Menolly coaxed Beauty from her shoulder to her forearm so that Master Oldive could examine her closely.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he asked, glancing from Beauty to Menolly. “Patchy skin?”
Menolly was horrified. She’d been so engrossed in her own problems that she hadn’t been taking proper care of her fire lizards. And here was Beauty, her back flaking. Probably the others were in trouble, too.
“Oil, they need to be oiled…”
“Don’t panic, child. The matter is easily taken care of,” and with one long arm, he reached to the shelving above his head, and without seeming to look, brought down a large pot.
“I make this for the ladies of the Hold, so if your creatures don’t mind smelling like females fair…”
Shaking her head, Menolly grinned with relief, remembering the stinking fish oil she’d used first for the fire lizards at the Dragon Stones cave. Master Oldive scooped up a fingertip of the ointment and gestured toward Beauty’s back. At Menolly’s encouraging nod, he gently smoothed the stuff on the patchy skin. Beauty arched her back appreciatively, crooning with relief, and then she stroked her head against his hand in gratitude.
“Most responsive little creature, isn’t she?” Master Oldive said, pleased.
“Very,” but Menolly was thinking of Beauty’s deplorable attack on Master Domick.
“Now, I’ll have a look at your feet. You’ve been on them too much; there’s quite a bit of swelling,” he said sternly. “I want you off your feet as much as possible. Did I not make that clear?”
Beauty squeaked angrily.
“Is she agreeing with me or defending you?” asked the Master.
“Possibly both, sir, because I had to stand a lot yesterday…”
“I suppose you did,” he said, more kindly, “but do try to keep off your feet as much as possible. Most of the masters will be understanding.” He dismissed her then, giving her the extra jars and reminding her to return the next day after dinner.
Menolly was glad the Master had an inside office, or he’d have seen her trudging across the courtyard after her pipes; but there was no other way, if she was to report with them to Master Jerint. And she didn’t wish to offend another master today.
The chore sections were at work in the courtyard, sweeping, cleaning, raking and doing the general heavy drudgery to keep the Harper Hall in order. She was aware of furtive glances in her direction but affected not to notice them.
The door to the cot was half-closed when she reached it, but Menolly clearly heard the voices raised inside. “She’s an apprentice,” Pona was shouting in strident and argumentative tones. “He said she was an apprentice. She doesn’t belong with us. We’re not apprentices! We’ve rank to uphold. She doesn’t belong in here with us! Let her go where she does belong…with the apprentices!” There was a vicious, hateful edge to Pona’s voice.
Menolly drew back from the doorway, trembling. She lay flat against the wall, wishing she were anywhere but here. Beauty chirped questioningly in her ear and then stroked her head against Menolly’s cheek, the perfumed salve a sweetness in Menolly’s nostrils.
One thing was certain: Menolly did not want to go into the cottage for her pipes. But what would happen if she went to Master Jerint without them? She couldn’t go into the cot. Not now. Her fair swirled about, deprived of their customary landing spot by the closed shutters of Menolly’s disputed room, and she wished with all her heart that she could consolidate her nine fire lizards into one dragon and be born aloft, and between, back to her quiet cave by the Dragon Stones. She did belong there because she’d made it her place. Hers alone! And really, what place was there for her in the Harper Hall, much less the cot? She might be called an apprentice, but she wasn’t part of their group either. Ranly had made that plain at the dining table.
And Master Morshal didn’t want her to “presume” to be a harper. Master Domick would as soon she disappeared, for all he’d been willing to teach her. She had played well for him, scarred hand and all. She was certain of that. And she was clearly a far better musician than the girls. No false modesty prompted that evaluation.
If her only use at the Harper Hall was to instruct people on being bogus seamen or turning fire lizard eggs, someone else could as easily perform those services. She’d managed to alienate more people than she’d made friends, and the few friends she’d acquired were far more interested in her fire lizards than they were in her. Briefly she wondered what welcome she would have received if she hadn’t brought the fire lizards or the two eggs with her. Then there would have been no fire lizard song for the Masterharper to rewrite. And he’d apologized to her for that. The Masterharper of Pern had apologized to her, Menolly of Half-Circle Sea Hold, for improving on her song. Her songs were what he needed, he said. Menolly took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly.
She did have music in the Harper Hall, and that was important! There might not be girl harpers, but no one had ever said there couldn’t be girl song-crafters and that mightn’t be a bad future.
Not to think of that now, Menolly, she chided herself. Think what you’re going to do when you appear before Master Jerint with no pipes. He might seem absent-minded, but she doubted very much if he really was. The pipes were in her room, on the little press, and nothing, not even obedience to, and love of, the Masterharper would force her into the cot while those girls were raging on about her.
Beauty took off from her shoulder, calling to the other fire lizards, and when they were all midair above her, they disappeared. Menolly pushed herself away from the cot’s wall and started back to the Harper Hall. She’d think of something to say to Master Jerint about the pipes.
The fire lizards exploded into the air above her, squealing so shrilly that she looked up in alarm. They were grouped in a tight cluster, hovered just a split second while her eye took in their unusual formation, and then they parted. Something dropped. Automatically she held out her hands, and the multiple pipes smacked into her palms.
“Oh, you darlings. I didn’t know you could do that!” She clutched the pipes to her, ignoring the sting of her hands. Only the stiffness in her feet prevented her from dancing with the joy of relief and the discovery of this unexpected ability of her friends. How clever, clever they were, going to her room and bringing her the pipes. No one could ever again say in her presence that they were just pets and nuisances, good for nothing but trouble!
“The worst storm throws up some wood on the beach,” her mother used to say; mostly to soothe her father caught holdbound during a storm.
Why, if she hadn’t needed the pipes so badly, and if the girls hadn’t been so nasty, she’d never have discovered how very clever her fire lizards could be!
It was with a considerably lightened heart that she entered Master Jerint’s workshop. The place was unexpectedly empty. Master Jerint, bent over a vise attached to his wide and cluttered worktable, was the only occupant of the big room. As she could see that he was meticulously gluing veneer to a harp shaft, she waited and waited. And waited until, bored, she sighed.
“Yes? Oh, the girl! And where have you been this long time? Oh, waiting, I see. You brought your pipes with you?” He held out his hand, and she surrendered them.
She was a bit startled by the sudden intensity of his examination. He weighed the pipes in his hand, peered closely at the way she had joined the sections of reed with braided seaplant; he poked a tool into the blow and finger holes. Muttering under his breath, he brought the pipes over to the rank of windows and examined them minutely in the bright afternoon sun. Glancing at her for permission, he arranged his long fingers appropriately and blew on the pipes, his eyebrows arching at the pure clear tone.
“Sea reeds? Not fresh water?”
“Fresh water, but I cured them in the sea.”
“How’d you get this dark shine?”
“Mixed fish oil with sea grass and rubbed it in, warm…”
“Makes an interesting hint of purple in the wood. Could
you duplicate the compound again?”
“I think so.”
“Any particular type of sea grass? Or fish oil?”
“Packtail,” and despite herself, Menolly winced at having to mention the fish name. Her hand twitched. “And shallow-water sea grass, the sort that clings to sandy bottoms rather than rock.”
“Very good.” He handed her back the pipes, gesturing for her to follow him to another table where drum rings and skins of varying sizes had been laid out, as well as a reel of the oiled cord necessary to secure drum hides to frame. “Can you assemble a drum?”
“I can try.”
He sniffed, not critically—reflectively, Menolly thought—and then motioned for her to begin. He turned back to his patient woodworking on the harp.
Knowing that this was likely another test, Menolly examined each of the nine drum frames carefully for hidden flaws, for the dryness and hardness of the wood. Only one did she feel worth the trouble, and the drum would be a thin, sharp-sounding instrument. She preferred a drum with deep full notes, one that would cut through male voices in a chorus and keep them on the beat. Then she reminded herself that here she would scarcely have to worry about keeping singers in time. She set to work, putting the metal clips on the frame edge to hold the skin. Most of the hides were well cured and stretched, so that it was a matter of finding one the proper size and thinness for her drum frame. She softened the chosen hide in the tub of water, working the skin in her hands until it was flexible enough to draw across the frame. Carefully, she made slits and skewered the hide to the clips, symmetrically, so that one side wasn’t pulled tighter than another lest it make an uneven tone along the outside of the drum and a sour one in the center. When she was sure she had the hide evenly placed, she lashed it around the frame, two fingers from the edge of the surface. When the hide dried, she’d have a taut drum.
“Well, you do know some of the tricks of the trade, don’t you?” She nearly jumped out of her own hide at the sound of Master Jerint’s voice right by her elbow. He gave her a little wintry smile. She wondered how long he’d been standing there watching her. He took the drum, examining it minutely, humphing to himself, his face making a variety of contortions that gave her no real idea of his opinion of her handiwork.
He put the drum carefully on a high shelf. “We’ll just let that dry, but you’d better get yourself off to your next class. The juniors are about to arrive, I hear,” he added in a dry, unamused tone.
Menolly became immediately conscious of exterior noise; laughter, yells and the dull thudding of many booted feet. Dutifully she made her way to the chorus room where Master Shonagar, seemingly not having moved since she’d left him the day before, greeted her.
“Assemble your friends please, and have them dispose themselves to listen,” he told her, blinking a bit as the fire lizards swept into the high ceilinged hall. Beauty took up her favorite position on Menolly’s shoulder. “You!” And one long fat forefinger pointed directly to the little queen. “You will find another perch today.” The forefinger moved inexorably toward a bench. “There!”
Beauty gave a quizzical cheep but obediently retired when Menolly silently reinforced the order. Master Shonagar’s eyebrows ascended into his hair line as he watched the little fire lizard settle herself, primly flipping her wings to her back, her eyes whirling gently. He grunted, his belly bouncing.
“Now, Menolly, shoulders back, chin up but in, hands together across your diaphragm, breathe in, from the belly to the lungs…No, I do not want to see your chest heaving like a smith’s bellows…”
By the end of the session, Menolly was exhausted: the small of her back and all of her midriff muscles ached, her belly was sore, and she felt that dragging nets for offshore fishing would have been child’s play. Yet she’d done no more than stand in one spot and attempt, in Master Shonagar’s pithy phrase, to control her breathing properly. She’d been allowed to sing only single notes, and then scales of five notes, each scale done on the breath, lightly but in true tone and on pitch. She’d have gutted a whole net of packtail with less effort, so she was intensely grateful when Master Shonagar finally waved her to a seat.
“Now, young Piemur, come forward.”
Menolly looked around in surprise, wondering how long Piemur had been sitting quietly by the door.
“The other morning, Menolly, our ears were assailed by pure sound, in descant to a chorus. Piemur here seems of the opinion that the fire lizards will sing for or with anyone. Do you concur?”
“They certainly sang the other morning, but I was singing, too. I do not know, sir.”
“Let us conduct a little experiment then. Let us see if they will sing when invited to do so.”
Menolly winced a little at his phrasing, but Piemur’s wry smile told her that this was Master Shonagar’s odd version of humor.
“Supposing I just sing the melody of the chorus we were doing the other morning,” said Piemur, “because if you sing with me, they’re still singing with you and not along with me?”
“Less chatter, young Piemur, more music,” said Master Shonagar, sounding extremely bass and impatient. Piemur took a breath, properly, Menolly noticed, and opened his mouth. To her surprise and delight, a true and delicately sweet sound emerged. Her astonishment registered in the twinkle in Piemur’s eyes, but his voice reflected none of his inner amusement to her reaction.
Belatedly she encouraged her fire lizards to sing. Beauty flitted to her shoulder, wrapping her tail lightly around Menolly’s neck as she peered toward Piemur, cocking her head this way and that as if analyzing the sound and Menolly’s command. Rocky and Diver were less restrained. They flew from their perch on the sandtable and, rearing to their haunches, began to sing along with Piemur. Beauty gave a funny scolding sound before she sat up, one forepaw resting lightly on Menolly’s ear. Then she took up the descant, her fragile voice rising sure and true above Piemur’s. His eyes rolled in appreciation and, when Mimic and Brownie joined in, Piemur backed up so that he could see all of the singing fire lizards.
Anxiously, Menolly glanced at Master Shonagar, but he sat, his fingers shading his eyes, engrossed in the sounds, giving absolutely no indication of his reception. Menolly made herself listen critically, as the Master was undoubtedly doing, but she found little to criticize. She hadn’t taught the fire lizards how to sing: she had only given them melody to enjoy. They had enjoyed it, and were expressing that enjoyment by participation. Their voices were not limited to the few octaves of the human voice. Their piercingly sweet tones resonated through their listeners. She could feel the sound in her ear bones, and, from the way Piemur was pressing behind his ears, he felt it as well.
“There, young fellow,” said Master Shonagar as the echo of the song died away, “that’ll put you in your place, won’t it?”
The boy grinned impudently.
“So they will warble with someone besides yourself,” the Master said to Menolly.
Out of the comer of her eye, Menolly saw Piemur reach out to stroke Rocky who was nearest him. The bronze immediately rubbed his head along Piemur’s hand, whether in approval of the singing or in friendship was irrelevant, judging by the charmed expression on the boy’s face.
“They’re used to singing because they like it, sir. It’s difficult to keep them quiet when there’s music about.”
“Is that so? I shall consider the potentialities of this phenomenon,” and with a brusque wave, Master Shonagar dismissed them all. He settled his head against his propped arm and almost immediately began to snore.
“Is he really asleep? Or shamming?” Menolly asked Piemur when they were out in the courtyard.
“Far’s anyone’s been able to tell, he’s asleep. The only thing that’ll wake him is a flat tone or meals. He never goes out of the chorus hall. He sleeps in a little room at the back. Don’t think he could climb steps anyway. He’s too fat. Hey, you know, Menolly, even in scales, you got a pretty voice. Sort of furry.”
“Thanks!”
‘Don’t mention it. I like furry voices,” Piemur went on, undismayed by her sarcasm. “I don’t like high, thin, screechy ones like Briala or Pona…” and he jerked his thumb toward the cot. “Say, hadn’t we better feed the fire lizards? It’s nearly suppertime, and they look kinda faded to me!”
Menolly agreed, as Beauty, riding on her shoulder, began to creel piteously.
“I sure hope that Shonagar wants to use the fire lizards with the chorus,” Piemur said, kicking at a pebble. Then he laughed pointing to the kitchen. “Look, Camo’s ready and waiting.”
He was there, one thick arm wrapped about an enormous bowl, heaped high with scraps. He had a handful raised to attract the fire lizards who spiraled in on him.
Uncle and the two green Aunties had decidedly adopted Camo as their feeding perch. They took so much of his attention that he didn’t notice that Rocky, Lazy and Mimic draped themselves about Piemur to be fed. It certainly made it easier to apportion the scraps fairly, with three people feeding. So, when she caught Piemur glancing about the courtyard to see if anyone was noticing his new task, Menolly suggested that he’d be needed on a permanent basis if that didn’t get him into any trouble with the masters.
“I’m apprenticed to Master Shonagar. He won’t mind! And I sure as shells don’t.” Whereupon Piemur began to stroke the bronze and the two browns with an almost proprietary affection.
As soon as the fire lizards had finished gobbling, Menolly sent Camo back into the kitchen. There had been no loud complaints from Abuna, but Menolly had been conscious of being watched from the kitchen windows. Camo went willingly enough, once she assured him that he’d be feeding the fire lizards again in the morning. Sated, the nine lazily spiraled upward to the outer roof of the Hall, to bask in the late afternoon sun. And not a moment too soon. They were only just settling themselves when the courtyard became full of boys and men filing into the Hall for their supper.
“Too bad you gotta sit with them,” Piemur said, jerking his head at the girls seated at their table.
Dragonsinger (dragon riders of pern) Page 10