He hurried to load up his packs, but was interrupted by the appearance of Masters Gennell, Washell and Ogolly. They immediately pushed him out of the way and shared the packs among them, allowing him only the new harp case.
“I’m honoured – I mean, you don’t need to …” Robinton tried to
protest, but he was overruled. Shrugging, he allowed them the duty.
Master Gennell winked at him as they walked out into the hall, and Robinton realized that this display of solid goodwill was as much for his mother’s benefit as to make up for his father’s absence. Their kindness touched him once again, and he had to swallow back tears.
“You made it, huh?” F’lon shouted as he slid down to Simanith’s raised forearm and started piling luggage on the harness.
“Congratulations, Journeyman Robinton! You’ve got greetings from all your old friends at Benden, Weyr and Hold.” To the other new journeymen waiting in the courtyard for their conveyancing, he said, “Your dragons will be along shortly – and congratulations.”
Loading took only moments and then Robinton had to make his farewells. His mother pulled his head down for one last kiss and embrace. He shook hands with the Masters and promised them that he’d do his best.
“Give my special regards to Master Lobira,” his mother called as he climbed up to Simanith’s back. “He may remember me.”
“Now who can forget you, Merelan?” Master Gennell said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders.
That was how Robinton remembered his mother in the trying initial days under Master Lobira’s supervision. Fortunately, F’lon deposited him and his effects in the courtyard of the high and windy Hold and departed, seen by relatively few. And especially not Master Lobira.
For that person was unimpressed with having so young a journeyman.
“Don’t know what Gennell’s thinking about, walking you up at fifteen! Indeed, I don’t, so don’t go expecting any cosseting from me, young man.” Lobira eyed Robinton and scowled at the lean length of him.
It didn’t help, Robinton thought, that he towered above the diminutive MasterHarper. The man came not quite to Robinton’s shoulder; he was heavy in the chest – he sang bass – and narrowed through the hips to short, skinny legs. His features were pulled together in the middle of his wide face as if they should have inhabited a much narrower one. He had a shock of heavy wavy hair with bands of silver, making him look striped. All put together, he was an almost ludicrous figure. But no one snickered at Master
Lobira. He had too much presence, Robinton quickly decided, ever to be the butt of ridicule. His muddy brown eyes were shrewd, and there was no way that Robinton was going to underestimate him.
“I never expected to walk so soon,” Robinton murmured, trying to be self-effacing.
Lobira gave him a quick look, as if he thought Robinton was dissembling. “I shall expect much from you then, young man.
Where were you raised? Who are your parents?”
Robinton was quite happy to answer since he hoped that would mollify his new Master. But if his mother met with Lobira’s approval, his father did not. Robinton was at first shocked – less at the blunt remarks about his father’s sort of composing, which Lobira felt was far too sophisticated to be of any use to anyone, than at hearing such criticism voiced, especially in front of the man’s son. Not that it didn’t mirror his own very private assessment of Petiron’s ornate compositions, but to have mentioned such doubts would have seemed disloyal and a betrayal: as if his own songs merited more attention than his father’s more ambitious works. It came as another shock that it was his music which Lobira used extensively – though Lobira did not know that Robinton had been the composer. That had been a secret kept in the Hall, evidently, and not made public even to Masters outside the Hall.
Robinton knew better than to make something of that approval, but it did much to help him endure Lobira’s crotchety behaviour, his temper, his inconsistencies and his general dislike of having to break in a “snot-nosed, wet-eared’ novice.