Masterharper of Pern (5 page)

“Petiron will push him too far and too fast . . .”

“Therefore we will lay the groundwork carefully, so that his father’s tuition will not be the sudden shock it could be.”

“I feel so . . . treacherous, going behind Petiron’s back like this,” Merelan said, “but I know what he’s like and Robie
loves
to make music. I don’t want that to be taken from him.”

Washell reached across and patted her nervously drumming fingers. “My dear, we can put Petiron’s single-mindedness to our advantage. I gather he has no idea that the boy has learned to pipe?”

Merelan shook her head.

“Right now, of course,” he went on, “he’s up to his inky fingers with Turnover music to write and the rehearsals and then the Spring Gathers, and I shall have a word with Gennell myself about this. If you permit?”

She nodded.

“Why, I do believe the entire Hall could be in on the secret education of our burgeoning young genius . . .”

“Genius?” Merelan’s hand went to her throat.

“Of course, Robinton’s a musical genius. Though I’ve never encountered one before in my decades here, I can certainly recognize one when I get the chance. Petiron’s
good,
but he is not quite in the same class as his son.”

“Oh!” The little exclamation she let slip before she guarded her mouth with her hand was far more eloquent than she intended.

“A child who can tootle that ridiculous little pipe into the sweetest tone and then produce rather sophisticated variations on a simple theme at three Turns
is,
unquestionably, a genius. And we must all protect him.”

“Oh! Protect him? Petiron’s not a monster, Washell . . .” She shook her head vigorously.

“No, of course, he isn’t, but he does have rather strong views about his competence and achievements. On the other hand, what else could he expect of a child from such a fine musical background, who is being raised in the Harper Hall with music all around him.”

“Not all the Hall children are musical by virtue of their environment,” Merelan said in a droll tone.

“But when one is, as your Robinton, there couldn’t be a better environment, and we shall see that the matter is handled as diplomatically and . . . kindly as possible. I give you my hand on that, Mastersinger Merelan.” He held it out and she took it gladly, the relief—and even her guilt at the promised subterfuge—easily read by Master Washell. “We’ll do no more than what the lad is able, and willing, to absorb. Ease him gently”—his thick fingers rippled descriptively—“into the discipline so that when”—and he clapped his hands together—“we suddenly discover that this five . . . maybe six-Turn-old lad is so musically inclined, why we can be as surprised and delighted as Petiron will be.”

“But won’t Petiron be at all suspicious when he discovers how much Robie already knows?”

Washell raised his arm in a broad gesture. “Why, the boy absorbed it from his parents, of course. Why would he not, with two such talented musicians?”

“Oh, come now, Washell. Petiron is scarcely stupid . . .”

“With musical scores and instruments all around . . . you’ll doubtless mention that you’ve heard him humming tunes now and then . . . on key. That you gave him the little pipe, and a drum, since he begged for them. Bosler will say he only thought to amuse the lad one afternoon while you were busy with rehearsing and taught him how to place his fingers on the gitar strings . . . It won’t be hard to get our Master Archivist to connive to teach the boy more than his letters . . . And we’ll all be so amazed that Petiron will have such a student to bring on. He’s always better with the quicker students, you know. They don’t try his patience the way the younger or slower ones do.” Thoroughly pleased with the plot he was spinning, Washell once more patted Merelan’s hands reassuringly. Then abruptly, he pulled the quartet sheet between them. “Beat it out one more time, Merelan, as I sing the bass line. You should—”

The door opened, and there were Petiron and Robinton.

“I really do think, Petiron, that you write some passages just to tease me,” she said. “And did you get the plate and pitcher safely down to Lorra, dear?”

“I did, Mother.”

“Well, then, off with you, Rob,” his father said, giving his son a slight push toward the other room. “That you should have any trouble with the tempi surprises me, Merri.”

“Because your scribbling is almost unreadable, Petiron,” Washell said firmly, his bass voice rumbling in mock rebuke. “See here?” His thick index finger pounded the culprit measure. “One can barely see the dot. No wonder Merelan was having difficulty with the beat when she couldn’t even see the dot after the half note. It’s clearly marked on my copy, but not on this.”

Petiron peered down at the offending score. “It is a little faint at that. Sing it for me.” And he gave her the upbeat.

Washell could not resist singing the bass line as Merelan faultlessly sang hers.

“You did help, Wash, thank you so much,” she said. “And thanks for bringing along the cake and klah.”

“My pleasure, Mastersinger.” Washell bowed, smiling benignly at both before he turned and left the room.

“Really, Merelan,” Petiron said, peering at the offending measure, “are you having headaches again?”

“No, love, but it was faint and I wasn’t expecting a hold just there. How did the rehearsals go? They sounded fine at this distance.”

He flumped himself down in the stuffed chair and hauled his feet up on the stool, heaving a sigh. “The usual problems. They seem to feel that a glance at the score when they hear me coming up the stairs is sufficient study, but toward the end, they were beginning to grasp the dynamics. Nice of Washell to rehearse with you.”

“Yes, he’s such a sweet person.”

“Washell?” Petiron regarded his spouse with some astonishment. “You know what the apprentices call him . . .”

“I know, but you have no need to repeat such a scurrilous title,” she said with a severe scowl. Petiron frowned. “A glass of wine?” she offered, going to the cabinet. “You look tired.”

“I am. Thank you, love.”

She poured two glasses. She needed one herself.

“I’ll join you.” Handing a full glass to him, she slipped to the arm of the seat and pulled his head to her shoulder. Really, in spite of his faults, she did love him most profoundly, especially for his devotion to and composition of music. Until Robie was born, their life together had been idyllic!

The one aspect that neither Washell nor Robie’s mother had considered was the child’s enthusiasm for things musical. They did not expect quite how swiftly and eagerly, over the next few months, he absorbed his lessons and learned how to play the various instruments. No sooner had Master Ogolly taught him musical notations and the value of the notes on the staff, signatures, clef, and measure, than young Robie jotted down the variations he had created on his first simple tunes.

Merelan had the hard job of suppressing such enthusiasm within their quarters, especially since Robie wanted to show his father what he was doing because he hoped his father might approve of him then.

“But Father lik’th muthic. He writ’th it, too,” Robie said plaintively. He still had trouble with his “s” sounds though he had extended his working vocabulary, as well as his musical aptitudes.

“That’s just it, my love.” Merelan hated herself for such hypocrisy. “He hears it all day long, has to cope with such stupid students and—”

“Am I thupid, Momma?”

“No, love, you are not the least bit stupid, but your father does need quiet and a rest from music when he’s here with us . . .”

“I gueth . . .” Robie said sadly.

“The Big Spring Gather is so important, and you know how hard your father is working on the new score . . .”

“Yeth, he ith.” Robie sighed.

“Can you smell the sweet cakes, dear?” she asked, grateful for that diversion.

Robie dutifully sniffed and a smile broke over his sad little face. “Do you think . . .” he began hopefully, brightening.

“You’ll never know until you ask Lorra, will you?” Merelan said, turning him toward the door. “And be sure to ask for enough for me and your father, love.”

Kubisa, who taught the youngsters from Fort Hold as well as the Harper and Healer Halls, allowed young Robie into her classes before his fourth Turn began.

“He’s well advanced as far as
wanting
to learn, Merelan,” the woman said. “I could wish half my class were at the same level, but I’ll give him little extra musical type things to do while the others are catching up.”

Then there was a morning when Kubisa brought a bloody-nosed, sobbing Robinton back to his mother for aid and comfort.

“Oh, Robie,” Merelan said, folding her weeping child in her arms while Kubisa busied herself getting a wet cloth to clean his face.

“They wuz hurtin’ him,” Robie sobbed.

“Hurting who?” Merelan asked, more of Kubisa than her son.

“I’ll say this for Robie, he may be young and small, but he knows who needs his protection.”

“Who needs it?” his mother asked, carefully mopping away the blood.

“The watch-wher,” Kubisa said.

Merelan paused, surprised and beginning to feel more pride than concern. The apprentices were not above sticking bright glows into the Harper Hall watch-wher’s lair to make the light-sensitive creature cry. Or throwing him noxious things, knowing the creature would eat just about anything that came within the range of its chain. Rob would always run and tell an adult if he saw such antics.

“Were they being mean to the poor beast again?”

Sniffling, he nodded his head up and down. “I made ’em stop, but one of ’em busted me one.”

“So I see,” his mother murmured.

“Some of the beastholder children who really ought to know better,” Kubisa said. “I’ll have a word with their parents, now that I’ve delivered Rob to you.” She patted his head. “I’d pick on someone my size, next time. Or better still, have your father teach you how to duck.”

Grinning, she left the apartment.

“I can teach you how to duck, my brave lad,” Merelan said, hugging him again, knowing that such training did not fall in Petiron’s scope of paternal duties. “I used to be able to beat some of my big brothers and cousins when I got going.”

“You?” Robie’s eyes widened at the very notion of his mother beating anything, much less big brothers and cousins.

So she gave him his first lesson in hand-to-hand combat, and showed him how best to head-butt an assailant. “It keeps you from having bloody noses, too, if you use your head in a fight.”

That daily respite of his hours with Kubisa gave Merelan a rest from constantly being alert to intervene between her son and his father. The subterfuge she had to practice was wearing on her nerves. However, she—and Kubisa—could at least honestly report Robie’s excellent conduct and progress in school.

“And you’re learning all the Teaching Ballads?” Petiron asked absently.

“Yes, and I can prove it.” Robinton wanted so desperately to please his father, but he never seemed able to, despite how hard he tried to be good, obedient, courteous, and, most of all, quiet.

Somewhat surprised at his son’s tone of voice, Petiron leaned back in his chair. With an indolent and supercilious wave of his hand, he indicated that Robie should perform.

Merelan held her breath, unable to think of a single thing to say to postpone Petiron’s discovery of his son’s talent.

Robie took a breath—properly, not gasping air into his lungs as so many novices did—and then launched into a note-perfect rendition of the Duty Song. Petiron did look a trifle surprised at the firmness of tone the boy projected in his treble voice. Petiron beat the time with one finger on the armrest but he listened with a much less disdainful expression on his face.

“That was well done, Robinton,” he said. “Now don’t think that learning one song is all you have to do. There’s a significant number, even for children, to be learned, word- and note-perfect. Continue as you have begun.”

Robinton beamed with pleasure, turning to his mother to see if she also agreed.

Merelan could barely keep from sobbing with relief as she came forward and tousled his hair. “You have done very well indeed, my love. I’m proud of you, too. Just as your father is.” She turned to Petiron for his reassurance, but he had already turned back to the apprentice scores he was correcting, oblivious to son and spouse.

Merelan had to clench her hands to her sides to keep from roaring at him for such a curt dismissal. There was so much more Petiron could have said. He could have mentioned that the boy was on pitch throughout, with good breath support and that his voice was actually very good. But she controlled her anger and took Robie, who couldn’t quite understand why he hadn’t pleased his father more, by the hand.

“We’ll just see,” she said in a firm, loud voice, “what Lorra might have as a reward for knowing
all
the verses and the tempi perfectly!”

When she slammed the door behind her, Petiron glanced over his shoulder, then went back to marking a very poorly executed apprentice lesson.

“Really, I wanted to . . .” Merelan’s fists were clenched as she paced about the small floor space in Lorra’s little office-sitting room off the main Hall kitchens. “I wanted to
kick
him.”

“Really?” Lorra recoiled a bit from her friend’s vehemence. She had taken one look at Merelan’s expression when she stalked into the kitchen and immediately assigned the two scullery girls to feed Robinton some of the freshly baked bubbly pies while she took the Mastersinger into her office. Lorra knew that Betrice was away from the Hall on a confinement, and she was rather complimented that Merelan would turn to her at all.

“I mean, I’ve heard third-year apprentices who couldn’t sing the Duty Song as well,” Merelan said, venting both anger and frustration as she pounded around the room. “Not a note wrong, not even a poorly timed breath. Why, the performance was excellent.”

“Petiron said that much, didn’t he?” Lorra asked, hoping to soothe the singer.

“Yes, but there was so much more he
could
have said. Robie sang splendidly, better than a lad of fourteen, and he’s barely four Turns! And Petiron acted as if it was no more than he expected of his son.”