With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Robinton turned his eyes down to his father’s bold notations. But by the time he had to turn the page, he felt a surge of relief. If his father thought this would show up his unsuitability, he might even get a pleasant surprise.
“I’m ready,” Robie said, turning the music back to the first page.
“You should take more time than that,” his father told him.
“I’ve read it through, Father,” Robinton replied. His father didn’t know how quickly he memorized music, even the complex tempo Petiron liked to use and the odd intervals he was fond of putting in: “To jar the audience awake,” one of the journeymen had said in Robie’s hearing.
“Let’s not make the lad nervous, Petiron,” Master Gennell said.
“If he says he’s ready, we’ll have to take him at his word.”
“I’ll play the first measure, then go back to the top,” Petiron said, as if conferring a special favour.
Robinton saw his mother’s warning finger go up, so he said nothing. But he was spot perfect coming in at the top. He didn’t need to, but he kept the score in front of his eyes, not wanting to
look in his father’s direction. He had no trouble singing the unusual intervals, or keeping an accurate tempo, even when it changed almost every other measure. There was one run, which would have suited Londik’s flexible voice too, and a trill which Rob had no trouble with either, his mother having used him to show Maizella how to deal with that sort of vocal embellishment.
“I do believe we have a more than adequate replacement for Londik,” Master Gennell said, rising and speaking over the applause. “That was very well done, Robie. Surprised you too, didn’t he, Petiron? You’ve been working the lad hard at Benden, Merelan, but it shows. It shows.”
Petiron was looking at his son, his mouth slightly open, his right hand silencing the strings of the gitar
“I do believe, Petiron, that you’ve forgotten that Robie turned ten while we were in Benden,” Merelan said briskly.
“Yes, I had.” Petiron rose slowly, putting the gitar carefully back in its case. “But you must read the dynamics of a new piece more carefully, Son. In the fourth measure—”
“Petiron, I don’t believe you,” Master Gennell said. “The lad did not so much as falter once, singing difficult music – for you don’t write any other kind – which he had never seen before, and you’re quibbling about the dynamics in one measure?”
“If he is to take Londik’s place, he must be accurate in all particulars,” Petiron said. “And he will be. From now on, I shall oversee his musical education. There’s a lot to be done …”
“Ah, but you’re in error there, my good Petiron,” Master Gennell said in his mildest voice, his round face quite bland. “You’ – he pointed his finger at the MasterComposer – “teach at journeyman level. We must follow the protocol, you know.” And he beamed at a stunned Petiron.
Robinton heard a stifled noise and looked round at his mother, who gave him the oddest smile.
“Robinton is not old enough to be an apprentice, though as our lead treble he is now definitely under Hall jurisdiction. But,” Gennell went on in a very satisfied tone, “I think that he would benefit from special lessons with his mother, since obviously Merelan has brought his voice along this far with her usual excellent training.” He nodded and bowed to her. “And, of course, he’ll continue his regular lessons with Kubisa, for we can’t short him on
general knowledge and the basics, now can we, simply because he has a splendid treble? You did very well, Robinton.” Gennell’s beam now included Robinton, and he awarded the boy a proprietary caress on his head and a final decisive pat. “Yes, and I think some of us here – I, certainly – will be more than willing to oversee other elements of his training until he does reach apprentice age.” Gennell then sighed abruptly. “Of course, when his voice breaks, we’ll just have to see what his other musical qualifications are.”