He did not know, of course, that his mother's well-attuned ear heard his initial attempts. Since they improved as he continued, she was inordinately pleased. Sometimes, despite a strong musical tradition in a family, there was one born who was tone-deaf or totally disinclined to do much about an innate ability. She had wondered how she would be able to placate Petiron if his son turned out to be musically incompetent. Because one way or another, Petiron would be determined to impart suitable musical training to his only child. Now she did not have to worry about that. Her son was not only inclined to musical experimentation; he also had a good ear and, it would seem, perfect pitch.
When Petiron was busy with students, Merelan would often whistle simple tunes within her son's hearing. Petiron did not like her whistling – possibly because he couldn't, but more likely because he felt that girls shouldn't. Despite loving him so much, she privately admitted that his attitudes made no sense to her: like taking against whistling because he couldn't and she was female.
Robie picked up the tunes she whistled as effortlessly as he had learned the scales on the pipe. When he started doing variations on the airs, she had to restrain herself. She wanted desperately to tell Petiron that his son was musical, but she did not want her three-Turn-old son suddenly rushed into training. It could turn the boy off music entirely. Petiron was marvellous with the older lads, but far too strict for the youngest apprentices. She worried about the zeal with which he would train Robinton.
So one afternoon she asked Washell, the Master who taught the youngest, to help her with the dynamics in a quartet they were both rehearsing for TurnOver. A jovial, easy-going man in his sixth decade with a rich deep bass voice, he arrived with some cakes just out of the Hall ovens and a fresh pot of klah.
"So why is it that you really want to see me, Merelan?" he asked after she had profusely thanked him for the refreshments and served them. "The day you can't carry your own part in anything Petiron writes, I'll resign my Mastery."
"Oh, but I do need help, Wash," she said airily. "Robie, come see what Master Washell has brought us!" She hadn't needed to call him. The delectable aroma of warm
pastry had wafted into the next room, where he had been flat on his stomach, making doodles in a sand-tray that had been a recent gift from his mother – a preparation to teaching him his letters and, possibly, the scales.
"I "mell "em," he said, still not quite able to pronounce the sibilants with the gap in his front baby teeth. "I "mell "era. T'ank you, Master Wa'ell."
"My pleasure, young "un."
Merelan's stage setting was complete. "Here!" she said briskly.
"This measure where the tempo changes so rapidly – I'm not sure I've the beat correctly. Robie, give me an A, please."
WasheWs grey brows went up to his balding head and his eyes glittered as Robie produced the tiny pipe from his trouser waistband and played the required note.
Then Merelan sang the troublesome measures, deliberately shortening the full quality of one whole note. Robie shook his head and with his fingers beat out the appropriate time.
"If you've got it right, m'lad, you play it the way I should sing it," Merelan said casually.
Young Robinton played the entire measure and Washell -who looked first at Merelan and then at her son – folded his hands across his stomach and caught her eyes, nodding with comprehension.
"Thank you, dear. That was well done," Merelan said, and she allowed Robinton to have a second cake. He stuffed his pipe away under his trouser waistband and sat on the little stool to eat the cake.
"Indeed, and I couldn't have done better myself, young Robinton," Washell said solemnly. "You played that perfectly, young man. I'm glad that your mother has you here to keep her strictly in tempo. Do you know any other tunes on that pipe?"
Robie glanced at his mother for permission. She nodded, and he licked his lips free of crumbs, lifted the pipe to his mouth and began to play one of his own favourites. When he had finished, he gave his mother a second look.
"Yes, go on," she said with a little flick of her fingers.
He looked for a moment at Washell, who knew enough to keep his expression polite, and then the boy closed his eyes and started the round of variations he liked to wind about that tune.
Washell bent his head down over his heavy chest until he was peering directly at Robinton, who was now oblivious, wrapped up in his piping, fingers dancing, stopping, busy over the little pipe's holes. The instrument was small and could have produced an unpleasantly shrill sound, but the way the youngster handled his breathing and instinctive dynamics sweetened it to a delightful lilt.
As one variation followed another, Washell cocked his head in amazement and gradually turned his eyes to Merelan, who was totally relaxed as if this performance were a daily marvel.
Suddenly the muted sounds of the choristers ended. Immediately, Merelan leaped forward and tapped Robinton out of his concentration.
He looked almost rebellious.
"That was a very good one," his mother said, casually appreciative.
"New, isn't it?"
"I s'ought it up as I was playing," he said and then glanced coyly up at Washell. "It fitted in."
"Yes, dear, it did," Merelan replied agreeably. "The trills were very well done."
"Nice to have a pipe just the right size for you, isn't it?" Washell began, extending his hand for the instrument. Robinton, with a touch of reluctance, handed it over. Washell tried to put his large fingers over the stops and ran out of pipe, looking so surprised that Robinton giggled, covering his mouth and glancing quickly at his mother to be sure this was acceptable behaviour. "Maybe you'd like to see some of the other instruments I have that might also be the right size for a lad like you to play on. This one is much too small for me, isn't it?" And Washell handed it back with a little flourish.
Robinton grinned up at the big man and tucked his pipe back under the waistband, out of sight under his loose shirt.
"I think you could manage to get the pitcher and the cake-plate back down to the kitchen, couldn't you, Robie dear?" Merelan asked, rising to open the door as she spoke.
"Can. Will. Bye." And he walked quite sedately down the hallway with his burden as merelan closed the door.
"Yes, my dear merelan, you do have a problem growing up here.
"May I extend you my compliments as well as my assistance? If we move patiently, what is an astonishing natural talent can be nurtured. I admire Petiron in many matters, Singer, but..." Washell sighed with a rueful smile. "He can be single-minded to the point of irrationality. He will of course be delighted to discover his son's musicality, but quite frankly, my dear, I would be sorry to be that son when he does. Which is obviously why you have sent for me, and I take that as the highest compliment you could pay me."
"Petiron will push him too far and too fast ..."
"Therefore we will lay the groundwork carefully, so that his father's tuition will not be the sudden shock it could be."
"I feel so ... treacherous, going behind Petiron's back like this," merelan said, "but I know what he's like, and Robie loves to make music. I don't want that to be taken from him."
Washell reached across and patted her nervously drumming fingers.
"My dear, we can put Petirons single-mindedness to our advantage. I gather he has no idea that the boy has learned to pipe?" Merelan shook her head.
"Right now, of course," he went on, "he's up to his inky fingers with TurnOver music to write and the rehearsals and then the Spring Gathers, and I shall have a word with Gennell myself about this. If you permit?"