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their eyes wheeling with alarm.
"Wait here, Menolly," Domick said as he and the others made for the door.
"We'll be back. That is, I will. .."
"And I," "I, too," said the others, and then they all stamped out of the room.
Menolly sat uneasily, aware that the Hall was prepar-
ing for Threadfall, as she had prepared for the menace all her conscious
years. She heard racing feet in the corri-
dors, for the door was half ajar. Then the clanging of shutters, the squeal of
metal, many shouts and a gradual compression of air in the room. The sudden
throb as the great ventilating fans of the Hall were set into motion for the
duration of Threadfall. Once again, she found herself wishing to be back in
the safety of her seaside cave. She had always hated being closed in at
Half-Circle
Sea Hold during Threadfall. There never seemed to be enough air to breathe
during those fear-filled times. The cave, safe but 'with a reassuringly clear
view of the sea, had been a perfect compromise between security and
convention.
Beauty chirped inquiringly and then sprang from the shelf to Menolly's
shoulder. She wasn't nervous at being closed in, but she was very much aware
of Thread's im-
minence, her slim body taut, her eyes whirling.
The clatter and clangs, the shouts and stampings ceased. Menolly heard the low
murmur of men's voices
on the steps as Domick and the two journeymen returned.
"3
"Granted that your left hand won't do octave stretches yet," Domick said,
addressing Menolly but more as if he were continuing a conversation begun with
the two journeymen, "how much harp instruction did Pedron give you?"
"He had one small floor harp, sir, but we'd such a des-
perate time getting new wire, so I sort of learned to . . ."
"Improvise?" asked Sebell, extending his harp to her.
She thanked him and politely proffered the gitar in its place, which he, with
equally grave courtesy, accepted.
Domick had been riming through music on the shelves and brought over another
score, worn and faded in spots but legible enough, he said, for the purpose.
Menolly rubbed her fingertips experimentally. She'd lost most of the
harp-string calluses, and her fingers would be sore but perhaps. . . . She
looked up at Domick and receiving permission, plucked an arpeggio. Sebell's
harp was a joy to use, the tone singing through the frame, held between her
knees, like liquid sound. She had to shift her fingers awkwardly to make the
octave run. Despite the fact that her scar made her wince more than once, she
became so quickly involved in the music that the dis-
comfort could be ignored. She was a bit startled when she reached the finale
to realize that the others had been playing along with her.
"In the slow section," she asked, "is the major seventh chord accented
throughout? The notation doesn't say."
"Whether it is or not must wait tor another day,"
Domick said, firmly taking the harp from her and handing it back to Sebell.
"You'll live to play harp another time, Menolly. No more now." He turned her
left hand over so she was forced to notice that the scar had split and was
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bleeding slightly from the tear.
"But..."
"But . . ." Dominick interrupted her more gently than he usually spoke, "it's
time to eat. Everyone has to eat sometime, Menolly."
They were all grinning at her and, emboldened by the rapport she'd had with
them during their practice, she smiled back. Now she smelled the aroma of
roasted meat
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and spices and was mildly astonished to feel her stomach churning with hunger.
To be sure, she hadn't eaten much at the cot, with everyone glaring at her so.
Some of her elation with the morning's satisfying work was dampened by the
realization that she'd have to sit with the girls. But that was a small
blemish on the pleasure of the hours gone past. To her surprise, how-
ever, there were no girls at the hearth table, and the great metal doors of
the Hall were locked tight, the windows shuttered, the dining hall lit by the
great central and comer baskets of glows; in some obscure way, the hall looked
more friendly than she'd seen it before.
Everyone else was seated, though her quick glance did not show Master Robinton
to be in his customary place at the round table. Master Morshal was and
frowned at her until Master Domick gave her a shove toward her place as he
drew out his own chair. Sebell and Talmor
seemed in no way abashed as they went late to the oval journeymen's tables.
But Menolly felt more conspicuous than ever as she walked awkwardly toward the
hearth table. And it wasn't her imagination: every eye in the room was on her.
"Hey, Menolly," said a familiar voice in a harsh but carrying whisper, "hurry
up so we can get fed." She saw
Piemur slapping the empty place beside him. "See?" he said to his neighbor, "I
told you she wouldn't be hiding in the Hold with the others." Then he added,
under the cover of the noise of everyone taking their seats, "You aren't
afraid of Thread, are you?"
"Why should I be?" Menolly was being truthful, but it obviously stood her in
good credit with the boys near enough to hear her reply. "And I thought you
said you weren't supposed to sit at the girls' table?"
"They're not here, are they? And you said you wanted someone to talk to. So
here I am."
"Menolly?" asked the boy with the protuberant eyes who usually sat opposite
her, "do fire lizards breathe fire like dragons and go after Thread?"
Menolly glanced at Piemur to see if he were back of the question. He shrugged
innocence.
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"Mine never have, but they're young."
"I told you so, Brolly," replied Piemur. "Dragonets in the Weyrs don't fight
Thread, and fire lizards are just small dragons. Right, Menolly?"
"They do seem to be," she said, temporizing slightly, but neither debater
noticed.
"Then where are they now?" Brolly wanted to know, slightly sneering.
"In Master Domick's study."
The meat reached them and further discussion was suspended. Today Menolly
blithely speared four slices of juicy meat to her plate. She reached for
bread, beating
Brolly's grab for some. And she dished Piemur some of the redroots, which he
wasn't going to take. He was much too small not to eat properly.
Whether it was Piemur s company or the absence of the girls, or both, Menolly
didn't know, but suddenly she was included in the table conversations. The
boys oppo-
site her had question after question about her fire lizards:
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how she had accidentally discovered the queen's clutch in the sand; how she'd
saved the hatchlings from destruc-
tion by Thread; how she had found enough food to sup-
port their voracious appetites; how she'd dragged a wherry from the mire to
provide oil for her fire lizards' patchy skins. She sensed that the boys
gradually became recon-
ciled to her possession of so many fire lizards because it was obviously no
gather day to take care of them. They had the most bizarre theories about fire
lizards and a few unsubtle queries about when would her queen fly to mate and
how soon would there be a clutch and how many in it.
"The masters and journeymen would get first crack anyhow," Piemur said,
disgruntled.
"It ought to be free choice, the way the dragons choose
their riders," said Brolly.
"Fire lizards aren't quite the same as dragons, Brolly,"
said Piemur, glancing at Menolly for support. "Look at
Lord Groghe. What dragon would've picked him if it had had another choice?"
116
The boys shushed him, glancing nervously about to see if anyone had overheard
his indiscreet remark.
"The Weyrs have control of the fire lizards any road,"
said Brolly. "You can just bet the Weyrs're going to hand.
'em out where they'll keep the Lord Holders and Craft
Masters happy."
Menolly sighed for the truth of that surmise.
"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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]