking, hoping that both the lump in his throat and the sense of having lost something important would go away before any of the other apprentices put in an appearance.
There were twenty-six in his class, quartered in three long rooms: he was lucky enough to be in the six-man one, so there was a trifle more space. By evening, he’d met them all, and they had been vetted by the older apprentices. He kept a suitable expression on his face when the head apprentice, a tall well-built lad from Keroon named Shonagar, rattled off what was expected of first-year apprentices, how they were the “lowest” of the “lowly” in the Hall, and the traditions of their new status. He also told them about the necessity of spending a night alone in the Weyr to prove their bravery.
“Harpers run into all kinds of problems and difficulties. This isn’t just singing songs to folks in a hold in the evenings. It can be a dangerous life,” he said, thoroughly solemn, “and you have to prove, now, that you can take it.”
“But the Weyr’s been empty for hundreds of Turns,” exclaimed the skinniest of the new boys, Grodon, his eyes wide with anxiety. He gulped hard.
“We’ve all done it, lad. You will, too,” Shonagar said firmly. He glanced over at Robinton, raising his eyebrows as he recognized the new apprentice. “All of you.”
Robinton had rehearsed with Shonagar many times—Shonagar was a good second tenor. More important, he was fair-minded and really did keep good order in the apprentice dormitories. Though his position as head apprentice was not an official rank, Master Gennell encouraged his leadership. Shonagar would allow no bullying or improper behavior in the dorms.
Robinton hadn’t mentioned his Hall background when the others were jabbering away about their homes, but it would soon become obvious. He hoped he could make friends in spite of having masters as parents. He knew how apprentices could behave. Fortunately, his innate modesty and good nature stood him in good stead as he settled in with the others. Grodon was terribly homesick the first sevenday, and Rob wheedled bedtime snacks from Lorra to ease his pain. Falawny, with sun-bleached hair and tanned skin, came from Igen. Shelline was a Neratian, also tanned; Lear was from Tillek and delighted not to have to become a fisher like the rest of his kin. Jerint was a dark-complexioned lad from southern Keroon who spent a lot of his time softly playing his pipes. He was good at it, too, Robinton quickly realized.
He did put himself forward ten days later when Shonagar entered their quarters after lights out.
“Right, now, who’ll be first to spend the night at the Weyr?” the head apprentice demanded, eyeing his victims sternly as they lay in their beds.
All save Robinton scrunched down further under their sleeping furs, trying to disappear.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind getting it all over with,” Robinton said, throwing back his covers.
“Good on you, Robie,” Shonagar said, nodding encouragingly.
Robinton dressed in the warmest of his clothes and, grabbing his jacket, prepared to go.
Shonagar and his two deputies waiting out in the corridor led him down the back stairs and out the side door on the Hold side of the Hall. There were five runnerbeasts waiting there, held by a fourth apprentice. Robinton had always wondered how the round-trip to the Weyr was managed in the one night without all the masters knowing of the unscheduled excursion. He was glad he didn’t have to hike up the long hill road that led to the Weyr. That would be scarier than being in it alone all night. Too many tunnel snakes across mountain roads at night. And other things.
They walked quietly across the huge Fort Hold square, up past the beastholds and cots, and then Shonagar led them through the tunnel that had been bored in the Fort cliffside, one of the minor wonders of the world that their ancestors had made, and through to the next valley. Across it—at a good pace now that the noise the runners made wouldn’t be heard—and up the winding road that led to Fort Weyr. Again another tunnel had been bored by the amazing equipment the Ancients had once possessed, and through this they went. For Robinton, that was the scariest part, even though Shonagar opened the glowbasket he brought. Then they were out into the night, on the floor of the Weyr itself. Robinton could just about make out the openings to the Lower Caverns and a few of the individual weyrs in the weak light of a half-moon.
“You can build a fire if you want in the Cavern,” Shonagar said, pointing and gesturing for Robinton to dismount.
One of the other lads laughed. “If you can find any firing, that is.”
“Leave it,” Shonagar said sternly. “We’ll be back for you an hour before dawn. Have a good night.”
With that he led the others, and Robinton’s mount, away and Rob stumbled toward the black maw of the living quarters that had once teemed with weyrfolk.
His footsteps echoed slightly in the still night and he hugged his jacket closer around him. Well, it wasn’t as cold as between. He did wish he’d had some warning so he could have saved a bit of his supper. Eating always made him feel better.
Once under the vaulting roof of Fort’s Lower Caverns, he could see little but the hearths along its outer edge.
“If you can find any firing, indeed,” he said with a snort. “And nothing to light it with.” He thought he’d best get some matches and hand them out to the other lads so they could start a fire on their turns. Maybe see that there was some tinder for them to smuggle along. A glowbasket, even the smallest of them, couldn’t be hidden under a jacket. Even the smallest blaze would be better than this deep black darkness. Not as dark, though, as between.
But there was light outside, so Robinton went exploring. He’d taken the precaution of looking at the plans of Fort Weyr in the Archives. He’d told his roommates to do so, as well, when they had a chance during their script lessons. So he found the steps leading to the rank of junior queen weyrs. They’d be warmer since they got their heat, as Fort Hold and the Harper Hall did, from deep inside the earth. No one now knew how that had been done, but that was why they all didn’t freeze in the bleaker months of full winter. He was somewhat glad that this ordeal occurred in the early autumn.
He stumbled twice going up the stairs: the steps were slightly uneven, though wide enough to accommodate his whole foot. He found the entrance to the first weyr by almost falling into it—he’d been guiding himself along the ledge with one hand on the stone wall on his right.
Entering, still one hand on the wall, he once again almost fell inside when he reached the outer room, where the queen dragon had slept. As he moved cautiously into the room, he could smell the odd spicy odor that was so dragony.
Where had the weyrfolk gone to? There were so many notions about that, including the one that had all the dragonriders and weyrfolk returning to where the Ancients had come from. If they had, then why had no one else come to Pern? Surely there would be interest in the dragons of Pern!
He barked his shin on the dragon’s couch and let out an exclamation, rubbing his leg. He heard in the ensuing silence the faint rustle of tunnel snakes making their way out, he hoped, of the weyr. He decided he’d gone far enough into the darkness of the weyr, and sat down on the raised stone. Unexpectedly, he sat in a shallow declivity and felt around in it. Obviously, large and heavy dragon bodies had formed depressions in the stone, and he ran daring fingers in the dust, as if he could conjure the creatures that had made the hollows. That, more than anything else, reassured him. He grinned, and rearranged his body, swinging his legs around so he was facing the faint light coming down the hall, the wallow accommodating his still slight frame while he could pillow his head on his arms on the outer edge. He must remember to thank Falloner for taking him around Benden Weyr. Fort might be empty of its people and creatures, but it was still a Weyr and one of the safest place
s on his world. He could smell dragon, and dust, but mostly dragon. He went to sleep listening to the faint rustlings of tunnel snakes, but he doubted they would dare venture where dragons had lain.
It did him no harm with all the other apprentices that he had to be wakened in the dusk preceding dawn by some loud shouting. When Robinton emerged on the weyr ledge, Shonagar urgently waved him down.
“Where you been, Rob? We gotta get back to the Hall before they know we’ve borrowed the runners. We’ve been all over looking for you.”
“It’s warm in a weyr,” Robinton said, yawning.
“Sorry to disturb your slumbers. Mount up. We’re going to have to move!” Shonagar had a respectful scowl on his face as he handed the initiate the reins. “And remember, not a word to the others. They gotta do it themselves, too.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Rob said, grinning.
“Just don’t let me hear you’ve warned ’em about anything, Robinton!” Shonagar repeated, balling his hand into a fist.
“No. I’ll obey.”
Of course, Robinton realized he wouldn’t actually tell them anything, but he’d show them the matches and tinder he’d put in their pockets.
As they cantered toward the tunnel, Robinton looked up at the Star Stones, immense black dolmens against a lightening eastern sky. He caught a flick of something and wondered if the ghosts of departed dragons still kept a watch on the heights. Looking again, he saw a wherry wheeling down, probably from its nest in one of the upper weyrs.
Robinton really liked being an apprentice. In this he astonished his roommates and the other twenty in his class. They would come to him for his advice and, often, comfort, and he’d help the slow ones with their lessons.
“Going to take over from me, Rob?” Shonagar asked him once.
“Me?” Rob grinned back. “You can keep the responsibility—for now. And I’m just one of them, so it’s easier for them to ask me because I’m handy and know the place, that’s all.”
The Masterharper of Pern Page 15
