But he was ready with Sebell’s suggestion the next time Nip eased himself into the harper’s study, followed closely enough by Sebell with food and drink for the man.
“I’ve someone you might like to train, Nip,” Robinton said.
“Huh?” Nip scowled. “I travel faster alone. And safer. Ah, thanks, Sebell, you’re remarkable in anticipation of my needs.” He bit into a meatroll and chewed while Robinton went on.
“I think you must at least assess young Traller as a possible apprentice,” Robinton said firmly.
“Oh, well, if you put it like that, I’ll give him a going over then.”
“It’s you or back to Keroon for him, because the Harper Hall can’t seem to put his . . . special . . . talents to good use. Weren’t you saying that you can only be in one place at a time? If I need an assistant, so do you.”
Nip gave him complete attention. “Sebell’s no lad . . .” He shook his head. “I’d hate to put someone in danger, and it’s dangerous up there in Fax’s.”
“More reason than ever for you to have an . . . assistant,” Sebell remarked pointedly.
Nip made a noise in his throat. “You mean ‘shadow,’ don’t you?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Sebell, who grinned back, quite willing to take the jibe as a compliment.
Robinton blinked and grinned, then laughed out loud, for there was a faint resemblance—the color and set of their eyes, the same dark hair almost to the whirls at the crown, and strong features, chin and nose—that spoke of their distant blood relationship. Sebell was now as tall as the MasterHarper and, over the Turns, had picked up some of Robinton’s mannerisms, as well. Their eyes met and they grinned with perfect understanding and mutual respect.
“Come along,” Robinton said, although it was late and the apprentices should have been asleep. “He’s probably drumming somewhere . . .”
“He’s outside,” Sebell said, indicating the hallway. “I found him in the drum tower stairwell, trying to see who was making such a late night entrance.”
“Well, now, that sounds promising,” Nip said and himself went to invite Traller into the room. The two stood regarding each other as warily as strange canines. “If you’ll pardon us, Robinton, Sebell,” Nip said after a long pause, and taking Traller by the shoulder, pushed ahead of him out the door.
The next morning Nip told Robinton to rename the boy “Tuck” and to designate him as an apprentice on special assignment.
“I told you he was a natural,” Robinton said a bit smugly.
Nip snorted. “He will be when I get through with him.” Then he grinned in his irrepressible fashion. “He’ll be good, too. Thanks, Rob. Oh, and he’s coming with me. I’ve got two Runnerbeasts ready and willing. Like any well brought up”—Nip smiled at that description being applied to Tuck—“Keroonian, he rides like a leech.” He paused again at the door. “And runs like the wind.”
Nip took turns with Tuck to deliver reports over the next two Turns. Then Tuck appeared unexpectedly late one night, grinning with delight when he had startled Robinton from reading Term reports on the current apprentices.
“Nip says that there’s something odd going on at Ruatha Hold.”
“Oh?” And Robinton was glad to find some distraction from the reports. He didn’t agree with some of them, and it always annoyed him when some of his favorite “sons” did not measure up to the high standards he wanted them to achieve.
“Well, it seems that it’s not prospering. There’ve been four stewards, and each one has failed to extract any profit from the Hold.” Tuck grinned. “It’s as if every attempt fails, some way or another. And Fax’s not known to be pleased with any sort of failure.”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting. A kind of subtle rebellion?”
Tuck gave the sort of snort that Nip affected. “With that bunch of drudges? They’re the most useless bunch of incompetents I’ve seen. And since I’ve been north—” He gestured with a thumb. “—I’ve seen every sort of way to avoid hard work that’s been invented. And then some. The only jobs that get done in a halfway decent fashion are helped along by an overseer with a whip standing over the workers. Fax has only so many men and too many holdings.” He grinned broadly. “Though his supply of metal-knotted whips seems inexhaustible.”
“ ‘One hold, one holder’ is a good adage to remember,” Robinton said sententiously.
“To be sure.” Tuck glided past that. “Nip specially said to tell you about Ruatha.”
“What could be happening there?” Robinton asked, more or less rhetorically. “If there is no one able to foment trouble, is it trouble, or pure carelessness on the stewards’ parts?”
Tuck shrugged his shoulders. He had grown into a wiry man, not much taller than his companion. He might practice being nondescript, but he hadn’t quite the knack Nip had and could never disguise the bright, interested gaze of his dark eyes.
“But there’s something there. Sort of—” He tilted his hand sideways in a gesture he had obviously learned from close association with Nip. “—a general uneasiness. Like something watching all the time. Only who’d watch? And what are they watching?”
“I should take a—”
“No, you shouldn’t” Tuck held up a hand. “Harper blue is a target for any of Fax’s soldiery. I don’t say the best is at Ruatha, but you’re not to risk your neck . . . Master Robinton.” He added the title as a respectful afterthought. “Bargen’s increased his activities in High Reaches, by the way, now that he has more folk in the Weyr.”
“He’s being careful, isn’t he?”
“Bargen’s so careful he’s womanish,” Tuck said with disgust. Then he sighed. “Of course, he wants to stay alive long enough to take High Reaches Hold back. So no one really minds when he sends them out to do what he plans. And he’s pretty good at making trouble.”
“Without embroiling others?”
“They’d rather do something, Master Robinton, than nothing,” Tuck said. “They’ve got some pride left, you know.”
Robinton nodded.
“Isn’t the Benden clutch about to hatch?” Tuck asked.
“Soon. Jora’s dead.” Robinton had had the details from a letter sent to Master Oldive by Lord Raid’s journeyman healer, who had been brought by R’gul to try to keep the weyrwoman alive. Remembering how Jora had gorged herself at the Impression Feast—and that had been Turns ago now—he had no trouble believing that the woman had died of overeating. The healer had been appalled at the state she was in and had agreed that she should be interred between.
“I heard the drums, but did I hear correctly that the queen did produce a gold egg?” Tuck cocked his head hopefully and Robinton nodded. “That’s pulling up pretty close, isn’t it?” Robinton nodded again, and Tuck asked, “You’ll be going to the Impression?”
“I hope to.” Robinton wasn’t sure that any invitations were going out from the Weyr, but that didn’t mean that a Craftmaster could be excluded. There had been few enough clutches and Impressions since S’loner had died.
“Nemorth’ll last?” Tuck’s expression was anxious.
“Probably. At least that’s my reading of queen dragon behavior. Even without her rider, Nemorth will try to last until her clutch hatches.”
“D’you think the next weyrwoman will be an improvement on Jora?”
Robinton gave a snort. “I don’t see how any woman could be worse.”
“Then the riders’ll be on Search, won’t they?”
“I would presume so.”
Tuck was the one to nod now. “I’d best go.”
“Where to?”
“I’m to meet him”—which always meant Nip—“at High Reaches. Fax is there, preparing”—he grimaced—“to go on one of his ‘tours.’ ”
“Tours?”
“Inspections, to find out why he isn’t getting what he expects out of his holdings.”
“I wish him luck,” Robinton said drolly.
“Not him, the poor unfortunates he’ll be beating u
p.” Then Tuck was out the door.
Over the next few days, Robinton had a feeling of imminence, of something impending. He was not surprised then to have Sebell escort a runner, mud-spattered and exhausted, into his office. He was stunned by the message.
“Tuck says you’d better come, Master Robinton.”
“Come where?” Robinton had been on his feet the instant he saw Sebell’s companion. Master and journeyman helped the man to a chair, and then Sebell poured him wine.
“Fax has left . . . for Ruatha Hold. Dragonriders . . . with him.”
“At Ruatha? Dragonriders? With him?”
The runner nodded, sipping the wine. “On Search.” And he grimaced. “Takes guts . . . to go to the . . . High Reaches.”
Robinton was amazed. “Who?”
The runner shook his head. “You’re to do a Nip and Tuck, he said.”
“How much time do I have?” Robinton asked, waving aside the objections he could see Sebell about to utter.
“Fax is forcing his march. You’d best be in place.”
“Hmmm, yes, I had, hadn’t I?” Robinton felt a surge of wild excitement and sighed with relief. He ignored the pointed anxiety on Sebell’s face. “Take care of him, will you, Sebell?”
And Robinton bolted down the steps to Silvina’s rooms.
“I’ll need rough clothing, suitable for a drudge,” he told her.
“And what are you up to?” she demanded, hands on her hips as she glared up at him.
“Now, don’t you start on me, too,” he warned, far more sharply than he intended, and pointed to the keys on her belt. “I have to look the part.”
“If you think you can do a Nip, you’re gone in the head, Rob. Send Sebell for you.”
“No, not Sebell,” Robinton said angrily. “I won’t risk him.”
“But you will yourself?” she complained as she reluctantly led the way down to the storage rooms. “How can you possibly disguise your height?” she demanded, trying another tack to dissuade him.
He immediately pulled in his shoulders, scrunched down, and with one hand bouncing loosely, affected a hobbly gait.
“A limp might even be better,” she said after a moment’s observation. “Hmmm. As if you’d been kicked by a boot in the wrong place.” Then she sighed in surrender.
By the time Sebell joined them—a look at his Master’s face and Sebell kept his objections to himself—the two had found appropriately ragged clothing for Robinton to wear. Even Sebell had to agree that, once Robinton assumed his odd stance and gait, he no longer resembled the tall, dignified MasterHarper of Pern.
“If you’ve time, I can cure them in the midden,” Silvina suggested helpfully, but her eyes gleamed with mischief.
Sebell began to chuckle at Robinton’s expressive shudder and was caught off balance when Robinton thrust the clothing into his hands and told him to see to it.
“The smell will undoubtedly keep others from examining me at too close range,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Now, while I’m away, Sebell, you’ll tell everyone that I’ve caught a fever and keep them out of my rooms.”
Sebell nodded, though he was clearly unhappy with his Master involved in such a subterfuge. Still, he knew when to keep his comments to himself.
Robinton waited until he got to the Red River before he put on his disguise. Black had sidled away from the saddle pack holding the reeking clothes. He left the runnerbeast with the border guards and warned them to be extra vigilant.
From there Robinton made his discreet way to the beasthold at Ruatha to discover that there weren’t but two sorry-looking milch animals to be cared for. He was looking around the beasthold in dismay when a wing of dragons appeared midair and a frightened man came running so fast he was in danger of tripping over himself as he shrieked his message at the top of his lungs:
“Dragonriders, and Fax comes. Dragonriders . . .” Still yelling, he disappeared into the Hold.
In his guise of a witless drudge, Robinton could come out to stare up at the amazing sight of a full wing of dragons, some of whom had the remnants of flame still trickling beyond their muzzles, appearing in Ruathan skies. One after another, they bugled. They sounded surprised, he thought. As the dragons wheeled to come in for a landing, he spotted a blue who had to be Tagath. That confirmed his suspicion that this was F’lar’s wing, after all. Searching at the High Reaches would take the nerve of F’lon’s son. Maybe he could get a word with C’gan somehow. Maybe even get a chance to meet the adult F’lar at long last. He wondered if R’gul had authorized the Search in this area. Somehow he doubted it. Then he put his mind to the pressures of this moment.
A witless drudge would be terrified and rush to find shelter from such a frightening sight, he thought, and he shambled as fast as his assumed limp would allow him to join the other drudges milling about the courtyard.
The Warder, his face ghastly, appeared on the steps to verify the message and then started yelling conflicting orders at those nearby, grabbing the nearest drudge and propelling him toward the Hold.
“We must prepare. We must do something! There has to be food! There has to be order in this Hold . . . and you are going . . . to . . . work your nuts off!” Each pause was to allow him to kick or shove some ragged body into the Hold.
Robinton managed to evade the full force of the kick aimed at him, but he went willingly into the Hold. There he paused briefly in dismay at the sight of the once beautiful entrance hall and the main Hall seen past the broken-hinged double doors that led to it. Then someone bumped into him, and that restored him to his character.
An old woman struggled to hand out brooms and mops; another shaggy-haired drudge distributed other cleaning equipment. They were herded up the steps to sweep and ready rooms that had not been used, to judge by the appalling condition of them, since the massacre. He was pushed into a room that had obviously had its window left open for Turns: leaves, branches, and dirt were piled like snowdrifts in the corners. The hearth held ashes that had hardened into rock. The bedding was soiled and damp and would have to be discarded. Though what would be available to take its place, Robinton didn’t know. Nor was a single cleaning going to do much more than loosen the surface layer of dirt thickly caking the bare floor. The steward raced from one room to another, yelling for haste, for more clean water, for more effort from each and every drudge, bestowing kicks where he felt the cleaners faltered. How any steward worth his mark could have allowed the once graceful Hold to fall into such desuetude, Robinton could not understand. Even a monthly sweeping would have kept this room habitable.
He did manage to clean the floor before Fax and his entourage arrived. Then he was hauled by the scruff of his neck out into the hall and sent down to help stable Fax’s runnerbeast.
The main Hall had survived the concerted attack by the drudges, and looked slightly better. There were damp spots here and there, and no one had been able to reach the crawlers or their filmy webs, which hung in tatters from the ceiling. There was huge confusion, yells, shrieks, and the excited barking of the spit canines coming from the kitchen, and Robinton was just as happy to be sent to care for the runnerbeasts. He just hoped that someone had cleaned up the beasthold.
He saw Fax scowling fiercely, beating his boot with a heavy baton-whip. He saw Lady Gemma, great with child, being lifted off her mount by two of Fax’s strongest men. He could see her wincing, although the men were handling her with great care. Several of the ladies in this very mixed group rushed to her assistance once she was on the ground, supporting her as she waddled up the steps and into the Hold. He felt immense pity for her, hoped that the quarters she was to inhabit had been in better condition than the one he had tried to clean. Was Fax trying to kill the woman? Probably, if some of Nip’s earlier reports bore any truth—and they undoubtedly did.
Robinton was prodded to take several beasts at once, which was awkward, given the infirmities he was affecting. Two of Fax’s bullies came along to oversee him and the other hastily orga
nized drudges who were to tend to the mounts. Ruathan bred, Robinton thought drolly, come back full circle. The two milch beasts that had inhabited the Hold were gone. Probably they were what was being offered the Lord Holder tonight and would be tough as old boots.
He did no more than the others, despite being cuffed and kicked to “do a proper job of it.” Although he knew very well that the drudges in the Harper Hall and Fort Hold were well cared for, he discovered a heretofore unexpected sympathy for those whom life had deprived of the wit or energy to achieve more than such lowly positions. He felt sorry for the tired runnerbeasts, though he was almost as tired as they before he and the others were given sickles and sent to cut fresh fodder. His limp and his groans were heartfelt by now. With nothing to eat so far this long day . . . and if what he suspected were true, there was unlikely to be enough food in the Hold to feed the visitors, much less the residents. He wondered if the dragonriders had brought their own provisions. And how was he to reach C’gan if he spent the entire livelong day drudging? It was too bad that he had never established as much of a contact with Tagath as he had had with Simanith.
When the armsmen finally allowed that the beasts had been properly cared for, Robinton followed the other five men back to the Hold. They were muttering about their expectations of food. Darkness had set in, and as an additional mark of the poverty of the Hold, the glowbaskets gave glum illumination.
“Bread, if we’re lucky,” one said, trudging along.
“When’s luck got anythin’ to do wiv us?” another demanded. “I’d be anywheres but here.”
“Yes, always the gripe, never the go,” the first one said. “Who’re you?” he suddenly asked Robinton, peering up at him.
“Came wiv dem,” the MasterHarper said, jerking a thumb at the soldiers striding along in front of them. He wanted to straighten up, to relieve the ache in his back, but doubted it would help and besides, he daren’t unbend. He was still a good head taller than his erstwhile companions.
Masterharper of Pern Page 42
