Merelan chuckled. "He'll consider that you did this on purpose, of course, to disarrange his concert. He'll rant a bit about you letting him down at a critical time, and then require me to take the lad on for special sessions." She regarded her son with a tilt to her head and an affectionate smile. "You'll probably end up a baritone, you know. You've the right facial structure. And your father's a baritone."
"I've never heard him sing," Robie protested.
Merelan chuckled. "Oh, he can. He just doesn't feel he sings well enough." She gave a little chuckle. "But, if you listen closely, you'll hear him joining the baritone line in the choral parts. He had a very good natural voice when he first came to the Hall. He just didn't think it was solo quality." She made a little grimace, followed by a light sigh. "He has to be perfect in anything he does."
"Mother," Robie began, because the problem was becoming more and more pressing, "what will I do when Father takes me for composition as a journeyman?" His unreliable voice cracked on the second syllable.
"Walk the tables first, love, and don't worry. Though I must be truthful and say that I wonder how we're going to keep from upsetting him over that. You already know as much as he does about theory, composition, and even orchestration. Fortunately, I think your particular forte is with vocal rather than instrumental music, so you won't be in direct competition with him. He may not see it in the same light, but neither of us can help that, can we? Let's go and have some klah, shall we?" She put her gitar carefully back in the case and reached up to caress his cheek. "I still can't get accustomed to the sudden height of you. I wonder how tall you'll be. All the men in my family are certainly tall."
"I remember Rantou." Robie grinned, because he would never forget how upset his father had been at Rantou's preference for working as a lumberman, when he had the voice and musicality to be a harper. At least Robinton was not the only one whom his father expected to be perfect.
When his voice finally settled into the baritone range, he was nearly the tallest of the second-Turn apprentices. His father relegated him to the back row of the chorus, where Robinton was quite happy to be. His mother, however, beginning to instruct him in his new voice, was delighted with its flexibility and depth.
"It's a lovely voice, Robie." She flicked her fingers in an excess of delight, smiling at him. "Velvety and rich. Now, we won't force it but I think it's solo quality."
"Even if my father's isn't?"
Merelan made a face. "Yours has a totally different timbre, and a better range. We can work it into something special."
"Something appropriate for simple songs?"
Her grimace darkened and she slapped his arm. "Simple songs that everyone loves to hear, play and sing! Don't you dare belittle what you do so very well. Far better than he ever could. The only real music he ever wrote--" She stopped, pursing her lips in irritation.
"Was the music he wrote while we were at Benden." Robinton finished the sentence for her. "And you're right. Speaking quite objectively as a harper, my father's compositions are technically perfect and demanding, brilliant for instrumentalists and vocal dexterity, but scarcely for the average holder and craftsman."
She waggled her finger under his nose. "And don't you ever forget that!"
Robinton caught the threatening finger and kissed it lovingly.
"Oh, Robie," she said in a totally different voice. "How different it all could have been." She leaned against him in regret, taking consolation in his tall, strong form and his embrace.
"Well, it wasn't, Mother, and we can't alter what has been." He patted her back soothingly.
Abruptly, and in another lightning change of mood, she pushed away from him, poking him in the ribs. "Will you ever fill out? I swear, you're nothing but bones."
"And there's Lorra complaining I eat twice as much as any other three apprentices! You're a fine one to complain," he added, noting a distinctive pallor in her complexion. She flushed, moving away completely.
"It's nothing." She gave a funny laugh. "Change of life, Ginia says." "You're not that old, surely," Robinton protested, vehemently denying that his mother would ever age. "Why, your voice is better than ever."
She laughed with real humour. "Proof, son of mine, that I'm in my prime, not my decline."
The Harper Bell chimed the turn of the hour and she gave him a little push. "Your harp awaits you."
He kissed her cheek and was out of the door to the accompaniment of another chuckle. But he knew she understood his eagerness to put the finishing touches on the lap harp which had caused him so much anxiety. It was one of the four pieces he had to finish creditably to become a journeyman, and he wanted it so that even his father could not find fault with it.
When his work was displayed anonymously with the others, his father passed it by without comment and dismissed someone else's instead. Of course, Robinton had been careful not to repeat patterns of embellishment which he had used on other items. It amused him that never again did his father find fault with anything of his among those he inspected.
The highlight of his second turn as an apprentice came in the spring. Robinton was in the semi-basement workshop at the front end of the Hall rectangle when suddenly a bronze dragon landed in the centre of the courtyard and the rider cupped his hands and yelled, "Robinton? Robinton!Apprentice Robinton.t' That final call was almost a taunt, coming out in a singsong tone.
"By the First Egg! It's you the dragonrider wants, Rob," Master Bosler said.
Robinton peered out of the half-window and saw nothing but bronze dragon feet and belly. "May I go?"
"My dear boy, if a dragonrider calls for anyone," the Master said, grinning, "that person had better hop it... Off with you!"
Robinton raced up the steps and out of the right-hand door into the courtyard. "I'm here, F'lon.t' he yelled, racing across the courtyard to the bronze, who had craned his neck round, eyes bright blue and whirling with excitement.
"I told you i'd come..." and F'lon modified his tone as he dismounted gracefully to meet his old friend, embracing him in his eagerness.
Once again, Rob was struck by F'lon's unusual amber eyes, which sparkled with delight.
"You also told me you'd Impress bronze..." Rob looked politely at the watching dragon. "What's your name, if you don't mind?"
The dragon blinked.
"Ah, he's shy." F'lon's wicked smile belied that. "His name is Simanith." The dragon put his head close to his rider's body, his eyes on Robinton. "You can always speak to my friend Robinton, if you want. He's going to be MasterHarper – when he gets old enough."
"Now, wait a minute!" Robinton exclaimed, holding up his hands defensively and laughing at the very thought. MasterHarper was not only a position he had no desire for but one his father would certainly veto.
"Dream, man, that you make Harper. I dreamed and look..." F'lon gestured dramatically at Simanith – a broad, proud grin nearly splitting his face in two.
"I was in the Drum Tower when the news came in, and I got permission to find out who Impressed bronze, so I've known," Rob told his friend.
"And never sent me word."?" F'lon scowled in mock disgust as he stripped off the close-fitting riding helmet.
"Well, you're not supposed to send private messages. I got the whole list though, Rangul and Sellel..."
F'lon wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, R'gul and S'lel are bronze riders, too, though why they were picked out of those presented I will never know." He rubbed at his sweaty hair. "Hey, you've got tall."
Robinton stepped back to sweep his friend with an appraising look. "You're not short yourself."