“We’ve steaming and roasting pits on the beach,” Jaxom said, “to use when there’s a horde here.”
The Harper laughed, agreed that horde was probably the proper term.
“Try your chair,” Fandarel said, striding to the armed chair when they returned to the main room. He turned it about for the Harper to see. “Bendarek made it exactly to your measure. See if it suits? Bendarek will be anxious to hear.”
The Harper took time to examine the beautifully carved, high-backed chair, covered with wherhide dyed a deep harper blue. He sat down, put his hands along the armrests, found they were precisely the length of his forearm, and that the seat of the chair admirably fit his long legs and torso.
“It is beautiful, tell Master Bendarek. And a perfect size. How considerate Bendarek is. How overwhelmed I am by this and every other single item in this Hold. It is … magnificent. That’s the only word for it. I’m speechless. Rendered completely speechless. Never in my wildest flights of fancy did I expect such luxury in unexplored wilds, such beauty, such thoughtfulness, such comfort.”
“If you’re speechless, Robinton, spare us your eloquence,” came a dry voice. All turned to see the Masterfisherman standing in the open main door.
Everyone laughed, and Master Idarolan was beckoned forward and given a cup of wine.
“There are more bundles for you, Master Robinton,” the Seaman said, gesturing toward the porch.
“You and your crew are to eat with us. Master Idarolan,” Lessa called out.
“I was hoping so. Don’t noise it about, but occasionally I do get the craving for red meat, not white.”
“Master Robinton! Look here!” Menolly’s voice was high with surprise. She was looking inside one of the cabinets that lined the walls between windows. “I’d swear it’s Dermently’s hand! And every single Traditional song and ballad, newly written on leaves and bound in blue wherhide! Just what you’ve been wanting to have Arnor do for you.”
The Harper exclaimed with surprise and nothing would do but he had to open each folder and appreciate the craftsmanship and collection. Then he began to investigate all the cupboards and presses of Cove Hold until the midafternoon heat drove everyone to the beach to swim and cool off. Brekke fretted that the Harper should rest, quietly by himself, but Fandarel dismissed the notion, gesturing to Robinton, who was sporting in the water with the others.
“He is indulging in another type of rest right now. Leave him. Night’s soon enough for sleeping!” .
The evening breezes sprang up as the sun dipped closer to the western horizon. Rugs and woven mats as well as benches were brought out so that all the guests could be comfortable. When F’lar and F’nor arrived, they were enthusiastically welcomed by the Harper, who wanted to show them his beautiful Hold and was somewhat disappointed that they were already quite familiar with it.
“You forget how many people helped build it, Robinton,” F’lar said. “It’s probably the best known Hold on the entire world.”
At that moment Sharra and the ship’s cook-a thin man because that’s the only sort, he told her, who could fit in the closet-sized excuse for a galley on the Dawn Sister-proclaimed that the feast was ready and were nearly run down by the hungry guests.
When no one could eat another morsel and even the Harper was reduced to small sips of wine, the guests settled into smaller groups: Jaxom, Piemur, Menolly and Sharra in one, the seamen in the largest, and the dragonriders and craftsmen in the third.
“I wonder what they’re plotting for us to do now,” Piemur said in a sour mutter after staring at the intense expressions of the third group.
Menolly laughed. “More of the same, I expect. Robinton’s been going over those charts and reports of yours on shipboard until I thought he’d wear the ink out from looking.” She pulled her knees up under her chin, a shy smile lighting her eyes. “Sebell’s coming tomorrow with N’ton and Master Oldive.” She went on quickly, before anyone could comment: “As I understand it, Sebell, N’ton and F’lar are overseeing Toric’s people and that herd of holders’ sons coming from the North. They’ll chart the western part …the dividing line is that black rock river of yours, Piemur!”