'I would be willing,' Robinton said, though his throat had gone dry.
'It is the unanimous...' Jerint paused to be sure Robinton appreciated that '... decision of all the Masters of this Craft that you accept this position and all its honours, privileges, prerogatives and ... all that hard work!' He stepped forward, gripping Robinton's hand in his and shaking it hard. 'I bless the Egg that it's you, Rob!'
'Who else?' Ogolly demanded, taking his turn to pump the hand of the newly appointed MasterHarper of the Craft. 'Who else, dear boy? Who else? Merelan would be so -' Ogolly's eyes teared up and his voice cracked, but he went on '– so very, very proud of you right now.'
Robinton, gripping Ogolly's hand, felt his throat close in response to the mention of his beloved mother. 'She would, she would.'
'She always said you would be Master,' Silvina said. She threw her arms about Robinton's neck to kiss him soundly. 'Mother'll be so happy, Rob. So happy. The day you were born, she said she knew you were destined for great things.'
'Petiron helped take the count, Rob,' Jerint put in, and there was a wicked sparkle in his eyes.
'He's proud of you, too, Robinton ...' Ogolly said quite solemnly. 'Really, he is.'
Robinton only nodded. Silvina, busy at one of the cupboards, produced glasses and a wine-skin, which she held out to Robinton so that he could see the label.
'Benden?' he exclaimed.
'Gennell ordered in a supply just for today!' she said. 'I've kept it safe,' she added, casting a reproving glare at Jerint, 'so open this skin. There'll be enough to get every last one of you legless tonight.'
Robinton was still hung over the next morning when he entered the office of the MasterHarper. He stopped when he saw there was someone waiting: Petiron. His father had not been backward in toasting and drinking the health of the new MasterHarper the previous night, a fact of which Robinton had taken wary note.
'As one of your first duties as MasterHarper, Robinton, I wish you will assign me to a post,' his father said in a stiff and formal tone. 'I think you will do well in this office. I wish you the best, but I feel that my presence here in the Hall might cause you embarrassment...'
'Really ... Father ...' Robinton mentally berated himself that the unused title came out so awkwardly.
Petiron gave a little smile, as if that hesitation was proof enough of his contention. 'I think it would be easier for you to assume your responsibilities without ... feeling ... well, that I might not agree.'
Robinton caught his father's eyes and slowly nodded. 'That is considerate, most considerate, but hardly necessary ...
'I insist,' Petiron said, raising his chin in a stubborn pose his son knew all too well.
'There aren't any major Holds ...'
'I would prefer a minor one--'
'You are a Master and as such deserve--'
'What I ask for.'
'But you have that fine new apprentice – Domick? I thought you were very pleased with his progress.'
Petiron gave a snort and dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. 'That young man thinks he knows everything. You can have the pleasure of dealing with him.'
Robinton managed not to grin. He had heard about the fine rows his father had with Domick, arguing chromatic variations, and he rather thought Petiron might have met his match.
'I just thought that ...' he tried again.
'Well, you thought wrong. What contracts are available?' And Petiron held out his hand, all but snapping his fingers at his son to speed him up.
Robinton stepped round to the front of the desk where messages were piled in order and by subject. For the last few weeks of his life, Gennell had kept Robinton up to date on all Hall matters, so he knew which pile contained the requests for harpers. He picked it up and handed it to Petiron.
'See if one of these suits,' he said, acquiescing to the inevitable.
In a way, he was relieved. He would indeed feel a slight inhibition that his father might question some of the decisions he would have to make – especially as Petiron had widely opposite notions about the imminence of Threadfall and what fourth-turn composition apprentices had to learn even if they were unlikely ever to have to teach theory and composition. It would be easier if Petiron were not here.
'I have made it quite clear to my peers that this is my choice, Robinton, and none of your doing,' said Petiron, picking out one message and handing it to his son. 'This one will suit me.'
Robinton looked at it and blinked. 'Half Circle SeaHold? Father, you can't! It's the back end of nowhere. I've been there. The only ways in are by sea or dragonback.'
'Still, it is right on Nerat Bay, and any halfway decent captain can get me there. They haven't had a harper in six turns. There'll be a lot of work to remedy that sort of neglect. You are so determined that everyone shall know the Teaching Ballads: here's a challenge for me.'
'But there are holds in Keroon, and that one on the Telgar River...'
'I have chosen Half Circle SeaHold. Do not deny me, Robinton.'
'Please consider another,' Robinton insisted, worried about the degree of isolation afforded by Half Circle SeaHold.
'I have chosen, MasterHarper.' With that, Petiron made a formal bow and left the office.
'By the Egg!' Robinton flopped down into the comfortable chair which Gennell had occupied and wondered if he would ever fit in it as well as the dear old man had hoped. He had already made – or had made for him – his first official decision. He devoutly hoped it was the right one.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Many of Robinton's duties that Turn were simply to keep the ordinary daily doings of the Harper Hall going smoothly, accepting new apprentices, conferring journeyman status on those qualifying, and confirming one Master: lerint, who took over from the frail Gorazde.
F'lon was ecstatic with his friend's rise to the MasterHarpership and would come at the roll of a drum message to take him to any Hold or Hall that required the presence of the MasterHarper.
Robinton often availed himself of that courtesy since, in his role as mediator, he did a great deal of travelling. Sometimes it was the hope that he'd find a new candidate for the Harper Hall, recommended by the youngster's harper. But only one girl singer was brought to his attention and her parents felt she was too young, yet, to be away from home. She was sixteen, with a sweet voice he felt could be trained up, but she also had a young lad from the next hold whom she was keen to espouse. Singing was second best.
Then there were his necessary appearances at Gathers and the once-a-Turn Conclave to which Fax was never invited and where his name was never mentioned, even when Robinton, Melongel or Tarathel tried to initiate a discussion about the man's totally illegal usurpation of power.
'Why do you fuss so?' the grumpy, aged Lord Holder of Igen demanded. His face was a sea of lines, graven by squinting all his life at the hot sun over his Hold. 'Fax is, I do believe, a nephew of old Faroguy and if his sons...'
'Farovene was killed...'
'Yes, yes, so everyone says, but Fax is of the Hold's Bloodline and if the other one... whatever his name was...'
'Is,' Robinton said firmly, 'Bargen...'
'Bargem then, can't stomach a challenge duel, eh? Then he isn't the sort of Lord his holders will follow, is he?' And when Melongel started to protest, Tesner of Igen interrupted him. 'Ever think that Faroguy wanted a stronger man in his Hold? Huh? Ever think Fax might have been told by Faroguy to take Hold?'
No one had an answer for that, even Robinton, though he tried desperately to think of a diplomatic way of expressing his deep and instinctive distrust and anxiety over Fax's aggressiveness. There had been that time, close to Robinton's espousal to Kasia, when Melongel had wondered if the drum messages, purported to be sent by Faroguy, had really originated with the old Lord. Robinton did keep F'lon from speaking in his blunt way lest the Weyrleader antagonize the Lord Holders.
'Why'd you do that?' F'lon growled at Robinton. 'At least we had them on the subject.'
'There's an old maxim – 'A man convinced against his will is of his own opinion still.'' Robinton sighed, shaking his head. 'We'll have to wait until Fax moves again.'
'Or the next Pass starts!' F'lon said bitterly. 'Then it'll be too late !'
