can assign me where you will. Where I'd do some good.' What he didn't add hung in the air: Because I can't do any good here.
'Well then, that's settled. I'll see who can use an assistant harper.'
Robinton was still trying to absorb this astonishing news when he found himself out in the corridor.
To be utterly truthful, he looked forward to leaving the Harper Hall and getting away from the constant censorious glances of his father. Privately he thought this was what was eating away at his mother: the tension and having to placate his father all the time. He wanted to get on with his own life – without constraint and with an enthusiasm he wasn't able to give scope to here in the Harper Hall.
He'd really enjoy being away – and as Master Gennell had promised to keep him informed about his mother's health, he could go with an easy conscience. It'd be so much better for her, too, if she didn't have to worry about him, had a reason to be proud of him.
He went back to putting the final coat of varnish on the lap harp he was making. He would take that with him, he thought, though originally he had made it to sell. He had already earned quite a few marks at Gathers with his output. When Master Jerint asked him what the MasterHarper had wanted him for, Robinton shrugged it off. 'Next term's duties,' he said, which had the advantage of being the truth.
Robinton had become so adept at keeping emotions to himself that it had become a habit. And though he yearned to tell his mother, he knew she was busy with lessons this afternoon. He'd just have to hold his good news in. It was something to relish, anyway. As relieved as he was that he wouldn't have to take Theory under his father, he was most excited at the prospect of leaving the Hall on his first official assignment. He also knew he'd had a hint of something the oldest apprentices would die to hear: he suspected that Master Gennell was about to reveal who would walk the tables – the best of all the traditions in the Harper Hall. The announcement of who had made journeyman rank could be any day now; there was a lot of talk about its imminence in the dorms.
Sometimes the lucky ones were warned to pack what they'd need, but just as often no clue at all was given until Master Gennell called out the names. That was always a great evening. The Masters loved to surprise the fourths, make them sweat a little before giving them the reward for four turns' work. At least he'd have time to warn his mother of his leaving; but he knew she'd be pleased for him. Even being assigned as assistant harper was an honour.
Robinton paused in his varnishing, whooshing the fumes away from his nose. The reek was stifling.
'That's the ticket,' Master Bosler said, pausing by Robinton's work station. He gave him a quick pat on the back. 'One of the nicer ones with all that careful inlaid pattern. And the skybroom wood! Very good! We can get a good price for it at the next Gather.'
'With skybroom wood hard to come by, I think I might just keep it for a while,' Robinton said, watching Bosler's expression. Would the Master have an idea of Robinton's immediate future? He knew that Master Gennell listened to the opinions of his Masters. As an apprentice, Robinton's studies were governed by what all the Masters – probably his father, too – thought of his progress, so maybe Master Bosler was aware of his good news. But no, the lined face and keen eyes did not alter.
So much for that, Robinton thought and, with a smile for his Master, he went back to applying the varnish. He wasn't using a quick-drying type because he wanted to avoid any brush strokes.
By dinner-time, his mood had swung in the opposite direction and his stomach was churning. Maybe it had been Petiron's idea in the first place, removing the unwanted son from the Hall? His father was more likely to suggest he go drudge for someone in a back-of-beyond small hold, too far away for him to take time off and come back to the Hall. It'd be ironic if Robinton was assigned to Master Ricardy at Fort Hold. He already had three assistants and another, elderly harper who did nothing but entertain for the old aunties and uncles of the Hold. No, definitely, Master Gennell wanted him to help teach. That had been the crux of the interview: would he be willing to teach?
Though the dinner was one of Lorra's better ones, Robinton found himself unable to eat, a fact immediately noted by his table companions who were well aware of his voracious appetite.
'Inhaling varnish all afternoon has put me off,' he offered as explanation.
Falawny gave him a startled look. 'First time in three turns it ever has,' he remarked. 'Ah, well, more for us certainly, eh, fellows?' And he speared a third slice of roast from the platter being passed.
Robinton hadn't seen any packs in the hallway, so no one had been warned that tonight might be the night to walk tables. He sneaked a glance at the fourth-term table; judging by the way dinner was being consumed, their appetites weren't affected.
Determinedly, he mopped his bread in the gravy and ate that, though his stomach toiled with either hunger or nerves. He actually hadn't had all that much experience with either condition. He'd never gone hungry, and he refused to let himself get nervous just over a hunch that tonight might be the night.
He shifted about on his chair a lot, shooting glances at his mother, but she was busy either eating, quite normally, or chatting with Master Washell and his father, who bracketed her at the head table. Well, maybe she hadn't been told.
Because he spent so much of the dinner-time looking about the dining hall, he did notice that Journeyman Shonagar was seated to one side. But there was nothing especially unusual about Shonagar's presence: journeymen were constantly in and out of the Hall on errands, on reassignments, or to ask advice of their Masters.
The sweet and klah had been served, and Robinton managed to get those down with no trouble.
Then he heard a chair being shoved back and Master Gennell was on his feet, tapping his glass for attention. The room was already still, breaths universally bated.
'Ah, I see that I have your attention.' His grin swept from the Masters' tables, across the journeymen's and towards the apprentices. 'So, Master Washell, send out for the extra chairs.'
This task was customarily done by the first-term apprentices, who scurried out and rattled back in, each carrying a chair which they set in the spaces the journeymen made at their tables. Twelve!
Now, who would be seated in them in the next few minutes.'? There were nineteen in the final term of their apprenticeship. All of them managed to look calm and indifferent, as befitted trained harpers.
It was also the custom for those who walked to be escorted ritually from their lowly apprentice bench to a chair at the journeymen's tables.
Gennell took a list from his pocket and pretended to have trouble reading it.
'Journeyman Kailey.'
The former apprentice jumped to his feet, and a grinning journeyman instructor immediately strode across the room during the applause. Then everyone had the beat and began the traditional sing-song chant: 'Walk, Kailey, walk. It's time to go ahead. Walk, Kailey, walk. Into your new life. Walk, Kailey, walk.'
'You'll be going to Wide Bay Hold in Keroon,' Gennell said, his voice rising easily above the chanting and the clapping.
And so it went for the next ten as well, ending with the popular Evenek who had two journeymen jostling each other good-naturedly to do the honours. Evenek's lyrical tenor voice had often been matched with Merelan in duets, and now she clapped loudly at the announcement of his assignment to Telgar Hold, a prestigious posting.
That left one chair – and eight more possible journeymen.
Gennell waited until Evenek was seated and had been congratulated by those around him.
'To be a harper requires many talents, as you all know. Some of us are endowed – unfairly -' he put in, grinning charmingly around, 'with more than a sufficient share.'
Robinton looked over those remaining at the fourth-term tables.
Really, Kailey and Evenek had been the top men: none of the others were 'unfairly' talented.
'However, when the fundamentals of our craft have been well and truly learned, I insist that we hold no one back from the rank they are entitled to by knowledge and ability and, in this case, rare talent.'
The room was buzzing: everyone trying to decide who the lucky one was. The fourth-termers were just as puzzled.
'Journeyman Shonagar, you claimed this right when you left the Harper Hall two Turns ago. Exercise it.'
Every head turned to watch Shonagar rise and, with the wicked half-grin for which he was well known, walk with measured step down the aisle to the third-term table.
When Shonagar stopped by him, Robinton felt paralyzed. His mouth dropped and his eyes nearly bugged out.
'Shut your mouth, pull your eyes in, and get up,' Shonagar muttered in an undertone. 'That gets you even, the
