'Watch him! He really wanted an opportunity to humiliate you in front of the entire Hold,' Lobira said. 'I can't have that. Ruins discipline in the class. But if you wanted to do some work-outs with Mallan on the defensive moves you were taught at the Hall, it wouldn't be a bad idea. For you both. And the apprentices.'
'I think I will, Master,' Robinton replied soberly. There was little doubt that Fax had a personal grudge against him. Or maybe it was against all harpers. In any event, Fax did not request a harper for his holding. That was his decision and his folk would be stinted by the lack, but only Lord Faroguy could require his holders to provide education. Since Fax's holding appeared to be so much more profitable under his management, Lord Faroguy had little reason to question his methods. Somehow Fax managed to keep from his uncle the fact that his profits were obtained by whippings and threats of eviction.
Mallan and Robinton went through the drills on mats and, if Robinton was able to floor Mallan occasionally, the other journeyman was just as deft. At least they were each capable of quick, reflexive action.
With the pass shut by massive drifts, communication was now limited to the drums and an eight-hour evening watch was one of Robinton's less agreeable duties as a journeyman. Even a blazing fire in the hearth did not keep the Drum Tower warm enough for comfort. The pacing of every drum-watchkeeper since the Hold had been carved out of solid rock had worn a trough around the perimeter of the Tower. One had to be careful not to stumble. One good thing, though – the Tower could be reached from within the Hold itself. Some of the Southern Holds had outside stairways to their drum heights.
Manning the Drum Tower was no sinecure and required close attention. Snowfall sometimes muffled incoming messages, and outgoing ones could cause minor avalanches, heard as distant thunders in the night and made eerier by the darkness. On clear evenings, when both Belior and Timor were full, Robinton could sometimes see the seven spires of the abandoned High Reaches Weyr. He wondered how it varied from the other two he had seen. Probably not by much, but maybe he'd see if he could get in that one too, simply for comparison's sake.
All the new surroundings and experiences struck fresh chords within him. Rather boldly, he composed a song for the miners' double quartet that was more suited to their vocal skills than many available ballads: a humorous tale of six verses and a chorus about a miner and his love, just their style. It was so well received that Master Lobira wanted to know where Robinton had been hiding it.
'Oh, well, it was among the stuff I brought up,' Robinton said, caught unawares.
'Really?'
'Well, sort of. I mean, the melody was written out. I kind of rearranged it for the miners and added the chorus so everyone could join in.'
'Did you now?' Master Lobira eyed his journeyman and pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Well, if you say so.'
Robinton retreated as soon as he politely could. Master Lobira had only glanced at the last packet to come in from the Harper Hall before handing it over to him. There were such good voices and players here, and a new song could liven evenings so much that Robinton hadn't been able to resist the temptation to sneak in his new song. He'd be more circumspect and just adapt other music, already in the repertoire.
But he underestimated Master Lobira.
'You wrote these,' Lobira said, stamping into his bed cubicle one evening with a sheaf of neat music scores in one hand, his expression accusatory.
As Robinton was in the process of writing down yet another tune, he could scarcely deny it when Lobira snagged the hide out of his hand and began comparing them.
'You've written almost all the new music the Hall has been sending out, haven't you?'
Robinton straggled to his feet, a difficult enough manoeuvre due to the cramped space and Lobira's proximity to his bed. He felt at an extreme disadvantage lying sprawled on his back. Then he realized that towering above Lobira was not exactly a good tactic either, because it forced his agitated Master to look up.
'Master Lobira, I can explain ...' He squeezed past the man and gestured for him to exit into the larger living room. Mallan was not to be seen.
'By the First Egg, I am waiting to hear!' Lobira said, his neck red and swollen, his eyes blazing. 'All this time – it must be five, six turns – I've been passing music around that was written by ... you! It's bad enough you're a journeyman at fifteen, but a composer at – at ten !' Lobira slammed the offending scores down on the table and then pinned them down with his fist, glaring around at Robinton who had seated himself so as to be diplomatically lower than his Master.
'Actually ...' Robinton quailed at having to tell the honest truth. 'One or two were written when I was a little younger.'
'A little younger?' Lobim's eyes nearly popped. Planting both fists on the table, he leaned menacingly over Robinton. 'Just when did you write the first? How old were you?'
'I ... I did some variations when I was three, my mother says.' Lobira regarded him and then, in one of his characteristically abrupt changes, threw back his head and started to howl with laughter. He laughed so hard that he had to steady himself on the table edge, and then collapsed into the other chair, holding his sides. As the door was open, the laughter carried down the hall and brought Lotricia to see what had her husband in such a mood. Journeymen quartered just down the hall also came to see what was happening.
'Whatever did you tell Lobira?' Lotricia asked, eyebrows risen almost to her hairline. 'I haven't heard him laugh like that since Fax got caught in the wine barrel.' She was smiling. In fact everyone, except the now concerned Robinton, was grinning.
'I ... didn't tell him anything,' Robinton said truthfully. The reason for the laughter was still spread across the table, and hurriedly he tried to gather the sheets up.
Lobira's hands stopped him, and his laughing abated as he stammered out an explanation to his spouse. 'This one ... is the ... one who's written ... all the new tunes.'
'Oh, no, not all.'
'No? Not all? You gave others a look-in?' And that set Lobira off again.
Lotricia planted her hands on her ample hips. 'You're not making much sense, Lobira, and you usually do,' she said with a hint of pique. 'And if it's made you laugh so much, I want to hear the whole story. Do calm down. Rob, is there any klah in the pitcher?'
Robinton hurriedly poured lukewarm klah into a clean cup, which Lotricia took from him and passed to Lobira. Still in spasms of laughter, Lobira paused long enough to take a sip, which seemed to steady him. Wiping tears from his eyes, he beckoned for the onlookers to come closer. He tapped the music.
'Robinton, our newest and youngest journeyman, is the composer of most of the songs – which, by the First Egg, we both have been teaching you ...
'Did you write them, dear?' Lotricia asked, her blue eyes wide with pleasure. 'I told you he was a clever lad, and modest too,' she added to her husband. 'Whyever isn't your name on the music?'
'As a journeyman, I'm not allowed ...'
'That's what's so funny, Lotricia. Don't you see?'
'No, I don't, Lobira, although I think his music is so singable.'
'That's it! That's why it's so funny,' Lobira said, patting her hands for being so clever.
She regarded him blankly.
'His father's music isn't copied and sent to every Hold and Hall,' Lobira said. 'But Robinton's tunes have been since he was three! Get it now?' He was agitated further by his spouse's failure to see the humour, and his neck reddened again, his face puffing out. 'The joke's on Petiron! That conceited, condescending, consummate composer hasn't half the talent of his own son!' He rose then, chuckling and chortling; he managed to slap Robinton on the back and, taking charge of the music he had brought with him, he started out through the door. Then he saw he had taken the unfinished sheet and, chuckling, he handed it back to Robinton. 'Let me see it when you've finished, will you, Rob lad?'
He was still laughing when he closed the door on his own quarters.
'What was all that about?' one of the journeymen Woodsmiths asked Robinton, still mystified.
'A Hall joke,' Robinton said, smiling inanely and trying to close the door.
'Oh?'
After that incident, his relationship with Master Lobira altered dramatically to an equal footing – or at least Lobira treated his journeyman with the respect he would give a peer. Robinton was delighted, astounded, and quite humbled by the compliment. His Masters at the Hall had been benign taskmasters, encouraging and supportive, but they had treated him as a student. Now Lobira treated him as an equal, despite the difference in age and
