Through other narrow aisles, Falloner led Robinton to the living quarters, showed him the alcove he had shared with three other lads, and then the bathing area: the Weyr’s main bath, steam rising from the water, was big enough to swim in, Rob thought enviously.
Beyond, Falloner said, were more storage rooms.
“And a maze of old hallways and too many locked rooms. I’ll get in to see them when I’m Weyrleader.” He chuckled.
Over his laugh, they heard the muted tones of an enthusiastically rung bell.
“Supper!” And Falloner wasted no time leading Robinton back to the Lower Cavern.
“Are all the Weyrs the same?”
“Well, I’ve only been to Telgar once, and they’ve got the same sort of places, like a Hatching Ground and a queen’s weyr and Records Hall and stuff like that. Haven’t you ever been up to Fort Weyr?”
“You’re not allowed,” Robinton said cautiously, with a sideways glance at his companion.
Falloner laughed. “Since when did that keep someone from
doing something? I’ll bet it’s visited a lot.”
“Well, actually, I think it is, but …”
Falloner put a finger over his lips and winked. “No two Weyrs are laid out quite the same, but’ – and he gave a shrug – “you’ve
been in one, you’ll find your way around Fort after this.” “I know, and thanks, Fal.” “Sure thing, Rob.”
They swung into the Lower Cavern then. His mother was standing on the slightly raised platform where a long table had been set up at right-angles to the rest of the dining area. There was another dais, too, with music stands, stools and chairs; that was where they’ d perform.
“How many players does the Weyr have?” Rob asked, counting up to fourteen places.
“We’ve got one good gitarist, C’gan, one decent fiddler, and the usual pipers and a drummer, though you’re much better than he is.”
Rob considered this and then noticed that the top table was filling up with riders, and not all bronze to judge by the shoulder knots they wore on their Gather shirts.
His mother, seeing him, made a gesture to indicate that he could stay in Falloner’s company. He was delighted. The weyrfolk, summoned to the dining area by the bell, took whatever seat they fancied. Falloner, hauling on Rob’s sleeve, took him to a table occupied by six boys more or less Falloner’s age. He waved vigorously and held up two fingers – in time to prevent some smaller lads from taking the vacant chairs.
“Just made it,” said a black-haired lad whose curls covered his forehead to his eyebrows. “Go on – there’re plenty of other places,” he added to the nearest of the small lads.
“This is Robinton, from the Harper Hall,” Falloner said, flumping himself down. “That’s Pragal,” he told Robie, pointing to their greeter, “Jesken, Morif, Rangul, Sellel – and Bravonner; he’s my younger brother.”
Robinton thought there wasn’t much resemblance, except in the eyes, but then they must have had different mothers, since Falloner had said his was dead.
“How come you got back?” Bravonner asked.
“I told you I’m only at Benden for more schooling,” Falloner said in a kindly manner to his sibling. “You been OK?” He glanced
accusingly around the table at the others.
“Sure …” Bravonner began.
“I promised you, didn’t I?” Pragal said, bridling. “No one’s bothered him.”
“Cepting you,” Bravonner said with a wicked sideways look at Pragal, who promptly socked him on the arm with mock-ferocity.
“You see?” Bravonner added, appealing to his older brother.
“Yeah. I can see that. Something good for dinner?” he asked Rangul.
This lad was of stockier build and well fleshed, with eyes that darted from one speaker to another. He reminded Robinton of one of the apprentices whom he didn’t much trust, a boy who lied bold-facedly after a dispute at his table and then laid all the blame on another apprentice.
“Roast herd-beast,” Rangul said, smacking his lips. His expression altered to disgust. “And lots of tubers.”
“You should know,” said Jesken, a thin-faced lad with a close-cropped head of hair, “since you had to peel so many of them.” And he laughed.
“Whatcha do to get that duty?” Falloner asked, his expression eager.