"Oh?"
Gennell shifted in his chair, clasping his stiff, knotted fingers across his increasing paunch. He tilted his head to one side, observing Robinton for such a long moment that, in spite of himself, Robinton shifted at such scrutiny.
"I've had a purpose in sending you here and there, to every major Hold and Hall on pern."
"Really!" With great difficulty, Robinton kept curiosity out of his response. But it was hard.
"Yes, I'm growing old, Rob, and I've to look for a replacement. Of course all the MasterHarpers vote as their conscience dictates, but I've made my wish clear. You!"
Robinton stared at his old friend. He hadn't expected that.
"You'll be around a long time yet, Gennell," he said with a laugh which died when he saw the expression on Gennell's face.
"No, I think not," the MasterHarper said. "What with this joint-ail and no Betrice to fuss' – Gennell smiled fondly at the thought of his spouse – "the heart's gone out of me. I may call for the
election and spend my remaining time on a warm beach in Ista." "Now, wait a minute, Gennell, I'm much too young ...
"The Hall must have someone young and vigorous as MasterHarper, Rob." Gennell's manner turned resolute, as well as anxious. "Now more than ever before. I can't leave the CraftHall without someone who appreciates the threat Fax poses to the entire world. I must know that other holds will not suffer the same future that High Reaches and now Crom are facing: illiteracy and oppression." Watching intently, Robinton could see clearly how age and infirmity were hampering the once brisk and energetic MasterHarper. "And someone," Gennell continued, pointing a gnarled forefinger at the seated harper, "who believes, as I do, that Thread will return to menace the land." He wearily brushed back
thinning hair. "I don't know what the Weyr is going to do, but it is our beholden duty as harpers to support Benden in any way we can.
Your going there as a child, and as a journeyman, has given you an admirable contact in F'lon. He's making himself a shade unpopular with some of the Lord Holders. If you could give him some advice ..."
"Which F'lon's not likely to take from anyone. Including me," Robinton said sourly.
"I think you underestimate your influence on him, Rob," Gennell said; he sank heavily into his chair again, grimacing at the pain.
"And I think you've more influence throughout the land now than you may realize. Are you still able to talk to dragons?"
Robinton nodded. "Simanith, at any rate. I suspect that's only because of F'lon. Not that our conversations are anything to write ballads about."
Gennell waggled a finger at him. "It's more than most non-weyrfolk ever have."
"That's true enough."
Gennell smiled briefly. "Nip reports that of all the harpers, you're one that even the Hall's worst critics will accept."
"Except in the High Reaches."
"Fax will overstep himself. That sort of man always does. There've been others like him before; there will be more like him in the future. When we live by the Charter, everyone prospers. When it is abrogated, the whole continent suffers."
Robinton nodded in complete agreement, though the prospect of trying to ensure that the Charter was obeyed was daunting. Especially in the face of Fax's active aggression.
"So, Master Robinton, I have named you my choice of successor."
Robinton demurred, muttering about his youth and the fact that there were plenty of men who would be more logical choices.
"None of them wants the job," Gennell said with grim humour.
"Minnarden strongly urged me to consider you, as did Evarel, and certainly I've had support from all the resident Masters."
"Including ... Petiron?" Robinton asked, grinning.
"Oddly enough, yes. Oh, I doubt he would have suggested you, but he did not oppose the selection."
That did surprise Robinton.
"I admit that I got the position more by default than ambition," Gennell said with a hearty chuckle. "I have served the Hall to the best of my ability ..." Robinton concurred: Gennell was exceedingly popular as MasterHarper. The old Master went on: "I shouldn't care to take on the responsibilities of dealing with Fax, much less Thread."
"You're too kind," Robinton murmured ironically.
"I've had you marked as my successor from the moment I saw you talking to the dragons. Do you remember that day?"
Robinton nodded; that had been one of the high points of his childhood. Once F'lon had mentioned that dragons were whimsical about talking to non-weyrfolk. Sometimes they would. More often they would not. F'lon had added with one of his mischievous smiles, "The dragons do like you, Rob." But Robinton had thought that was a secret between himself, the dragons and their riders.
"I didn't realize that anyone was watching."
Gennell grinned. "I've watched you from the moment your mother told me you were piping variations on a theme."
"Have I ever thanked you, Gennell, for all you've done for me?" There was no irony in Robinton's voice now.
"Pssst." Gennell dismissed the matter with a flick of his fingers.
"I was your MasterHarper then, as I am now. Be a good Master to all within this Hall and I am doubly repaid. Do not let a tyrant like Fax still the voices of any more harpers."
To that Robinton swore purpose and loyalty.
"Did you hear the drum message this morning?" Gennell asked in a complete change of subject.
"Yes." Robinton smiled. "A new baby at Ruatha Hold. A girl, small but healthy."
Two days later, both Robinton and Gennell were called to Fort Hold. Lord Grogellan had refused the advice of MasterHealer Ginia, her very capable young journeyman Oldive, and the Hold's healer. He would not allow them to attempt surgery.
"Talk some sense into him, can you, Gennell?" Ginia said, her face red with frustration. "I've done this operation – so has Oldive – and it takes but minutes. If we can't remove the inflamed appendix, he will die from a poisoning of his system."
"You can't cut into him," Lady Winalia said, weeping. "You can't. That's barbaric."
Ginia shook her head. "It is not. It's as simple as removing infected tonsils from a throat, and you permitted me to do that for your children."
"Lord Grogellan will not have his body violated, mutilated ..." Lady Winalia shuddered with repugnance, her expression stubborn. "His person cannot be carved like an animal!"
"Mother, if it's a question of his life ..." said Groghe, trying to reason with his parent. "I saw it done at Tillek, didn't I, Rob?"
Robinton nodded. "Clostan performed it on a seaman taken with terrible belly pain. He was back on his ship the next week."
Lady Winalia kept shaking her head, her lips pressed together.
"We will not permit it," she repeated, pressing her handkerchief to her lips as she opened the door to her spouse's room. Grogellan's moans could be heard. "Oh, he must be in such pain, Ginia. More fellis, please. How can you let him suffer so?"
"He wouldn't if he would permit me to..."
"No, no, never. How can you even suggest such a thing?"
"He didn't object when I sewed up that shin wound ... it's much the same thing," Ginia said urgently.
"But that was a natural wound," Lady Winalla protested. "Oh, listen to him. Surely you can give him more fellis?"
"Yes, I can give him more fellis," Ginia said through gritted teeth. "I can fellis him right into death!"
"Oh, no, don't say that, Ginia. Please don't say he'll die."
"I can't say anything else and be honest, Winalla. If I do not operate..."
Winalia clamped her hands to her ears and, with a little shriek of protest, half-ran to her spouse, where he twisted and writhed in bed.