Anne McCaffrey: Dragonsinger

“Nine?” Dunca’s protest came out in a terrified squeak, and she reached for her skirts to throw over her head. “Nine of those beastly things flitting and diving about my home—”

“They don’t like to stay inside, except at night,” said Menolly, hoping to reassure Dunca. “They’re rarely all with me at one time.”

From the horrified and malicious look Dunca gave her, Menolly realized that she herself would be rarely with Dunca if the cotholder had anything to say in the matter.

“We can stop here no longer now, Menolly. You’ve to pick a gitar from the workshop,” said Silvina. “If you need more rushes, Dunca, you’ve only to send your woman to the Hall,” she added as she motioned Menolly to precede her from the room. “Menolly will be more closely involved with the Hall than the other girls…”

“She’s to be back here at shutter time, same as the others, or stay at the Hall,” said Dunca as Silvina and Menolly went down the steps.

“She’s strict with the girls,” Silvina remarked as they emerged into the bright midday sun and started across the broad paved square, “but that’s to the good with all those lads vying for their attention. And take no heed to her grumbles over Petiron. She’d hoped to wed him after Merelan died. I’d say Petiron resigned as Fort Hold Harper as much to get free of Dunca as to clear the way for Robinton. He was so very proud that his son was elected Masterharper.”

“Half-Circle Sea Hold is a long way from Fort Hold!”

Silvina chuckled. “And one of the few places isolated enough to prevent Dunca from following him, child. As if Petiron would ever have taken another woman after Merelan. She was the loveliest person, a voice of unusual beauty and range. Ah, I miss her still.”

More people were about: field workers coming in for their midday meal; a party of men on leggy runners, slowing to an amble through the crowd. An apprentice, intent on his errand, ran right into Menolly. He was mouthing an apology when Beauty, peering through Menolly’s hair, hissed at him. He yelped, ducked with an apprentice’s well-developed instinct, and went pelting back the way he’d come.

Silvina laughed. “I’d like to hear his tale when he gets back to his hall.”

“Silvina, I’m—”

“Not a word, Menolly! I will not have you apologizing for your fire lizards. Nor will Master Robinton. There will always be fools in the world like Dunca, fearful of anything new or strange.” They had entered the archway of the Harper Hall. “Through that door, across the stairhall, and you’ll find the workshop. Master Jerint is in charge. He’ll find you an instrument so you can play for Master Domick. He’ll meet you there.” With an encouraging pat and a smile, Silvina left her.

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, gluing 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 gluing 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 Beauty’s 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 self-assured.

“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?”