“Fair enough, only don’t slop,” he said, sitting down again and shoving a friendly elbow into Robinton’s side as he grinned.
The upper table was not receiving stew, Robinton noted, but bowls of soup first and then slices of what looked like wherry, sauces, dishes of vegetables, and individual loaves of bread. He also noticed that his mother was mushing her food around her plate instead of eating, although she was talking to both father and son and seemed her usual self. Except she didn’t smile as much as she usually did at the head table in the Harper Hall, and he didn’t hear her laugh once. The stew was good, and so was the bread, and he was hungry. And the “afters’ served at their table were small cakes and fruit which disappeared with amazing rapidity, though Robinton didn’t see them all eaten at the table. Maybe his mother was getting special treatment what with her being MasterSinger, which he felt was only right and proper. Especially as he was getting specials, too.
His mother sang, too, after the head table finished eating. And there were good voices joining in the choruses, so he wondered why Benden Hold would need a MasterSinger of his mother’s standing. A good journeyman would have done as well. No, she was also here to teach Maizella and help C’gan. Robinton wrinkled his nose: it was obvious from the loud way the girl was singing that she thought her voice was good. It wasn’t bad, he had to admit, but she didn’t need to shriek and she hadn’t much breath control.
His mother sang only four songs, though, and smiled and nodded encouragingly when instruments appeared and she gestured for the musicians to come forward into a unit closer to the head table.
There were two gitarists, a tall, pale older man and a younger one who looked sufficiently like the older to be son or nephew; one violinist who played with his instrument held on his knee instead of under his chin, but his fingering was very good; a woman playing flute; two pipers, both young; and a drummer who had the sense to keep to a mute beat. Of course, when Merelan gestured encouragingly, the rest of the Hold sang the choruses to her first song. The harmonies weren’t bad either, Robinton decided, though he didn’t sing out as he would have done back in the Hall. Falloner sang lustily in a good strong alto treble, however, as did all the other younglings at the table – showing off to him, probably, but Robinton was used to how newcome apprentices to the Harper Hall acted, so he pretended not to notice.
“It doesn’t cost any marks to be gracious, no matter where you are or what you’re doing,” his mother was always saying. “No singer of a professional calibre would think of drowning out other singers,” was another point she often made – especially when she had been having all that trouble with Halanna. He hoped Maizella wouldn’t be as difficult.
Although he knew all the words, Robinton didn’t sing along with Merelan in the new song she presented as her final one of this evening. Then she sweetly begged to be excused for such a short programme, but promised she would be more forthcoming when she’d caught up with Benden time.
She sat down to very enthusiastic applause and shouting.
Falloner then nudged Robinton and rose. “Can you find your way back to your room, Rob?” he asked. “That was the signal for us to get out of the Hall and let the adults have it to themselves.”
Lady Hayara had risen too, and gestured towards the younglings so that they all obediently rose and started to leave the Hall. His mother caught his eye and motioned him to wait for her.
“I’ll go up with Mother,” Rob said, though he would have liked more time to ask Falloner questions.
“You’re lucky,” Falloner said under his breath. “A room of your own. I have to sleep with a half a dozen. Oh, well, I did at the Weyr too,” he added in a philosophical tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I “spect.”
“Thanks, Falloner,” Robinton said, a little shy but earnest in his thanks. Falloner grinned a response as he started herding some of the younger ones ahead of him towards the inner staircase.