Dragonsinger (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “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 time-darkened 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 Half-Circle 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 didn’t ne
glect 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 curious 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 corner 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 black-haired 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 Mall,” he said, grinning 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 corner of the dining hall where sliding shelves brought food directly up from the kitchen.

  The boys were sniggering with the success of Piemur’s stratagem, 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.”