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with it. He blew in it, masking the holes with his fingers as he had seen others do. When the tones that came out were not similar to the ones so effortlessly made by the other players, Robie tried different ways until he did make the proper sounds. As quietly as he could.
    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 how much she loved him, she privately admitted that some of his attitudes, including this one, made no sense to her.
    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 marvelous 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, easygoing 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 ’em. 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.”
    Washell’s gray brows went up 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 shorting 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 trousers’ waistband and sat on the little