"But they don't ever die. Do they?"
"S'loner says some do, but I haven't seen any eggs that didn't hatch." There was the implication of long experience in his tone.
"Not that we have that many in a clutch." Falloner sighed. "We'll get more, though, nearer to the next Pass."
"We will have one, then?"
"Sum, we will. There's been Long Intervals before. You're Harper Hall; you should know that."
"Sure," Robinton agreed hastily. He did know that – sort of. But he was going to check up on it once he got back to the Hall. "But none," he added as he suddenly remembered, "when there weren't all six Weyrs waiting for the next Fall."
Falloner was thoughtful. "We'll be all right," he said with more conviction than his expression implied. "We keep replacing the old ones who die off. Benden's at full fighting strength."
"But there's only Benden," Robinton whispered as a sudden pang of fear shot through him.
"Benden will be more than enough," Falloner said proudly, and then covered his mouth with one hand, for he had spoken more loudly in his surety and his words echoed across the empty Hatching Ground. "C'mon, let's get out of here. I'll show you the barracks and have you meet some of my friends."
They carefully retraced their steps and Falloner hid the glow-basket under a protrusion. Then the weyrbred lad took to his heels and raced towards the right-hand side of the Bowl, beyond the Lower Caverns, where there was a great deal of talking and laughing and general noise. As they flashed by, Rob caught a glimpse of his mother talking to some of the old aunties and uncles at one of the tables. Well, that duty would be over, so he wouldn't have to
nod and smile at the oldsters. The look of them, not to mention sometimes their smell, distressed him. People shouldn't get that old. When harpers could no longer work, they went back to their birthplaces or down to the warmer, southern holds.
The weyrling barracks were empty, since members of the last clutch had long since graduated to individual weyrs, but the place looked in good order for the next Hatching. Falloner knew a back way out of the barracks complex, too, which took them into a broad corridor that he said led to the supply caves.
"There're lots of them," he said proudly. "Benden, Lemos and Bitra still tithe properly every year, and the Telgar and Keroon Lord Holders tell us where the dragons can hunt, culling the herd-beasts for them."
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.
"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.