F’lon blinked and then howled with laughter. “Actually, I meant Nemorth but I think Jora probably had edibles secreted about the place because we never did manage to get her down to a decent size. But Nemorth was our prime worry. Like rider like dragon can be all too true. But we succeeded in keeping her from doing more than blood the next time she turned bright gold. My, she was a nasty one in flight,” and F’lon shook his head from side to side, with an odd grin on his face. “Simanith proved his worth. Caught her high and did her well.” Then he exhaled noisily.
Robinton was hard pressed not to laugh out loud, wondering how F’lon had managed his unwieldy mate on that occasion but there were certain matters one did not discuss, even with such a good friend as F’lon.
“So, she’ll clutch in the winter?” “So long as she does clutch!” “Here’s to a triple her last one!”
“We’ll need every one,” F’lon said and downed the wine, breaking the glass in the hearth. Robinton, though he regretted losing two such fine goblets, followed suit. “I’ll come for you myself when the Hatching’s due. Both my sons’ll stand.” Before Robinton figured that the youngest would be only ten, F’lon was out the door.
“Well, he is the Weyrleader,” Robinton murmured. “And the dragons will make the right choices.” He hoped.
He had another, totally unexpected visit that same seven-day which turned out to have almost as fortuitous a result.
Silvina tapped on the door of his rooms. “You’ve two visitors, Rob,” she said, smiling broadly as she pushed the door open wider to admit the guests.
Robinton instantly rose to his feet to greet the arrivals: a grizzled man, and a very gawky shy lad whose eyes were round and so fearful that Robinton increased the warmth in his own smile. The older man pushed the lad forward with a hand that was missing two fingers. He nodded with great dignity to the MasterHarper.
“You wouldn’t remember me, likely,” he said, “but I’ve never forgotten my cousin, Merelan.”
The injured hand, the deep voice, the tanned, weathered and faintly familiar face of the man combined with the heavy boots he
wore gave Robinton a clue.
“RantouT he exclaimed.
“Aye.” A huge grin split the man’s face. “Rantou from the woods.
Fancy you remembering my name after all these turns.”
Robinton shook the offered hand vigorously and urged the two to take seats, gesturing to Silvina to bring refreshment.
“Why, it’s been … turns!” Robinton said. “I do remember that summer, and swimming in the sea and all the cousins I didn’t know I had …”
“Heard Merelan had died a while back,” Rantou said, his expression sober. “Heard her sing at South Boll Gathers now and then.” “You had a fine voice, or so she often said.”
“Did she?” The old man’s face lit up. The boy wriggled in his chair, uncomfortable and not certain what to do or how to act.
“She did,” Robinton said warmly, turning kindly to include the boy in the conversation.
Rantou cleared his throat and sat forward on the chair. “Well,
that’s what I’m here for.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Rantou gripped the boy by the shoulder. “This is my grandson, Sebell. He can sing. I want him to be a harper, if he’s good enough.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, Rantou.” “He’s better off here, much better than in the woods. I never forgot your father, you know.” Rantou grinned slyly. “He didn’t
think much of us.”
“Oh, now …”
“Don’t mix the truth up, lad – ! mean, MasterHarper.” Rantou suddenly realized that he had no right to reprimand such an important person.
Robinton laughed. “He hated to lose any promising musical talent.” “I want Sebell to have the chance,” Rantou said. “He’s smart, he already plays pipes he’s made, and our old gitar. Knows all his Teaching Songs and Ballads. We don’t have a regular harper down there – too small – but I’ve seen that Sebell learned as much as we could teach him.”
Robinton turned to the very nervous boy, who jerked his chin up almost defensively at such scrutiny. He was as tanned as his grandfather, with a shock of sun-bleached hair and wide-set dark eyes which had been surreptitiously noting everything in the room, from the instruments on the walls to the musical notations on the sand table. He was ten or eleven turns, Robinton thought, more bone than flesh, but with the suggestion of height and strength in his frame … and bony wrists and ankles which protruded from pants legs that were too short.