The feast was superb. There was roast herd-beast, flavourful with herbs and done to pink, though there were crusty top slices available for those who liked it well done. Wild wherry in quantity, and so tenderized as to slide down the throat with its accompanying stickle-berry gravy. There were also a variety of fish, grilled and baked, with enormous bowls of tubers and vine beans; breads, both flat and raised; and fresh greens which had been grown in tropical Nerat. Fruits, too, and nuts from Lemos. Though most of the candidates had been weyrbred, some had come from nearby Holds, and their families had probably brought offerings. Only two lads had been injured – slightly – when the dragonets lurched out of their shells and looked around, keening, for their mind mates.
And a bronze had hatched first.
“The best omen we could have,” F’lon remarked.
“Why is that?” Robinton asked.
“Bronze is the best, of course,” F’lon said with a slightly drunken grin on his face. “A bronze first means the clutch is strong, even if not as large as some would have made it. Jora’s useless as a Weyrwoman.” His tone turned disdainful. “Not only is she afraid of heights but she’s nervous with Nemorth, and if S’loner hadn’t been helping, she’d’ve let the queen eat before her mating flight.” He snorted in contempt.
“That wouldn’t have kept you from edging S’loner out, though,” R’gul said, a disapproving frown on his round face.
“Tchaaa!” F’lon waved aside the rebuke. “So he sired me, but bronze riders are all equal in the air at mating time. The queen should have the best available – more to make up for her shortcomings than anything else.” And he made another contemptuous noise and unslung the wine-skin from the chair back. “So, Harper Robinton, with what songs will you regale us tonight?” He waved
towards the top table. “Everyone’s eaten, and let’s not have another brawl between our Weyrleader and our Lord Holder.”
Robinton got to his feet, his height making him visible to the head table, and he waited until he could catch S’loner’s attention.
The Weyrleader had bent his head to listen to something one of the weyr girls was saying: a girl Robinton had noticed himself because of her quiet dignity and gracefulness. S’loner shook his head, and then the girl pointed towards Robinton. Spotting the harper, S’loner raised his right hand to give him the signal to begin the entertainment.
C’gan had been watching too, and he stood, which told the players to gather on the dais.
“I’ve a few new ones for your ears,” Robinton told F’lon, “and a fine march. Enter-the-new-riders sort of thing.”
“Great!” F’lon waved a loose arm in command for the music to begin. He was fairly well gone in wine, so Robinton did not take offence.
Looking closely at the head table as he made his way to the players’ raised dais, Robinton did not see any signs of an imminent dispute between Leader and Holder. But the two were looking away from each other and neither was talking. It was indeed time for diversion before the silence became unbearable. Jora was still talking to Lady Hayara, who was all but slumped down in her chair with boredom. Now, seeing the harper gathering his instrumentalists, Hayara sat up straighter and waggled her fingers at him -doubtless from gratitude, unless Jora would talk through music too.
But then Lady Hayara would have a legitimate excuse to request her silence.
Robinton started off with Petiron’s march; it had a few feet stamping and some clapping in rhythm, so he was subtly amused that his opinion was now verified. Then he called for the Duty Song, followed closely by the Question Song which he played whenever he could. But this time it was not as well received by either Weyrleader or Lord Holder, and he was almost sorry he had included it.
So he did a solo rendition of one of his newer songs, with C’gan on gitar, and two pipers and the hand drum. The song was appreciated enough to require him to repeat it immediately, and there were many voices lifted in the chorus with him. Riders were