The Master Harper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  "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 MasterHarpers 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 hide 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 his father, who recoiled from Merelan's 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 towards 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 or 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 appeared.

  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-Turn 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 behaviour 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 amiability stood him in good stead as he settled in with the others. Grodon was terribly homesick the first seven-day, 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.

  Robie 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 for 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 of the side door on the Hold side of the Hall. There were five runner beasts 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 which 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 had 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 towards the black maw of the living quarters which 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 Cavern, 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 that 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 room-mates 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 it was why they didn't all 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 odour that was so "dragony'.

  Where had the weyrfolk gone to? There were so many notions about that: including the one which 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. In the ensuing silence he heard 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, 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 which had made the hollows. That, more than anything else, reassured him. He grinned and rearranged his body, swinging his legs round so that 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 places 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 have you been, Rob? We gotta get back to the Hall before they know we've borrowed the runners. We've been all over the place 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 must 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, bailing 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 towards 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 room-mates 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."

  Tor all of that, you've not had it that easy," Shonagar said with a wry smile. They'd just finished a long rehearsal for the Turn's End concert: Rob, as usual, was singing the solo treble parts.

  Halanna and Maizella were also soloists, but though Petiron remarked favourably on their performances, he had not so much as a nod for his son. The apprentices, being as astute as they were, did not fail to notice this. But if any complained, he'd shrug and remark that his father expected him to be note-perfect.

  His mother kept up his vocal training, and he had now graduated to apprentice classes. He particularly enjoyed his stint in the Drum Tower, because at last he got to learn the meaning of the codes he had been hearing all his life. Like everyone else, he knew that the initial beats indicated the final destination of the message and who had sent it, but it took time to get the sense of the actual message.

  In fact, he was on duty the day Feyrith, Carola's queen, produced her final clutch – though no one knew at the time that it would be her last. The best news was that there was a queen egg, and the drum message added the extra beats for excitement and major news. A large clutch, too, with nine bronzes.

  Robinton spent a few seven-days hoping that there would be a Search and he'd be found acceptable, and become a harper-dragonrider.

  But no dragons came on Search to Fort Hold or the Harper Hall, and no other Hold reported the arrival of dragons looking for candidates. Robinton was bitterly disappointed. He had been so sure that the dragons liked him. Didn't they like him enough to come and find him?

  For fear of being ridiculed, he didn't tell anyone about his thwarted desire. He did ask a few questions of his Masters, in case they knew how Searches were conducted, but the answers he got did nothing to assuage his anxiety or hopes. "That's always up to the Weyr, lad," or "Who knows what's in dragon minds?" "Sometimes the dragons don't Search. Don't need to. Didn't you tell me there were lots of lads your age at Benden Weyr?" Which was true enough, but it still didn't keep him from searching the skies for a dragon, in case he could get one to speak to him. His distraction was noticed in class, and he was given extra duties to encourage him to "pay proper attention to your lessons and stop daydreaming'. He had time, while sweeping down the main court, to see the folly of his disappointment.

  He was on Drum Tower duty again when the news of the

  Hatching came in. Swallowing the final vestige of his own disappointment, Robinton just had to find out if Falloner had been Impressed. After all, Falloner had a real right to be Impressed.

  Greatly daring, he asked permission of the journeyman in charge of the tower to find out.

  "You see, I met a couple of the possible candidates. Falloner, he's the weyrling who was at the Hold for Mother to teach." Robinton was not above using what he needed to get to do something as important as this, and he knew that the journeyman liked his mother. "I know she'd like to know if Falloner Impressed..." He let his voice trail off.

  "Oh, go ahead," the journeyman said with a smile. "Only keep it short."

  Robinton worked out the message and the non-urgent coding, got approval, and beat it out himself. He hoped he'd hear back before his duty ended. But he didn't.

  That evening, however, the journeyman sought him out at dinner and gave him a slip of hide and a wink.

  Robinton could barely restrain his hurrah! Falloner had Impressed a bronze. So had Rangul and Sellel – though that draconic choice surprised Robinton – and six others whose names he recognized from his visits to the Weyr. The WeaverCraftHall lad from High Reaches, Lytonal, was now L'tol and rode brown Larth.

  He caught his mother on her way to evening rehearsal and told her.

  "I suspected that young rascal would make bronze," she said.

  "And Rangul. Nine bronzes is a good clutch. A queen egg is even better. It may well be that S'loner is right, after all." She hurried away then without explaining her last cryptic remark.

  Robinton wondered if Falloner, now F'lon, would remember his promise to him – that he'd come to
the Harper Hall on his bronze so that Robinton could meet him. Wouldn't his dorm-mates be amazed! It was a fun thing to think about, but Robinton rather thought that F'lom now being above a mere Harper Hall apprentice, might not consider he had to honour that promise. Anyway, it took a while for a dragonet to learn to fly.

  He did his lessons in the Archives with everyone else, but mostly he copied special files for Master Ogolly, since he was the fastest and most accurate of them all. He had already made some instruments that had received the Harper mark, which allowed his work to be sold at Gathers. Now he learned how to repair broken frets and stems, and drum frames, and to string harps and gitars and do fine marquetry. He was content in a way he had never known before, away from the tension which had become so stressful in his parents' rooms. His mother, too, smiled more frequently at the head tables or during her lessons with him. So his departure had indeed made life easier for her.

  His treble voice lasted until the growth spurt in his thirteenth summer when his body, as well as his throat and speaking equipment, altered dramatically. He and his mother were rehearsing a Solstice duet when suddenly his voice made a dramatic octave drop.

  "Well now, that's that, I guess, dear," she said, resting her arm on the crook of her gitar. "Now, love, it isn't really the end of the world, though I daresay your father will be annoyed to have to make changes in the soloist so close to Solstice. Your voice won't last until then."

  "But who'll -' and in his dismay, Robie's voice broke again "– sing it with you?"

  "Recall that delicate-looking blond lad from Tillek who auditioned last week?" Merelan raised her eyebrows in a droll fashion.

  "He's not the musician you are, and I'll have to work him hard, but he has the range, if not your skill and experience."

  "What's Father going to say?" Robinton asked fretfully. He really didn't want to be around to hear.

  Merelan chuckled. "He'll consider that you did this on purpose, of course, to disarrange his concert. He'll rant a bit about you letting him down at a critical time, and then require me to take the lad on for special sessions." She regarded her son with a tilt to her head and an affectionate smile. "You'll probably end up a baritone, you know. You've the right facial structure. And your father's a baritone."