Chapter 3

 

Speak softly to my lizard fair

Nor raise your hand to me.

For they are quick to take offense

And quicker to champion me.

 

Menolly wished that Silvina had stayed long enough to introduce her to Master Jerint, but she guiltily realized how much of the headwoman’s valuable time she had already had. So, squaring her shoulders against her ridiculous surge of nervousness, Menolly entered the square stairhall and saw the door that must lead to the workshop of Master Jerint.

She could hear the sounds of workshop industry: hammering, the scrape of saw on wood, toots and thumps; but the instant she opened the door, she and Beauty got the full impact of various noises of tuning, sanding, sawing, pounding, the twanging of tough wherhide being stretched over drum frames and snapping back. Beauty let out a penetrating shriek of complaint and took off, straight for the bracing beams of the high-ceilinged workshop. Her raucous call and her flight suspended all activity in the room. The sudden silence, and then the whisperings of the younger workers, all staring at Menolly, attracted the attention of the older man who was bent almost double, glueing a crucial piece of inlay on the gitar in his lap. He looked up and around at the staring apprentices.

“What? Well?”

Beauty gave another cry, launching herself from the rafter beam back to Menolly’s shoulder now that the distressing sounds had ceased.

“Who made that appealing noise? It was animal, not instrumental.”

Menolly didn’t see anyone pointing at her, but suddenly Master Jerint was made aware of her presence by the door.

“Yes? What are you doing here? And what’s that thing on your shoulder? You oughtn’t be carting pets about, whatever it is. It isn’t allowed. Well, lad, speak up!”

Titters in various parts of the workroom indicated to the man that he was in some error.

“Please, sir, if you’re Master Jerint, I’m Menolly . . .”

“If you’re Menolly, then you’re no lad.”

“No, sir.”

“And I’ve been expecting you. At least, I think so.” He peered down at the inlay he’d been glueing as if accusing the inanimate object of his absentmindedness. “What is that thing on your shoulder? Did it make that noise?”

“Yes, because she was startled, sir.”

“Yes, the noise in here would startle anyone with hearing and wit.” Jerint sounded approving and now craned his head forward, withdrawing the instant Beauty gave one of her little chirps and frowning in surprise that she reacted to his curiosity. “So she is one of those mythical fire lizards?” He acted skeptical.

“I named her Beauty, Master Jerint,” Menolly said, determined to win other friends for her fire lizards that day. She firmly unwound Beautys tail from her neck and coaxed her to her forearm. “She likes to have her headknob stroked . . .”

“Does she?” Jerint caressed the glowing golden creature. Beauty closed the inner lid of her brilliant eyes and submitted completely to the Master’s touch. “She does.”

“She’s really very friendly, it’s just all that noise and so many people.”

“Well, I find her quite friendly,” Jerint replied, one long calloused and glue-covered finger stroking the little queen with growing confidence as Beauty began to hum with pleasure. “Very friendly indeed. Are dragons’ skins as soft as hers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charming creature. Quite charming. Much more practical than dragons.”

“She sings, too,” said a stocky man sauntering from the back of the hall, wiping his hands on a towel as he came.

As if this newcomer released a hidden spring, a murmurous wave of half giggle, half excited whisperings rippled through the apprentices. The man nodded at Menolly.

“Sings?” asked Jerint, pausing in mid-caress so that Beauty butted her nose at his hand. He continued to stroke the now coyly curved neck. “She sings, Domick?”

“Surely you heard this morning’s glorious descant Jerint?”

This stocky man was Master Domick for whom she must play? True, he wore an old tunic with a faded journeyman’s markings, but no journeyman would have addressed a master by his bare name nor would be so selfassured.

“This morning’s descant?” Jerint blinked with surprise, and some of the bolder apprentices chortled at his confusion. “Yes, I remember thinking the pitch was a bit unusual for pipes, and besides that Saga is traditionally sung without accompaniment, but then Brudegan is always improvising He gave an irritable wave of his hand.

Beauty reared up on Menolly’s arm, startled into fanning her wings for balance and digging her talons painfully through Menolly’s thin sleeve.

“Didn’t mean you, you pretty thing,” Jerint said by way of apology and caressed Beauty’s headknob until she’d subsided to her former position. “But all that sound from this little creature?”

“How many were actually singing, Menolly?” asked Master Domick.

“Only five,” she replied reservedly, thinking of Dunca’s reaction to the figure nine.

“Only five of them?”

The droll tone made her glance apprehensively at the stocky Master, wondering if he were taunting her, since the half-smile on his face gave her no real hint.

“Five!” Master Jerint rocked back on his heels with amazement. “You . . . have five fire lizards?”

“Actually, sir, to be truthful . . .”

“It is wiser to be truthful, Menolly,” agreed Master Domick, and he was teasing her, not too kindly either.

“I Impressed nine fire lizards,” said Menolly in a rush, “because, you see, Thread was falling outside the cave, and the only way I could keep the hatchlings from leaving and getting killed by Thread was to feed them and that . . .”

“Impressed them, of course,” Domick finished for her, when she faltered because Master Jerint was wide-eyed with astonishment and incredulity. “You will really have to add another verse to your song, Menolly, or possibly two.”

“The Masterharper has edited that song as he feels necessary, Master Domick,” she said with what she hoped was quiet dignity.

A slow smile spread across the man’s face.

“It is wiser to be truthful, Menolly. Didn’t you train all your fire lizards to sing?”

“I didn’t actually train them, sir. I played my pipes, and they’d sing along. . .”

“Speaking of pipes, Jerint, this girl has to have an instrument until she can make one herself. Or didn’t Petiron have enough wood to teach you, girl?”

“He explained how. . .” Menolly replied. Did Master Domick think Yanus Sea Holder would have wasted precious timber for a girl to make a harper’s instrument?

“We’ll see in due time bow well you absorbed that explanation. In the meantime, Menolly needs a gitar to play for me and to practice on . . .” He drawled the last two words, his stern glance sweeping around the room at all the watchers.

Everyone was suddenly exceedingly occupied in their interrupted tasks, and the resultant energetic blows, twangs and whistles made Beauty spread her wings and screech in protest.

“I can hardly fault her,” said Domick as Menolly soothed the fire lizard.

“What an extrordinary range of sounds she can make,” remarked Master Jerint.

“A gitar for Menolly? So we can judge the range of sounds she can make?” Domick reminded the man in a bored tone.

“Yes, yes, there’s any number of instruments to choose from,” said Jerint, walking with jerky steps toward the courtyard side of the L-shaped room.

And indeed there were, Menolly realized as they approached the corner clutter of drums, pipes, harps of several sizes and designs, and gitars. The instruments depended from hooks set in the stone and cords attached to the ceiling beams, or sat dustily on shelves, the layers of dust increasing as the instruments went beyond easy range.

“A gitar, you said?” Jerint squinted at the assortment and reached for a gitar, its wood bright with new varnish.

“Not that one.” The words were out before Menolly realized how brash she must sound.

“Not this one?” Jerint, arm still upraised, looked at her. “Why not?” He sounded huffy, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her, there was nothing of the slightly absent-minded craftsman about Master Jerint now.

“Its too green to have any tone.”

“How would you know by looking?”

So, thought Menolly, this is a sort of test for me.

“I wouldn’t choose any instrument on looks, Master Jerint, I’d choose by the sound, but I can see from here that the wood of that gitar is badly joined on the case. The neck is not straight for all it’s been veneered prettily.”

The answer evidently pleased him, for he stepped aside and gestured to her to make her own selection. She picked the strings of one gitar resting against the shelves and absently shook her head, looking further. She saw a case, its wherhide worn but well-oiled. Glancing back at the two men for permission, she opened it and lifted out the gitar; her hands caressed the thin smooth wood, her fingers curling appreciatively about the neck. She placed it before her, running her fingers down the strings, across the opening. Almost reverently she struck a chord, smiling at the mellow sound. Beauty warbled in harmony to the chord she struck and then chirruped happily. Menolly carefully replaced the gitar.

“Why do you put it back? Wouldn’t you choose it?” asked Jerint sharply.

“Gladly, sir, but that gitar must belong to a master. It’s too good to practice on.”

Domick let out a burst of laughter and clapped Jerint on the shoulder.

“No one could have told her that one’s yours, Jerint. Go on, girl, find one just bad enough to practice on but good enough for you to use.”

She tried several others, more conscious than ever that she had to choose well. One sounded sweet to her, but the tuning knobs were so worn that the strings would not keep their pitch through a song. She was beginning to wonder if there was a playable instrument in the lot when she spotted one depending from a hook almost lost in the shadows of the wall. One string was broken, but when she chorded around the missing note, the tone was silky and sweet. She ran her hands around the sound box and was pleased with the feel of the thin wood. The careful hand of its creator had put an intricate pattern of lighter shades of wood around the opening. The tuning knobs were of newer wood than the rest of the gitar but, except for the missing string, it was the best of all but Master Jerint’s.

“I’d like to use this one, if I may?” She held it toward Jerint.

The Master nodded slowly, approvingly, ignoring Domick, who gave him a clout on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a new E string. . .” And Jerint turned to a set of drawers at one end of the shelves, rummaged a moment and brought out a carefully coiled length of gut.

As the string was already looped, she slipped it over the hook, lined it over the bridge and up the neck into the hole of the tuning knob. She was very conscious of intent scrutiny and tried to keep her hands from trembling. She tuned the new string first to the next one, then to the others and struck a true chord; the mellowness of the sound reassured her that she had chosen well.

“Now that you have demonstrated that you can choose well, string and tune, let’s see if you can play the gitar of your choice,” said Domick, and taking her by the elbow, steered her from the workroom.

She had only time to nod her thanks to Master Jerint as the door slammed behind her. Still gripping her arm and unperturbed by Beauty’s hissing, Domick propelled her up the stairs and into a rectangular room built over the entrance archway. It must serve a dual purpose as an office and an additional schoolroom, to judge by the sandtable, the record bins, the wall writing board and the shelves of stored instruments. There were stools pulled back against the walls, but there were also three leathered couches, the first that Menolly had ever seen, with timedarkened armrests and backs, some patched where the original hide had been replaced. Two wide windows, with folding metal shutters, overlooked the broad road to the Hold on one side, the courtyard on the other.

“Play for me,” Domick said, gesturing for her to take a stool as he collapsed into the couch facing the hearth.

His tone was expressionless, his manner so noncommittal that Menolly felt he didn’t expect her to be able to play at all. What little confidence she had gained when she had apparently chosen unexpectedly well ebbed from her. Unnecessarily she struck a tuning chord, fiddled with the knob on the new string, trying to decide what to play to prove her competence. For she was determined to surprise this Master Domick who teased and taunted and didn’t like her having nine fire lizards.

“Don’t sing,” Domick added. “And I want no distraction from her.” He pointed to Beauty still on Menolly’s shoulder. “Just that.” He jabbed his finger at the gitar and then folded his hands across his lap, waiting.

His tone stung Menolly’s pride awake. With no further thought, she struck the opening chords of the “Ballad of Moreta’s Ride” and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows lift in surprise. The chording was tricky enough when voices carried the melody, but to pluck the tune as well as the accompaniment increased the difficulty. She did strike several sour chords because her left hand could not quite make the extensions or respond to the rapid shifts of harmony required, but she kept the rhythm keen and the fingers of her right hand flicked out the melody loud and true through the strumming.

She half-expected him to stop her after the first verse and chorus, but, as he made no sign, she continued, varying the harmony and substituting an alternative fingering where her left hand had faltered. She had launched into the third repetition when he leaned forward and caught her right wrist.

“Enough gitar,” he said, his expression inscrutable. Then he snapped his fingers at her left hand, which she extended in slow obedience. It ached. He turned it palm up, tracing the thick scar so lightly that the tickling sensation made her spine twitch in reaction though she forced herself to keep still. He grunted, noticing where her exertion had split the edge of the wound. “Oldive seen that hand yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And recommended some of his sticky smelly salves, no doubt. If they work, you’ll be able to stretch for the fingerings you missed in the first verse.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I. You’re not supposed to take liberties with the Teaching Ballads and Sagas-“

“So Petiron taught me” she replied with an equally expressionless voice, “but the minor seventh in the second measure is an alternative chording in the Record at HalfCircle Sea Hold.”

“An old variation.”

Menolly said nothing, but she knew from his very sourness that she had played very well indeed, despite her hand, and that Domick didn’t want to be complimentary.

“Now, what other instruments did Petiron teach you to play?”

“Drum, of course.”

“Yes, of course. There’s a small tambour behind you.”

She demonstrated the basic drum rolls, and at his request did a more complex drum dance beat, popular with and peculiar to seaholders. Though his expression remained bland, she saw his fingers twitch in time with the beat and was inwardly pleased by that reaction. Next, she played a simple lullaby on the lap harp, well suited to the light sweet tone of the instrument. He told her he would assume that she could play the great harp but the octave reaches would place too great a strain on her left hand. He handed her an alto pipe, took a tenor one and had her play harmony to his melody line. That was fun, and she could have continued indefinitely because it was so stimulating to play duet.

“Did you have brass at the Sea Hold?”

“Only the straight horn, but Petiron explained the theory of valves, and he said that I could develop a good lip with more practice.”

“I’m glad to hear he didnt neglect brass.” Domick rose. “Well, I can place your instrumental standard. Thank you, Menolly. You may be dismissed for the midday meal.”

With some regret, Menolly reached for the gitar. “Should I return this to Master Jerint now?”

“Of course not.” His expression was still cool, almost rude. “You got it to practice on, remember. And, despite all you know, you will need to practice.”

“Master Domick, whose was this?” She asked the question in a rush, because she had a sudden notion it might be his, which could account for some of his carious antagonism.

“That one? That was Robinton’s journeyman’s gitar.” Then, with a broad grin at her astonishment, Master Domick quit the room.

Menolly remained, still caught by surprise and dismay at her temerity, holding the now doubly precious gitar against her. Would Master Robinton be annoyed, as Master Domick seemed to be, that she had chosen his gitar? Common sense reasserted itself. Master Robinton had much finer instruments now, of course, or why else would his journeyman’s effort be hidden among Jerint’s spares? Then the humor of her choice struck her: of all the gitars there, she had picked the discarded instrument of the Masterharper. Small wonder he was Harper here if this fine gitar had been made when he was still young. She strummed lightly, head bent to catch the sweet mellow quality, smiling as she listened to the soft notes die away. Beauty chirped approvingly from her perch on the shelf. Chirpy echoes about the room apprised her that the other fire lizards had sneaked in.

They all roused and took wing, squeaking, as a loud bell, seemingly right overhead, began to toll. The sharp notes punctuated a pandemonium that erupted from the rooms below and into the courtyard. Apprentices and journeymen, released from their morning classes, spilled into the courtyard, all making the best possible speed to the dining hall, jostling, pushing and shouting in such an excess of spirits that Menolly gasped in surprise. Why some of them must be over twenty Turns old. No seaholder would act that way! Boys of fifteen Turns, her age, were already serving on boats at the Sea Hold. Of course, an exhausting day at sail lines and nets left little energy to expend on running or laughing. Perhaps that was why her parents couldn’t appreciate her music-it wouldn’t appear to be hard work to them. Menolly shook her hands, letting them flap from her wrists. They ached and trembled from the constricted movements and tension of an hour of intensive playing. No, her parents would never understand that playing musical instruments could be as hard work as sailing or fishing.

And she was just as hungry as if she’d been trawling. She hesitated, gitar in hand. She wouldn’t have time to take it back to her room in the cottage. No one in the yard seemed to be carrying instruments. So she put the gitar carefully in a vacant spot on a high shelf, told Beauty and the others to remain where they were. She could just imagine what would happen if she brought her fire lizards to that dining hall. As bad as the noise was now .  . .

Suddenly the courtyard was empty of hurrying folk. She took the stairs as fast as her feet could go and crossed the courtyard with a fair approximation of her normal swinging stride, hoping to enter the dining room unobtrusively. She reached the wide doorway and halted. The hall seemed overly full of bodies, standing in rigid attention at the long tables. Those facing the windows stood taut with expectation while those facing the inner wall seemed to be staring hard at the comer on her right. She was about to look when a hissing to her left attracted her. There was Camo, gesturing and grimacing at her to take one of the three vacant seats at the window table. As quickly as possible, she slid into place.

“Hey,” said the small boy next to her, without moving his head in her direction, “you shouldn’t be here. You should be over there. With them!” He jerked his finger at the long table nearest the hearth.

Craning her head to peer past the screening bodies, Menolly saw the sedate row of girls, backs to the hearth. There was an empty seat at one end.

“No!” The boy grabbed at her hand. “Not now!”

Obeying some signal Menolly couldn’t see, everyone was seated at that precise moment.

“Pretty Beauty? Where’s pretty Beauty?” asked a worried voice at her elbow. “Beauty not hungry?” It was Camo, in each hand a heavy platter piled with roast meat slices.

“Take it quick,” said the boy beside her, giving her a dig in the ribs.

Menolly did so.

“Well, get yours and pass it,” the boy went on.

“Don’t just sit there like a dummy,” added the blackhaired lad opposite her, frowning fiercely and shifting his buttocks on the hard wood of the bench.

“Hey, grab; don’t gab,” ordered another lad, further up the table with considerable irritation at the delay.

Menolly mumbled something, and rather than waste time fumbling for her belt knife, she tweaked the topmost slice from the platter to her plate. The boy across from her deftly snagged four slices on his knife point and transferred them, dripping juices, to his plate. The boy beside her struggled with the heavy platter, taking four slices, too, as he passed it on.

“Should you take so much?” she asked, her surprise at such greed overcoming reticence.

“You don’t starve in the Harper Hall,” he said, gninning broadly. He sliced the first piece into halves, folded one half over neatly with his blade and then shoved it into his mouth, catching the juices with his finger, which he managed to lick despite the mouthful he was busy chewing.

His assurance was borne out by the deep bowl of tubers and roots, and the basket of sliced breads, which Camo deposited beside her. From these Menolly helped herself more liberally, passing the dishes along as quickly as she could.

“You’re Menolly, aren’t you?” asked the boy beside her, his mouth still full.

She nodded.

“Was it really your fire lizards singing this morning?”

“Yes.”

Whatever lingering embarrassment for that incident Menolly retained was dispersed in the giggle from her table companion and the sly grins of those near enough to overhear the conversation.

“You should’ve seen Bruddie’s face!”

“Bruddie?”

“Journeyman Brudegan to us apprentices, of course. He’s choir leader this season. First he thought it was me pulling a stunt, ‘cause I sing high treble. So he stood right beside me. I didn’t know what was up, a’course. Then he went on to Feldon and Bonz, and that’s when I could hear what was happening.” The boy had so engaging a grin that Menolly found herself smiling back. “Shells, but Bruddie jumped about. He couldn’t trace the sound. Then one of the basses pointed out the window!” The boy chortled, suppressing the sound when it rose above the general level of table noise. “How’d you train ‘em to do that, huh? I didn’t know you could get fire lizards to sing. Dragon’ll hum, but only when it’s Hatching time. Can anyone teach a fire lizard to sing? And do you really have eleven all your own?”

“I’ve only got nine-“

“Only nine, she says,” and the boy rolled his eyes, encouraging his tablemates to second his envious response. “I’m Piemur,” he added as an afterthought of courtesy.

“She shouldn’t be here,” complained the lad immediately opposite Menolly. He spoke directly to Piemur, as if by ignoring Menolly he could be rude. He was bigger and older looking than Piemur. “She belongs over there with them.” And he jerked his head backward, toward the girls at the hearth table.

“Well, she’s here now, and fine where she is, Ranly,” said Piemur with unexpected aggressiveness. “She couldn’t very well change once we were seated, could she? And besides, I heard that she’s to be an apprentice, same as us. Not one of them.”

“Aren’t they apprentices?” asked Menolly, inclining her head in the girls’ general direction.

“Them?” Piemur’s astounded query was as scornful as the look on Ranly’s face. “No!” The drawl in his negative put the girls in an inferior category. “They’re in the special class with the journeymen, but they’re not apprentices. No road!”

‘They’re a right nuisance,” said Ranly with rich contempt.

“Yeah, they are,” said Piemur with a reflective sigh, “but if they weren’t here, I’d have to sing treble in the plays, and that’d be dire! Hey, Bonz, pass the meat back.” Suddenly he let out a startled yip. “Feldon! I asked first. You’ve no right . . .” A boy had taken the last slice as he handed down the platter.

The other boys shushed Piemur vigorously, darting apprehensive glances toward the right corner.

“But it’s not fair. I asked,” Piemur said, lowering his voice slightly but not his insistence. “And Menolly only had one slice. She should get more than that!”

Menolly wasn’t certain if Piemur was more outraged on her behalf or his own, but someone nudged her right arm. It was Camo.

“Camo feed pretty Beauty?”

“Not now, Camo. They’re not hungry now,” Menolly assured him because his thick features registered such anxiety.

“They’re not hungry, but she is, Camo,” Piemur said, shoving the meat platter at Camo. “More meat, Camo. More meat, please, Camo?”

“More meat please,” Camo repeated, jerking his head to his chest; and before Menolly could say anything, he had shuffled off to the comer of the dining hall where sliding shelves brought food directly up from the kitchen.

The boys were sniggering with the success of Piemur’s strategem, but they wiped their faces clear of amusement when Camo shuffled back with a well-laden platter.

“Thank you very much, Camo,” Menolly said, taking another thick slice. She couldn’t fault the boys for their greed. The meat was tasty and tender, quite different from the tough or salted stuff she was used to at Half-Circle Sea Hold.

Another slab was dumped onto her plate.

“You don’t eat enough , “ Piemur said, scowling at her.

“Too bad she’ll have to sit with the others,” he told his tablemates as he passed the platter. “Camo likes her. And her fire lizards.”

“Did he really feed them with you?” asked Ranly. He sounded doubtful and envious.

“They don’t frighten him,” Menolly said, amazed at how fast news of everything spread in this place.

“They wouldn’t frighten me,” Piemur and Ranly assured her on the same breath.

“Say, you were at Impression at Benden Weyr, weren’t you?” asked Piemur, nudging Ranly to be silent. “Did you see Lord Jaxom Impress the white dragon? How big is he really? Is he going to live?”

“I was at the Impression . . .”

“Well, don’t go off in a trance,” said Ranly. “Tell us! All we get is secondhand information. That is, if the masters and journeymen think we apprentices ought to know.” He sounded sour and disgusted.

“Oh, shell it, Ranly,” “ Piemur suggested. “So what happened, Menolly?”

“I was in the tiers, and Lord Jaxom was sitting below me with an older man and another boy . . .”

“That’d be Lord Warder Lytol, who’s raised him, and the boy was probably Felessan. He’s the son of the Weyrleader and Lessa.”

“I know that, Piemur. Go on, Menolly.”

“Well, all the other dragon eggs had hatched, and there was just the little one left. Jaxom suddenly got up and ran along the edge of the tier, shouting for help. Then he jumped onto the Hatching Ground and started kicking the egg and slashing at the thick membrane inside. The next thing, the little white dragon had fallen out and . . .”

“Impression!” Piemur finished for her, bringing his hands together. “Just like I told you, Ranly, you simply have to be in the right place at the right time. Luck, that’s all it is. Luck!” Piemur seemed to be pressing an old argument with his friend. “Some people got a lot of luck; some don’t.” He turned back to Menolly. “I heard you were daughter of the Sea Holder at Half-Circle.”

“I’m in the Harper Hall now, aren’t I?”

Piemur stretched out his hands as if that should end the discussion.

Menolly turned back to her dinner. Just as she finished mopping the last of the juices on her plate with bread, the shimmering sound of a gong brought instant silence to the hall. A single bench scraped across the stone floor as a journeyman rose from the top oval table at the far end of the hall.

“Afternoon assignments are: by the sections; apprentice hall, 10; yard, 9; Hold, 8; and no sweeping behind the doors this time or you’ll do an extra half-day. Section 7, barns; 6, 5 and 4, fields; 3 is assigned to the Hold and 2 and 1 to the cothalls. Those who reported sick this morning are to attend Master Oldive. Players are not to be late this evening, and the call is for the twentieth hour.”

The man sat down to the accompaniment of exaggerated sighs of relief, groans of complaint and mumbles.

Piemur was not pleased. “The yard again!” Then he turned to Menolly. “Anyone mention a section number to you?”

“No,” Menolly replied, although Silvina had mentioned the term. “Not yet,” she added as she caught Ranly’s black stare.

“You have all the luck.”

The gong broke through the rumble of reaction, and the bench under Menolly began to move out from under her. Everyone was rising, so Menolly had to rise, too. But she stood in place as the others swarmed by, milling to pass through the main entrance, laughing, shoving, complaining. Two boys started gathering plates and mugs, and Menolly, at a loss, reached for a plate to have it snatched out of her hand by an indignant lad.

“Hey, you’re not in my section, “ he said in an accusing tone, tinged with surprise, and went about his task.

Menolly jumped at a light touch on her shoulder, stared and then apologized to the man who had come up beside her.

“You are Menolly?” he asked, a hint of displeasure in his tone. He had such a high-bridged nose that he seemed to have difficulty focusing beyond it. His face was lined with dissatisfaction, and a sallow complexion set off by graying locks tinged with yellow did nothing to alter the general impression he gave of supercilious discontent.

“Yes, sir, I’m Menolly.”

“I am Master Morshal, Craftmaster in Musical Theory and Composition. Come, girl, one can’t hear oneself think in this uproar,” and he took her by the arm and began to lead her from the hall, the throng of boys parting before him, as if they felt his presence and wished to avoid any encounter. “The Masterharper wants my opinion on your knowledge of musical theory.”

Menolly was given to understand by the tone of his voice that the Masterharper relied on Master Morshal’s opinion in this and other far more important matters.

And she also gathered the distinct impression that Morshal didn’t expect her to know very much.

Menolly was sorry she had eaten so heartily because the food was beginning to weigh uneasily in her stomach. Morshal was obviously already predisposed against her.

“Pssst! Menolly!” A hoarse whisper attracted her attention to one side. Piemur ducked out from behind a taller boy, jerked his thumb upward in an easily interpreted gesture of encouragement. He rolled his eyes at the oblivious Morshal, grinned impudently and then popped out of sight in his group.

But the gesture heartened her. Funny-looking kid, Piemur was, with his tangle of tight black curls, missing half a front tooth and by far the smallest of the apprentice lot. How kind of him to reassure her.

When Menolly realized that Master Morshal must be taking her to the archroom, she sent a mental command to the fire lizards to stay quiet or go find a sunny roof until she called them again. There wasn’t so much as a rustle or a chirp when she and Morshal entered. With a resigned attitude, he seated himself on the only backed chair at the sandtable. As he didn’t indicate that she could seat herself, she remained standing.

“Now, recite for me the notes in a C major chord,” he said.

She did so. He regarded her steadily for a moment, and blinked.

“What notes would comprise a major fifth in C?”

When she had answered that, he began to fire questions at her, irritable if she paused, however briefly, to reply, but Petiron had drilled her too often the same way. Morshal’s bored expression was disconcerting but, as his queries became more and more complex, she suddenly realized that he was taking examples from various traditional Sagas and Ballads. Once he mentioned the signature and which chord, it was simple enough for her to visualize the record hide and recite from memory.

Suddenly he grunted and then murmured in his throat. Abruptly he asked her if she’d been taught the drum.

When she admitted some knowledge, he asked tedious questions about basic beats in each time factor. How would she vary the beat? Now, as to finger positions on a tenor pipe, what closures did one make for a chord in F? He took her through scales again. She could have demonstrated more quickly, but he gave her no chance to suggest it.

“Stand still, girl,” he said testily as she shifted her throbbing feet. “Shoulders back, feet together, girl, head up.” He heard a soft twitter, but as he’d been glaring at Menolly, it was obvious she hadn’t opened her lips. He glanced about, to seek the source, as Menolly silently reassured Beauty and urged silence. “Don’t slouch. What was my question?”

She told him, and he continued the barrage. The more she answered, the more he asked. Her feet were aching so that she had to ask permission to sit, if only briefly. But, to her amazement, before she could, Morshal abruptly stabbed a finger at the stool next to him. She hesitated, not quite believing the gesture.

“Sit! sit! sit!” he said in an excess of irritation at her delay. “Now, let’s see if you know anything about writing down what you’ve been repeating so glibly.”

So she’d been answering correctly, and he was annoyed because she knew so much. Her flagging spirits lifted, and as Master Morshal dictated musical notations, her fingers drove the pointer quickly over the sands. In her mind, a different, kinder voice dictated; and the exercise became a game, rather than an examination by a prejudiced judge.

“Well, move back so I can see what you’ve written.” Morshal’s testy voice recalled her to the present.

He peered at her inscriptions, pursed his lips, humphed and sat back. He gestured peremptorily for her to smooth the sand surface and rapidly gave her another set of chords. They included some difficult modulations and time values, but after the first two, she recognized the “Riddle Song” and was very glad Petiron had made her learn the haunting tune.

“That’s enough of that,” Master Morshal said, drawing his overtunic about him with quick, angry motions. “Now, have you an instrument?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get it and that third score from the top shelf. Over there. Be quick about it.”

Menolly hissed to herself as she stepped on her throbbing feet. Sitting had not relieved the swelling, and her feet felt thick at the ankles and stiff.

“Hurry up, girl. Don’t waste my time.”

Beauty gave a soft hiss, too, from her perch on the top shelf, unlidding her eyes, and from the rustling sounds in the same general area, Menolly knew the other fire lizards had roused. With her back to Master Morshal, she gestured to Beauty to close her eyes and be quiet. She cringed at the thought of Master Morshal’s probable reaction to fire lizards.

“I said to hurry, girl.”

She shuffled to the place where she had laid the gitar and hurried back with instrument and music. The Master took the hides, his lips twitching with annoyance as he turned the thick leaves. This was new copying, Menolly saw, for the hide was almost white and the notes clear and easily read. The hide edges were neatly trimmed, too, the lines going from margin to margin, to be sure, but no notes lost in decayed edges.

“There! Play me that!” The music was slid across the sandtable with-Menolly thought, somewhat shocked-complete disregard for the value of the work.

By some freak of chance, Master Morshal had chosen the “Ballad of Moreta’s Ride.” She’d never manage the verse chords as written, and he’d fault her if she couldn’t.

“Sir, my . . .” she began, holding out her left hand.

“I want no excuses. Either you can play it as written or I assume that you are unable to perform a traditional work to a creditable standard.”

Menolly ran her fingers across the strings to see if the tuning had held.

“Come, come. If you can read written scores, you can play them.”

That was assuming a lot, Menolly thought to herself. But she struck the opening chords and, mindful that he was undoubtedly waiting for her to falter, she played the so well-known Ballad according to the score before her, rather than by rote. There were variations in the chords: two of which were easily managed, but she flubbed the fourth and fifth because her scarred hand would not stretch.

“I see, I see,” he said, waving her to stop, but he looked oddly pleased. “You cannot play accurately at tempo. Very well, that is all. You are dismissed.”

“I beg your pardon, Master Morshal . . .” Menolly began, again extending her hand as explanation.

“You what?” He glared at her, his eyes wide with incredulity that she seemed to be defying him. “Out! I just dismissed you! What is the world coming to when girls presume to be harpers and pretend to compose music! Out! Great shells and stars!” His voice changed from scold to panic. “What’s that? What are they? Who let them in here?”

Already making her way down the steps, Menolly lost her anger with him at the fright in his voice. His anger had roused her friends, and since she was apparently in danger, they had rushed to protect her, by squeaking and diving at him. She laughed as she heard the slamming of a heavy door, and as instantly regretted the scene. Master Morshal would be against her, and that would not make her life easy in the Harper Hall. “Nothing to fear from harpers?” Was that what T’gellan had said last night? Maybe not fear, but certainly she was going to have to be cautious with them. Perhaps she ought not to have been so knowledgeable about music; that had irritated him. But wasn’t that knowledge what he was testing? Once again, she wondered if there really was a place for her here? Presume to be a harper? No, she hadn’t, and it was up to Master Robinton, wasn’t it? Were Master Morshal and Master Domick part of the conventional procedures Master Robinton had mentioned? Even if she needn’t have much to do with them, she sensed their antagonism and dislike.

She sighed and turned on the landing for the second flight and stopped. Piemur was in the hall, motionless, his eyes enormous as he followed the excited flitting of the fire lizards. Lazy and Uncle had subsided to the banister.

“I’m not seeing things?” he asked her, watching Lazy and Uncle with apprehensive gaze. From the hand held rigid at his side, the forefinger indicated the two fire lizards.

“No, you’re not. The brown one is Lazy, and the blue is Uncle.”

His eyes followed the flight of the others a moment longer, trying to count. Then they popped out further as Beauty landed daintily on Menolly’s shoulder, in her usual position.

“This is Beauty, the queen.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Piemur kept staring as Menolly descended to the floor level.

Beauty stretched her neck, her eyes whirling gently as she returned his look. Suddenly she blinked her eyes, and so did Piemur, which made Menolly giggle.

“No wonder Camo was cracking his shell over her.” Then Piemur shook himself, all over, like a fire lizard shedding seawater. “I was sent to bring you to Master Shonagar.”

“Who’s he?” asked Menolly, weary enough from the session with Master Morshal.

“Old Marshface give you a hard time? Don’t worry about it. You’ll like Master Shonagar; he’s my Master, he’s the Voice Master. He’s the best.” Piemur’s face lit up with real enthusiasm. “And he said that if you can sing half as well as your fire lizards do, you’re an assss ... atest ... ?”

“Asset?” It amused Menolly to be so considered by anyone.

“That’s the word. And he said that it didn’t really matter if you croaked like a watchwher, so long as you could get the fire lizards to sing. Do you think she likes me?” he added, for he hadn’t stopped staring at Beauty. Nor had he moved.

“Why not?”

“She keeps staring at me so, and her eyes are whirling.” He gestured absently with one hand.

“You’re staring at her.”

Piemur blinked again and looked at Menolly, smiling shyly and giggling a bit self-consciously. “Yeah, I was, wasn’t I? Sorry about that, Beauty. I know it’s rude, but I’ve always wanted to see a fire lizard! Hey, Menolly, c’mon,” and now Piemur moved off at a half-run, gesturing urgently for Menolly to follow him across the courtyard. “Master Shonagar’s waiting, and I know you’re new here, but you don’t ever keep a master waiting. And say, can you keep them from following us, ‘cause they might sing, and Master Shonagar did say it was you he wanted to hear sing today, not them again.”

“They’ll be quiet if I ask them to.”

“Ranly, he sat across the table from you, he’s from Crom and he’s so smart, he says they only mimic.”

“Oh no, they don’t.”

“Glad to hear that, because I told him they’re just as smart as dragons, and he wouldn’t believe me.” Piemur had been leading her toward the big ball where the chorus been practicing that morning. “Hurry up, Menolly. Masters hate to be kept waiting, and I’ve been gone awhile tracking you down.”

“I can’t walk fast,” Menolly said, gritting her teeth at the pain of each step.

“You sure are walking funny. What’s the matter with your feet?”

Menolly wondered that he hadn’t heard that tidbit of news. “I got caught away from the cave just at Threadfall. I had to run for safety.”

Piemur’s eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets. “You ran?” His voice squeaked. “Ahead of Thread?”

“I ran my shoes off my feet and the skin as well.”

Menolly had no chance to speak further because Piemur had brought her to the hall door. Before she could adjust her eyes to the darkness within the huge room, she was told not to gawk but come forward at a proper pace, he detested dawdling.

“With respect, sir, Menolly’s feet were injured outrunning Thread,” said Piemur, just as if he’d always been in possession of this truth. “She’s not the dawdling kind.”

Now Menolly could see the barrel-shaped figure seated at the massive sandtable opposite the entrance.

“Proceed at your own pace then, for surely a girl who outruns Thread has learned not to dawdle.” The voice flowed out of the darkness, rich, round, with the r’s rolled and the vowel sounds pure and ringing.

The other fire lizards swooped in through the open door, and the Master’s eyes widened slightly. He regarded Menolly in mock surprise.

“Piemur!” The single word stopped the boy in his tracks, and the volume, which startled Menolly, caused Piemur to flick her a grin. “Did you not convey my message accurately? The creatures were not to come.”

“They follow her everywhere, Master Shonagar, only she says they’ll be quiet if she tells them to.”

Master Shonagar turned his heavy head to regard Menolly with hooded eyes.

“So tell them!”

Menolly detached Beauty from her shoulder and ordered them all to perch themselves quietly. And not to make a single sound until she said they could.

“Well,” remarked Master Shonagar, turning his head slightly to observe the obedience of the fire lizards. “That is a welcome sight, surrounded as I generally am by mass disobedience.” He glared narrow-eyed at Piemur, who had had the temerity to giggle, and, at Master Shonagar’s stare, tried to assume a sober expression. “I’ve had enough of your bold face, Piemur, and your dilatory manner. Take them away!”

“Yes, sir,” said Piemur cheerfully, and twisting about on his heels, he marched himself smartly to the door, pausing to give Menolly an encouraging wave as he skipped down the steps.

“Rascal,” said the Master in a mock growl as he flicked his fingers at Menolly to take the stool opposite him. “I’m given to believe that Petiron ended his days as Harper at your Hold, Menolly.”

She nodded, tacitly reassured by his unexpected willingness to address her by name.

“And he taught you to play instruments and to understand musical theory?”

Menolly nodded again.

“In which Masters Domick and Morshal have examined you today.” Some dryness in his tone alerted her, and she regarded him more warily as he tilted his heavy head sideways on his massive shoulders. “And did Petiron,” and now the bass voice rolled with a hint of coming displeasure, so that Menolly wondered if her original assessment of this man was wrong and he was just as prejudiced as cynical Domick and soured Morshal, “did he have the audacity to teach you how to use your voice?”

“No, sir. At least, I don’t think he did. We . . . we just sang together.”

“Ha!” And the huge hand of Master Shonagar came down so forcefully on the sand table that the drier portions jumped in their frames. “You just sang together. As you sang together with those fire lizards of yours?”

Her friends chirped inquiringly.

“Silence!” he cried, with another sand-displacing thump on the table.

Somewhat to Menolly’s surprise, because Master Shonagar had startled her again, the fire lizards flipped their wings to their backs and settled down.

“Well?”

“Did I just sing with them? Yes, I did.”

“As you used to sing with Petiron?”

“Well, I used to sing descant to Petiron’s melody, and the fire lizards usually do the descant now.”

“That was not precisely what I meant. Now, I wish you just to sing for me.”

“What, sir?” she asked, reaching for the gitar slung across her back.

“No, not with that,” and he waved at her impatiently. “Sing, not concertize. The voice only is important now, not how you mask vocal inadequacies with pleasant strumming and clever harmony. I want to hear the voice. . . It is the voice we communicate with, the voice which utters the words we seek to impress on men’s minds, the voice which evokes emotional response; tears, laughter, sense. Your voice is the most important, most complex, most amazing instrument of all. And if you cannot use that voice properly, effectively, you might just as well go back to whatever insignificant hold you came from.”

Menolly had been so fascinated by the richness and variety of the Master’s tones that she didn’t really pay heed to the content.

“Well?” he demanded.

She blinked at him, drawing in her breath, belatedly aware that he was waiting for her to sing.

“No, not like that! Dolt! You breathe from here,” and his fingers spread across his barrel-width midsection, pressing in so that the sound from his mouth reflected that pressure. “Through the nose, so . . .” and he inhaled, his massive chest barely rising as it was filled, “down the windpipe,” and he spoke on a single musical note, “to the belly,” and the voice dropped an octave. “You breathe from your belly . . . if you breathe properly.”

She took the breath as suggested and then expelled it because she didn’t know what to sing with all that breath.

“For the sake of the Hold that protects us,” and he raised his eyes and hands aloft as if he could grasp patience from thin air, “the girl simply sits there. Sing, Menolly, sing!”

Menolly was quite willing to, but he had so much to say before she could start or think of what to sing.

She took another quick breath, felt uncomfortable seated, and without asking, stood and launched into the same song that the apprentices had been singing that morning. She had a brief notion of showing him that he wasn’t the only one who could fill the hall with resounding tones, but some fragment of advice from Petiron came to mind, and she concentrated on singing intensely, rather than loudly.

He just looked at her.

She held the last note, letting it die away as if the singer were moving off, and then she sank down onto the stool. She was trembling, and now that’ she’d stopped singing, her feet began to throb in a dull beat.

Master Shonagar only sat there, great folds of chin billowing down his chest. Without lifting his hand, he tilted his body backward and stared at her from under his fleshy and black-haired brows.

“And you say that Petiron never taught you to use your voice?”

“Not the way you did,” and Menolly pressed her hands demonstratively against her flat belly. “He told me always to sing with my gut and heart. I can sing louder,” she added, wondering if that’s why Shonagar was frowning.

He waggled his fingers. “Any idiot can bellow. Camo can bellow. But he can’t sing.”

“Petiron used to say, ‘If you sing loud, they only bear noise, not sound or song.’”

“Ha! He told you that? My words! My words exactly. So he did listen to me, after all.” The last was delivered in an undertone to himself. “Petiron was wise enough to know his limitations.”

Silently Menolly bridled at the aspersion. From the window ledge, Beauty hissed, and Rocky and Diver echoed her sentiment. Master Shonagar raised his head and regarded them in mild perplexity.

“So?” and he fixed his deep eyes on her. “What the mistress feels the pretty creatures echo? And you loved Petiron and will hear no ill-word against him?” He leaned forward slightly, wagging a forefinger at her. “Know this, Menolly who runs, we all have limitations, and wise is he who recognizes them. I meant,” and he settled back into his chair, “no disrespect for the departed Petiron. For me that was praise.” He tilted his head again. “For you, the best thing possible; for Petiron had sense enough not to meddle but to wait until I could attend to your vocal education. Temper and refine what is natural-and produce . . .” now Master Shonagar’s left eyebrow was jerking up and down, the one arching while the other remained unmoved, so that Menolly was fascinated by his control, “. . . produce a well-placed, proper singing voice.” The Master exhaled hugely.

Then Menolly took in the sense of what he’d been saying, no longer distracted by his facial contortions.

“You mean, I can sing?”

“Any idiot on Pern can sing,” the Master said disparagingly. “No more talk. I’m weary.” He began brushing her away from him. “Take those other sweet-throated freaks along with you, too. I’ve had enough of their baleful looks and assorted noises.”

“I’ll see that they stay . . .”

“Stay away? No.” Shonagar’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Bring them. They learn from example, one assumes. So you will set them a good example.” A distant look clouded his face, and then a slow smile tugged up the comers of his mouth. “Go, Menolly. Go now. All this has wearied me beyond belief.”

With that, he leaned his elbow on the sandtable so heavily that the opposite end left the floor. He cushioned his head against his fist and, while Menolly watched bemused, began to snore. Although she didn’t think any human could fall asleep so quickly, she obeyed the implicit dismissal and, beckoning to her fire lizards, quietly departed.