“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.”