Masterharper of Pern Read Online Free

songs,” Sev said, holding the man away.
    “She’s singing, ent she? Singing comes first, don’t it? Singing to lure kids away! She’s evil. Just like all harperfolk. Teachin’ things no one needs to know to live proper.”
    “Rochers, leave be,” the Station Master said, exercising considerable force to pull the man away, shooting embarrassed and apologetic glances at Merelan.
    “Come, Rochers, we need to finish dealing,” said one of the traders. “Come on, we’d nearly shook hands . . .”
    “Harper harlot!” Rochers shouted, trying to free a fist to wave at Merelan, who was clinging to Robinton as much as he was clinging to her.
    “She’s
not
a harper, Rochers. She’s a mother, amusing the kids,” the Station Master said, loudly enough to try to drown out what the man was saying.
    “She had ’em dancing!” Spittle was beginning to form in the corners of his mouth as the men pulled him back to the wagons.
    “Get into Dalma’s wagon, Merelan,” Sev said quickly. “We’ll clear him out.”
    Merelan complied, picking Robie up in her arms and trying to calm his frightened sobs. She slipped behind a tree and through the wooded verge until she could duck into Dalma’s wagon, one of the last in the Station clearing. She was shaking when she got inside it, and she nearly shrieked with fear when someone pushed open the little door. But it was only Dalma, her face white with anxiety. She embraced Merelan and tried to soothe Robinton all at the same time.
    “Crazy, woods crazy,” she murmured reassuringly. “Who’d’ve thought he’d even notice you over there, playing so nicely.”
    “What did he mean?” Merelan said, trying to control her sobs. She’d never been so frightened in all her life. Especially since she had joined the Harper Hall, which was held with respect everywhere she’d gone as a Mastersinger. “What
could
he mean? He called me a harper harlot. And how can singing be bad? Evil?”
    “Now, now.” Dalma held Merelan tightly against her, stroking her hair and patting her shoulder, or patting Robie, though he had recovered within the safety of the wagon and Dalma’s comforting presence. “We run into some real odd folk now and then. Some of ’em have never met a harper, and some don’t hold with singing or dancing or drinking. Sev says it’s because they can’t make wine or beer, so it has to be evil. They don’t want their children to know more than they did or you’d better believe it—” And Dalma gave a sour little laugh. “—they couldn’t keep them from leaving those awful jungles.”
    “But it was the way he said ‘harper’ . . .” Merelan swallowed at the tone of hatred in which the word had been uttered.
    “Now, now, it’s all over with. Sev and the others’ll see those woodsie ones leave.”
    “And that dear little girl . . .”
    “Merelan, forget her. Please.”
    Although she nodded in compliance, Merelan wondered if she would ever forget the wistful hunger in that child’s face: a hunger for music, or maybe just other children playing. But she stayed in the wagon until Sev came to say that the woodsie ones had left and to apologize for exposing her to such a distressing incident.
    There were no further upsets, although she did learn that not every hold the traders stopped at had the benefit of harper education. It was true that there were really not enough harpers to do more than stop in once or twice a year, but Merelan was still shocked at the realization that there was a significant number of cots and small holdings where no one could read or count above twenty.
    She didn’t dare discuss that observation with Petiron, but she knew she would discuss it with Gennell when she got back. Though it was all too likely he was well aware of the lack.
    Usually the trade caravan made a special occasion for those they visited, and Petiron was no longer merely resigned to performing in the evenings; he
enjoyed
it. So many good voices, so many