“Oh, go ahead,” the journeyman said with a smile. “Only keep it short.”
Robinton worked out the message and the non-urgent coding, got approval, and beat it out himself. He hoped he’d hear back before his duty ended. But he didn’t.
That evening, however, the journeyman sought him out at dinner and gave him a slip of hide and a wink.
Robinton could barely restrain his hurrah! Falloner had Impressed a bronze. So had Rangul and Sellel – though that draconic choice surprised Robinton – and six others whose names he recognized from his visits to the Weyr. The WeaverCraftHall lad from High Reaches, Lytonal, was now L’tol and rode brown Larth.
He caught his mother on her way to evening rehearsal and told her.
“I suspected that young rascal would make bronze,” she said.
“And Rangul. Nine bronzes is a good clutch. A queen egg is even better. It may well be that S’loner is right, after all.” She hurried away then without explaining her last cryptic remark.
Robinton wondered if Falloner, now F’lon, would remember his promise to him – that he’d come to the Harper Hall on his bronze so that Robinton could meet him. Wouldn’t his dorm-mates be amazed! It was a fun thing to think about, but Robinton rather thought that F’lom now being above a mere Harper Hall apprentice, might not consider he had to honour that promise. Anyway, it took a while for a dragonet to learn to fly.
He did his lessons in the Archives with everyone else, but mostly he copied special files for Master Ogolly, since he was the fastest and most accurate of them all. He had already made some instruments that had received the Harper mark, which allowed his work to be sold at Gathers. Now he learned how to repair broken frets and stems, and drum frames, and to string harps and gitars and do fine marquetry. He was content in a way he had never known before, away from the tension which had become so stressful in his parents’ rooms. His mother, too, smiled more frequently at the head tables or during her lessons with him. So his departure had indeed made life easier for her.
His treble voice lasted until the growth spurt in his thirteenth summer when his body, as well as his throat and speaking equipment, altered dramatically. He and his mother were rehearsing a Solstice duet when suddenly his voice made a dramatic octave drop.
“Well now, that’s that, I guess, dear,” she said, resting her arm on the crook of her gitar. “Now, love, it isn’t really the end of the world, though I daresay your father will be annoyed to have to make changes in the soloist so close to Solstice. Your voice won’t last until then.”
“But who’ll -‘ and in his dismay, Robie’s voice broke again “- sing it with you?”
“Recall that delicate-looking blond lad from Tillek who auditioned last week?” Merelan raised her eyebrows in a droll fashion.
“He’s not the musician you are, and I’ll have to work him hard, but he has the range, if not your skill and experience.”
“What’s Father going to say?” Robinton asked fretfully. He really didn’t want to be around to hear.
Merelan chuckled. “He’ll consider that you did this on purpose, of course, to disarrange his concert. He’ll rant a bit about you letting him down at a critical time, and then require me to take the lad on for special sessions.” She regarded her son with a tilt to her head and an affectionate smile. “You’ll probably end up a baritone, you know. You’ve the right facial structure. And your father’s a baritone.”
“I’ve never heard him sing,” Robie protested.
Merelan chuckled. “Oh, he can. He just doesn’t feel he sings well enough.” She gave a little chuckle. “But, if you listen closely, you’ll hear him joining the baritone line in the choral parts. He had a very good natural voice when he first came to the Hall. He just didn’t think it was solo quality.” She made a little grimace, followed by a light sigh. “He has to be perfect in anything he does.”
“Mother,” Robie began, because the problem was becoming more and more pressing, “what will I do when Father takes me for composition as a journeyman?” His unreliable voice cracked on the second syllable.