Yes, but you can't make a fire lizard stay with you if you’re mean to him,” said Piemur flatly. “I heard that Lord Meron’s disappears for days.”
“Where do they go?” asked Brolly.
As Menolly didn’t know, she was just as glad that the eerie sound, which Domick had said was the Thread alarm, sounded, effectively ending the conversation.
“That means Thread is directly over us,” said Piemur, hunching his shoulders and pointing toward the ceiling. “Look at that!” And Brolly’s startled exclamation made everyone turn about.
On the mantel behind her were ranged all nine fire lizards; their eyes sparkling with rainbow reflections of intense agitation, their wings spread, talons unsheathed. They were hissing, retracting and extending their tongues as if licking imaginary Thread from the air.
Menolly half rose, glancing toward the round table. She saw Domick nodding permission to her as he, too, got to his feet. He was gesturing to someone at the journeymen’s tables.
“The alarm chorus would be appropriate, Brudegan,” he called as he crossed to the hearth, a wary eye on the fire lizards.
Menolly motioned to Beauty, but the little queen ignored her, rising to her haunches and starting to keen a piercing series of notes, up and down an almost inaudibly high octave. The others joined her.
“For the sake of our ears, Menolly, can you get your creatures to sing with the chorus now? Brudegan, where’s your beat?”
Feet began to stamp, one, two, three, four, and suddenly the fire lizards’ keen was covered by the mass chorus. Beauty fanned her wings in surprise, and Mimic backwinged himself off the mantel, only missing a drop to the floor by claws biting into the wood.
“Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Harper, strike, and soldier, go…”
sang the massed voices. Menolly joined in, singing directly to the fire lizards. She was aware of Brudegan, then Sebell and Talmor coming to stand beside her, but facing the boys. Brudegan directed, cueing in the parts, the descant on the refrain. Above the male voices, pure and piercingly thrilling, rang the fire lizards’ tone, weaving their own harmonies about the melody.
The last triumphant note echoed through the corridors of the Harper Hall. And from the doorway to the outer hall, there came a sigh of pleasure. Menolly saw the kitchen drudges, an utterly entranced Camo among them, standing there, every face wreathed with smiles.
“I’d say that a rendition of ‘Moreta’s Ride’ might be in order, if you think your friends would oblige us,” Brudegan said, with a slight bow to Menolly and a gesture to take his place.
Beauty, as if she understood what had been said, gave a complacent chirp, blinking the first lids across her eyes so that those nearest laughed. That startled her, and she fanned her wings as if scolding them for impudence. That prompted more laughter, but Beauty was now watching Menolly.
“Give the beat, Menolly,” said Brudegan, and because his manner indicated that he expected her obedience, she raised her hands and sketched the time.
The chorus responded at the upstroke, and she experienced a curious sense of power as she realized that these voices were hers to direct. Beauty led the fire lizards in another dizzy climb of sound, but they sang the melody, octaves above the baritones who introduced the first stanza of the Ballad, to the muted humming of the other parts. The baritones, Menolly felt, were not really watching her: she signaled for more intensity because, after all, the Ballad told of a tragedy. The singers gave more depth to their part. Menolly had often led the evening sings at the Half-Circle Sea Hold, so conducting was not new to her. It was the quality of the singers, their responsiveness to her signals, that made as much difference, as chalk from cheese.
Once the baritones had finished telling of the dread sickness in the land, which had struck with incredible speed across the breath of Pern, the full chorus quietly introduced the refrain, of Moreta secluded with her queen, Orlith, who is about to clutch in Fort Weyr, while the healers from all holds and Weyrs try to isolate the form of the disease and find a cure. The tenors take up the narration, with increasing intensity, the basses and baritones emphasizing the plight of the land, herdbeasts left untended, wherries breaking into crops as holders, crafters, dragonfolk alike are consumed by the dread fever.
A bass sings the solo of Capiam, Masterhealer of Pern, who isolates the illness and suggests its cure. Those dragonriders who are still able to stay on their beasts, fly to the rain forests of Nabol and Ista, to find and deliver to Capiam the all-important seeds that contain the cure, some riders dying with the effort as they complete their task.
A dialogue between baritone, Capiam, and the soprano; Moreta was sung, Menolly was only vaguely cognizant, by Piemur. Excitement builds as Moreta, once Orlith has clutched, is the only healthy dragonrider at the Fort and one of the few immune to the disease. It is up to her to deliver the medicine. Moreta, pushing herself and her queen to the limits of their endurance, flies between from hold to hold, crafthall to cot, from Weyr to Weyr. The final verse, a dirge with keening descant, this time so appropriately rendered by the fire lizards that Menolly waved the humans silent, ended in the sorrowful farewell of a world to its heroines as Orlith, the dying Moreta on her back, seeks the oblivion of between.
Such a deep silence followed the soft final chord that shook off the spell of the song with difficulty.
“I wonder if we could ever repeat that again,” Brudegan said slowly, thoughtfully, after a further moment of almost unendurable silence. A sigh of release from the thrall of the music spread through the hall.
“It’s the fire lizards,” said the very soft voice of the usually impudent Piemur.
“You’re right, Piemur,” Brudegan replied, considering the suggestion, and there was a murmur of assent from the others.
Menolly had taken a seat, her knees shaking and her insides gripped by a rhythmic shuddering. She took a sip of the klah remaining in her cup; cold or not, it helped.
“Menolly, do you think they’d sing like that again?” Brudegan asked, dropping to the bench beside her.
Menolly blinked at him, as much because she hadn’t had time to recover from the extraordinary experience of directing a trained group as because he, as journeyman, was asking the advice of the newest arrival in the Harper Craft Hall.
“They sang fine with me yesterday, sir,” said Piemur. Then he giggled. “Menolly told Master Shonagar that it’s hard to keep ’em quiet when you don’t want ’em singing. Right, Menolly?” Piemur chortled again, all his impudence revived. “That’s what happened the other morning, sir, when you didn’t know who was singing.”
To Menolly’s relief, Brudegan laughed heartily, evidently reconciled. Menolly managed a shy and apologetic smile for that untoward incident, but the chorus leader was watching the fire lizards now. They were preening their wingtips or glancing about the room at all the people, oblivious to the sensation they had just caused.
“Pretties sing pretty,” said Camo, appearing beside Menolly and Brudegan, a pitcher of steaming klah in one hand. He poured some into each empty cup, and then Menolly noticed that the drink was being served throughout the hall.
“You liked their singing, eh, Camo?” asked Brudegan, taking a judicious sip from his mug. “Sing higher than Piemur here, and he’s got the best voice we’ve had in many a Turn. As if he didn’t know it.” Brudegan reached across the table to ruffle Piemur’s hair.
“Pretties sing again?” asked Camo plaintively.
“They can sing any time they like for all of me,” Brudegan replied, nodding to Menolly. “But right now, I want to get some practice done. We’ve that big chorale work to polish properly before Lord Groghe’s entertainment.” With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and tapped an empty klah pot for silence. “Don’t stop them if they feel like singing, Menolly,” he added, inclining his head toward the fire lizards. “Now, then, you lot. We’ll begin with the tenor solo, Fesnal, if you please…” And Brudegan pointed to one of the journeymen who rose to his feet.
Menolly almost laughed aloud. Yet, she reflected, this was what life should be in a Harper Hall: music, morning, noon, afternoon and evening. She couldn’t have enough of it, and yet, she could now see the logic of afternoons spent on other chores. Her fingertips ached from the harp strings, and her scar felt hot and pulsed. She massaged her hand, but that was too painful. She’d left the jar of numbweed in the cot, which meant she’d have to wait until after Threadfall to get easement. She wondered if the girls knew what went on in the Harper Hall during Threadfall. Hadn’t Piemur said they were up at the Hold during Fall? She shrugged; she was far happier to be here.
Once more the eerie alarm cut through other sounds. Brudegan abruptly ended the practice, thanking his chorus members for their attention and hard work. Then he stood back politely as a tall older journeyman walked quietly to the fireplace, raising his hands unnecessarily for attention.
“Everyone remembers his duties now?” There was a murmur of assent. “Good. As soon as the doors are open, join your sections. With luck and Fort Weyr’s usual efficiency, we’ll be back in the Hall by suppertime…”
“I’ve meatrolls for the outside crews,” announced Silvina, standing up at the round table. “Camo, take the tray and stand by the door!”
A second weird hooting, and then the clang and ring of metal and a ponderous creaking. Menolly half wished that she were in a position to see the Hall doors working as light began to flood the outer hallway. A cheer went up, and the boys surged toward the entrance, some going across the tide to take meatrolls from Camo’s patiently held tray.
Then the dining hall shutters clanked back, the afternoon sunlight an assault on eyes accustomed to the softer illumination from glow baskets.
“Here they come! Here come!” rose the shout, and the flow toward the door became a scramble, despite the attempts of masters and journeymen to keep an orderly pace.
“We can see as well from the windows, Menolly. Come on!” Piemur tugged at her sleeve.
The fire lizards reacted to the excitement, streaking through the open windows. Menolly saw the spiral of dragons descending in wings to the ground beyond the Hall courtyard. Truly they made a magnificent sight. The sky seemed to be as clogged with dragons as just recently it must have been with Thread. The boys let out a cheer, and Menolly saw the dragonriders lifting their arms in response to the hurray! She might have lost her fear of Thread, of being caught out holdless, but she would never lose that lift of heart at the sight of the great dragons who protected all Pern from the ravages of Thread.
“Menolly!”
She whirled at the sound of her name and saw Silvina standing there, a slight frown creasing her wide forehead. For the first time since morning, Menolly wondered what she had done wrong now.
“Menolly, has nothing been forwarded to you from Benden Weyr in the way of clothes? I know that Master Robinton dragged you out of there with scant time to assemble yourself…”
Menolly could say nothing, realizing that Dunca had complained about her tattered trousers to Silvina. The headwoman was giving her clothes a keen scrutiny.
“Well, for once,” and Silvina’s admission was grudging, “Dunca is right. Your clothes are worn to the woof. Can’t have that. You’ll give the Harper Craft a bad name, wandering about in rags, however attached to them you may be.”
“Silvina, I…”
“Great shells, child, I’m not angry with you!” And Silvina took Menolly’s chin firmly in her hand and made her look eye to eye. “I’m furious with myself for not thinking! Not to mention giving that Dunca a chance to snipe at you! Only don’t go repeating that, please, for Dunca’s useful to me in her own way. Not that you talk much anyhow. Haven’t heard you put two sentences together yet. There now! What have I said to distress you? You just come along with me.” And Silvina took Menolly firmly by the elbow and marched her toward the complex of storage rooms at the back of the Harper Hall on the kitchen level.
“There’s been so much excitement these days, I haven’t any more wit about me than Camo. But then, every apprentice is supposed to come with two decent sets of clothing, new or nearly new, so it never occurred to me. And you having come from Benden Weyr, I thought…though you weren’t there long enough, now, were you?”
“Felena gave me the skirt and tunic, and they took my measure for boots…”
“And Master Robinton threw you a-dragonback before you could say a word. Well now, let’s just see,” and Silvina unlocked a door, flipped open a glow basket to illuminate a storeroom stacked from floor to ceiling with bolts of cloth, clothing, boots, hides made or uncut, sleeping furs and rolls of tapestries and rugs. She gave Menolly another appraising look, turning her from side to side. “We’ve more that’s suitable for boys and men from the Weaver and Tanner Halls…”
“I’d really prefer trousers.”
Silvina chuckled kindly. ‘You’re lanky enough to wear them well, I must say, and since you’re to be using an instrument, trousers will be handier than skirts. But you ought to have some finery, child. It does lift the spirit and there’re gathers…” She was sorting through folded skirts of black and brown, which she replaced disdainfully. “Now this…” and she pulled out a bolt of rich, dark red fabric.
“That’s too fine for me…”
“You’d have me dress you in drudges’ colors? Even they have something good!” Silvina was scornful. “You may not be proud in yourself, Menolly. In point of fact, your modesty has done you great service, but you will kindly consider the change in your circumstances. You’re not the youngest child in a family of an isolated Sea Hold. You’re an apprentice harper, and we”–Silvina tapped her chest smartly with her fingers—“have appearances to maintain. You will dress yourself as well as, and if I’ve my way, better than, those fumble-fingered females, or those musical midgets who will never be more than senior apprentices or very junior journeymen. Now, a rich red will become you. Ah, yes, this will suit you well,” she said, holding the red up against Menolly’s shoulder. “Until I can have that made up, trous will, have to do,” and she held up a pair of dark blue hide pants to Menolly’s waist. “You’re all leg. And here.” She shoved a pair of close-woven blue-green trousers at Menolly. “This should match the leather pants, and it does,” she said tossing to Menolly a dark blue jerkin. “Put that lot on the chest there and try on this wherhide jacket. Yes, that’s not too bad a fit, is it? Here’s a hat and gloves. And tunics. Now these,” and from another chest Silvina extracted breast bands and underpants, snorting as she passed them to Menolly. “Dunca was quite incensed that you’d no underthings at all.” Silvina’s amusement ended as she saw Menolly’s face. “Whyever are you looking so stricken? Because you wore your underthings out? Or because Dunca’s pried into your affairs? You can’t honestly be worried what that fat old fool thinks or says or does? Yes, you can and you are and you would!”
Silvina pushed Menolly backward until she sat abruptly on the chest behind her while Silvina, hands on her hips, regarded her with a curiously intense expression.
“I think,” said Silvina slowly, in a very gentle voice, “that you have lived too much alone. And not just in that cave. And I think you must have been terribly bereft when old Petiron died. He seems to have been the only one in your Hold who understood what’s in you. Though why he left it so long to tell Master Robinton I simply don’t understand. Well, in a way I do, but that’s neither here nor there. One thing certain, you’re not staying on in that cot. Not another night…”
“Oh, but Silvina—”
“Don’t ‘oh
but Silvina’ me,” the woman said sharply, but her expression was mocking, not stern. “Don’t think I’ve missed Pona’s little tricks, or Dunca’s. No, the cot is the wrong place for you. I thought so when you first arrived, but there were other reasons for plunking you there at first. So we’ll take the long view, as should be done, and shift you here. Oldive doesn’t want you on your feet so much, and sure as Fall’ll come again, the fire lizards are as unhappy at Dunca’s as she is to have them. The old fool! No, Menolly,” and now Silvina was angry with Menolly, “it is not your fault! Besides which, as a full harper apprentice, you really haven’t anything to do with the paying students. Further, you ought to be near those fire lizard eggs until they hatch. So, you’re staying here in the Hall! And that’s the end of the matter.” Silvina got to her feet. “Let’s just gather these clothes, and we’ll settle you right now. Back in the room you had the first night. It’s handy to the Harper’s and all—”
“That’s much too grand a place for me!”
Silvina gave her a droll look. “I could, of course, move all the furniture out, take down the hangings, and give you an apprentice's cot and a fold stool…”
“I’d feel better about it…”
Silvina stared at her so that Menolly broke off, flustered.
“Why, you numbwit. You think I meant that?”
“Didn’t you? Because the things in that room are far too valuable for an apprentice.” Silvina was still staring at her. “Having nine fire lizards is causing enough trouble. The room would be just grand, and if I’ve only the furnishings of any other apprentice, why, that’s proper, isn’t it?”
Silvina gave her one more long, appraising look, shaking her head and laughing to herself. “You’re right, you know. Then none of the others could quibble about the change. But an apprentice’s cot is narrow, and you’ve the fire lizards to consider.”
“Two apprentice cots? If you have them to spare—?”
“Done! We’ll tie the legs together and heap the rushes high.”
Dragonsinger (dragon riders of pern) Page 13
