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Authors: Anne McCaffrey
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kicking the egg and slashing at the thick membrane inside. The next thing, the little white dragon had fallen out and …’
‘Impression!’ Piemur finished for her, bringing his hands together. ‘Just like I told you, Ranly, you simply have to be in the right place at the right time. Luck, that’s all it is. Luck!’ Piemur seemed to be pressing an old argument with his friend. ‘Some people got a lot of luck; some don’t.’ He turned back to Menolly. ‘I heard you were daughter of the Sea Holder at Half-Circle.’
‘I’m in the Harper Hall now, aren’t I?’
Piemur stretched out his hands as if that should end the discussion.
Menolly turned back to her dinner. Just as she finished mopping the last of the juices on her plate with bread, the shimmering sound of a gong brought instant silence to the hall. A single bench scraped across the stone floor as a journeyman rose from the top oval table at the far end of the hall.
‘Afternoon assignments are: by the sections; apprentice hall, 10; yard, 9; Hold, 8; and no sweeping behind the doors this time or you’ll do an extra half-day. Section 7, barns; 6, 5 and 4, fields; 3 is assigned to the Hold and 2 and 1 to the cothalls. Those who reported sick this morning are to attend Master Oldive. Players are not to be late this evening, and the call is for the twentieth hour.’
The man sat down to the accompaniment of exaggerated sighs of relief, groans of complaint and mumbles.
Piemur was not pleased. ‘The yard again!’ Then he turned to Menolly. ‘Anyone mention a section number to you?’
‘No,’ Menolly replied, although Silvina had mentioned the term. ‘Not yet,’ she added as she caught Ranly’s black stare.
‘You have all the luck.’
The gong broke through the rumble of reaction, and the bench under Menolly began to move out from under her. Everyone was rising, so Menolly had to rise, too. But she stood in place as the others swarmed by, milling to pass through the main entrance, laughing, shoving, complaining. Two boys started gathering plates and mugs, and Menolly, at a loss, reached for a plate to have it snatched out of her hand by an indignant lad.
‘Hey, you’re not in my section,’ he said in an accusing tone, tinged with surprise, and went about his task.
Menolly jumped at a light touch on her shoulder, stared and then apologized to the man who had come up beside her.
‘You are Menolly?’ he asked, a hint of displeasure in his tone. He had such a high-bridged nose that he seemed to have difficulty focusing beyond it. His face was lined with dissatisfaction, and a sallow complexion set off by greying locks tinged with yellow did nothing to alter the general impression he gave of supercilious discontent.
‘Yes, sir, I’m Menolly.’
‘I am Master Morshal, Craftmaster in Musical Theory and Composition. Come girl, one can’t hear oneself think in this uproar,’ and he took her by the arm and began to lead her from the Hall, the throng of boys parting before him, as if they felt his presence and wished to avoid any encounter. ‘The Masterharper wants my opinion on your knowledge of musical theory.’
Menolly was given to understand by the tone of his voice that the Masterharper relied on Master Morshal’s opinion in this and other far more important matters. And she also gathered the distinct impression that Morshal didn’t expect her to know very much.
Menolly was sorry she had eaten so heartily because the food was beginning to weigh uneasily in her stomach. Morshal was obviously already predisposed against her.
‘Pssst! Menolly!’ A hoarse whisper attracted her attention to one side. Piemur ducked out from behind a taller boy, jerked his thumb upwards in an easily interpreted gesture of encouragement. He rolled his eyes at the oblivious Morshal, grinned impudently and then popped out of sight in his group.
But the gesture heartened her. Funny-looking kid, Piemur was, with his tangle of tight black curls, missing half
‘Impression!’ Piemur finished for her, bringing his hands together. ‘Just like I told you, Ranly, you simply have to be in the right place at the right time. Luck, that’s all it is. Luck!’ Piemur seemed to be pressing an old argument with his friend. ‘Some people got a lot of luck; some don’t.’ He turned back to Menolly. ‘I heard you were daughter of the Sea Holder at Half-Circle.’
‘I’m in the Harper Hall now, aren’t I?’
Piemur stretched out his hands as if that should end the discussion.
Menolly turned back to her dinner. Just as she finished mopping the last of the juices on her plate with bread, the shimmering sound of a gong brought instant silence to the hall. A single bench scraped across the stone floor as a journeyman rose from the top oval table at the far end of the hall.
‘Afternoon assignments are: by the sections; apprentice hall, 10; yard, 9; Hold, 8; and no sweeping behind the doors this time or you’ll do an extra half-day. Section 7, barns; 6, 5 and 4, fields; 3 is assigned to the Hold and 2 and 1 to the cothalls. Those who reported sick this morning are to attend Master Oldive. Players are not to be late this evening, and the call is for the twentieth hour.’
The man sat down to the accompaniment of exaggerated sighs of relief, groans of complaint and mumbles.
Piemur was not pleased. ‘The yard again!’ Then he turned to Menolly. ‘Anyone mention a section number to you?’
‘No,’ Menolly replied, although Silvina had mentioned the term. ‘Not yet,’ she added as she caught Ranly’s black stare.
‘You have all the luck.’
The gong broke through the rumble of reaction, and the bench under Menolly began to move out from under her. Everyone was rising, so Menolly had to rise, too. But she stood in place as the others swarmed by, milling to pass through the main entrance, laughing, shoving, complaining. Two boys started gathering plates and mugs, and Menolly, at a loss, reached for a plate to have it snatched out of her hand by an indignant lad.
‘Hey, you’re not in my section,’ he said in an accusing tone, tinged with surprise, and went about his task.
Menolly jumped at a light touch on her shoulder, stared and then apologized to the man who had come up beside her.
‘You are Menolly?’ he asked, a hint of displeasure in his tone. He had such a high-bridged nose that he seemed to have difficulty focusing beyond it. His face was lined with dissatisfaction, and a sallow complexion set off by greying locks tinged with yellow did nothing to alter the general impression he gave of supercilious discontent.
‘Yes, sir, I’m Menolly.’
‘I am Master Morshal, Craftmaster in Musical Theory and Composition. Come girl, one can’t hear oneself think in this uproar,’ and he took her by the arm and began to lead her from the Hall, the throng of boys parting before him, as if they felt his presence and wished to avoid any encounter. ‘The Masterharper wants my opinion on your knowledge of musical theory.’
Menolly was given to understand by the tone of his voice that the Masterharper relied on Master Morshal’s opinion in this and other far more important matters. And she also gathered the distinct impression that Morshal didn’t expect her to know very much.
Menolly was sorry she had eaten so heartily because the food was beginning to weigh uneasily in her stomach. Morshal was obviously already predisposed against her.
‘Pssst! Menolly!’ A hoarse whisper attracted her attention to one side. Piemur ducked out from behind a taller boy, jerked his thumb upwards in an easily interpreted gesture of encouragement. He rolled his eyes at the oblivious Morshal, grinned impudently and then popped out of sight in his group.
But the gesture heartened her. Funny-looking kid, Piemur was, with his tangle of tight black curls, missing half
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