“No one’s business but mine,” Rangul said sullenly, with a fierce scowl across the table at the laughing Jesken.
“He pushed Lama in the midden,” Jesken said, raising a protective arm when Rangul reached across the table with his fork to poke him.
“Enough of that,” Falloner said in a crisp tone of command which indicated he often had to intervene between this pair. He glanced quickly around to be sure no one had noticed. “Not that Larna doesn’t need to be taught some manners … but you only get in trouble. Who’s minding her now?” He looked around again, and his eyes paused at a table on the other side of the room which was occupied by young girls. “Oh, Manora would be stuck with her.” He turned back to the other boys. “Didn’t anything interesting happen since I left?”
The report that followed didn’t mean much to Robinton, who didn’t know the weyrfolk named. But shortly a platter of sliced roast was shoved at Falloner, ending the discussion.
“Back are you?” the serving woman asked sourly. “Make sure there’s no trouble at this table. You hear me?”
“As ever, Milla,” he replied with an innocent smile.
“Rangul, go fetch the tubers,” she added.
“I had to peel “em,” he protested.
“All the more reason to serve the product of your labours. Go!
Jesken, you get the salad.”
Grumbling under his breath, Rangul pushed back his chair and
with no good grace collected the large, steaming bowl. Jesken was back before him with the basket of salad.
Falloner had by then served two big slices to Rob and himself, before passing the platter on. He gestured for Rangul to bring him the tubers. The lad complied, but sullenly: Falloner was clearly not one Rangul cared to antagonize.
“You’re a guest,” Jesken said, offering Robinton the salad.
“And he’ll be singing later, too. Good voice, good music.” And Falloner winked at Robinton, who was then rather nervous about anyone finding out who had written the songs which Merelan had told him were to be the Wbe taught some manners … but you only get in trouble. Who’s minding her now?” He looked around again, and his eyes paused at a table on the other side of the room which was occupied by young girls. “Oh, Manora would be stuck with her.” He turned back to the other boys. “Didn’t anything interesting happen since I left?”
The report that followed didn’t mean much to Robinton, who didn’t know the weyrfolk named. But shortly a platter of sliced roast was shoved at Falloner, ending the discussion.
“Back are you?” the serving woman asked sourly. “Make sure there’s no trouble at this table. You hear me?”
“As ever, Milla,” he replied with an innocent smile.
“Rangul, go fetch the tubers,” she added.
“I had to peel “em,” he protested.
“All the more reason to serve the product of your labours. Go!
Jesken, you get the salad.”
Grumbling under his breath, Rangul pushed back his chair and
with no good grace collected the large, steaming bowl. Jesken was back before him with the basket of salad.
Falloner had by then served two big slices to Rob and himself, before passing the platter on. He gestured for Rangul to bring him the tubers. The lad complied, but sullenly: Falloner was clearly not one Rangul cared to antagonize.
“You’re a guest,” Jesken said, offering Robinton the salad.
“And he’ll be singing later, too. Good voice, good music.” And Falloner winked at Robinton, who was then rather nervous about anyone finding out who had written the songs which Merelan had told him were to be the Weyr’s evening entertainment.
“I suppose we’ll have to listen to you, too,” Rangul said nastily to Falloner, his expression a mixture of both irritation and envy.
“I’m the one who can carry a tune,” Falloner said, grinning snidely across the table.
“Those who can’t sing play instruments at the Harper Hall,” Robinton said, sensing this sort of teasing could easily turn nasty.
Weyr lads were really no different from Harper Hall apprentices.
“Hey, this roast is really good,” he added, hoping to divert the conversation.
“Yeah, it is,” Falloner agreed, chewing. “Not that we don’t eat well here …”