Dragonsinger (6 page)

‘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 Sea Holder Yanus would have wasted precious timber for a
girl
to make a harper’s instrument?

‘We’ll see in due time how well you absorbed that explanation. In the meantime, Menolly needs a gitar to play for me and to practise 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 extraordinary 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 towards 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 absentminded craftsman about Master Jerint now.

‘It’s 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 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 practise 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 practise 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 towards 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 school-room, 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 exertions 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 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 practise on, remember. And, despite all you know, you will need to practise.’

‘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? Commonsense 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 humour 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, and 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 in place.