When she got to Old Uncle’s room, later, she had to clean his face and hands and slip a clean tunic over his bony shoulders. All the while he was chattering about new blood in the Hold and hee-hee who was the new Harper going to marry? He’d a thing or two to tell the Harper, give him the chance, and why did she have to be so rough? His bones ached. Must be a change in the weather because his old legs never failed to give warning. Hadn’t he warned them about the big storm a while back? Two boats had been lost with all crew. If they’d paid attention to his warning, it wouldn’t have happened. His own son was the worst one for not listening to what his father said and why was she hurrying him so? He liked to take his time. No, couldn’t he have the blue tunic? The one his daughter had made him, matching his eyes, she’d said. And why hadn’t Turlon come to see him today as he’d asked and asked and asked, but who paid him any heed anymore?

The old man was so frail that he was no burden to a strong girl like Menolly. She carried him down the steps, he complaining all the way about people who’d been dead before she was born. Old Uncle’s notion of time was distorted, that’s what Petiron had told her. Brightest in Uncle’s memory were his earlier days, when he’d been Sea Holder of Half-Circle, before a tangled trawler line had sliced off his legs below the knee. The great Hall was almost ready for guests when Menolly entered with him.

“They’re tacking into Dock,” someone was saying as Menolly arranged Old Uncle in his special seat by the fire. She wrapped him well in the softened wherhides and tied the strap that would keep him upright. When he got excited, Old Uncle had a tendency to forget he had no feet.

Who’s tacking into Dock? Who’s coming? What’s all the hubblebubble about?”

Menolly told him, and he subsided, moments later wanting to know in a querulous tone of voice if anyone was going to feed him or was he supposed to sit here dinnerless?

Sella, in the gown she’d spent all winter making, swirled past Menolly, pressing a small packet into her hand.

“Feed him these if he gets difficult!” And she skimmed away before Menolly could say a word.

Opening the packet, Menolly saw balls of a sweet made from seaweed, flavored with purple grass seed. One could chew these for hours, keeping the mouth fresh and moist. Small wonder Sella’d been able to keep Old Uncle happy. Menolly giggled and then wondered why Sella was being so helpful. It must have pleased Sella no end to learn Menolly had been displaced as Harper. Or would she know? Mavi wouldn’t have mentioned it. Ah, but the Harper was here now, anyhow.

Now that she had Old Uncle settled, Menolly’s curiosity got the better of her and she slipped over to the windows. There was no sign of the sail in the harbor now, but she could see the cluster of men, glows held high, as they walked around the shore from the Dock to the Hold proper. Keen though her eyes were, Menolly could not pick out the new faces and that was that.

Old Uncle began one of his monologues in a high-pitched voice, so Menolly scooted back to his side before her mother could notice she’d left her post. There was so much bustle, putting food on the tables, pouring the welcoming cups of wine, all the Hold arranging itself to meet the guests, no one noticed what Menolly was or wasn’t doing.

Just then, Old Uncle came to himself again, eyes bright and focused on her face. “What’s the stir today, girl? Good haul? Someone getting spliced? What’s the lay?”

“There’s a new Harper coming, everyone thinks, Old Uncle.”

“Not another one?” Old Uncle was disgusted. “Harpers ain’t what they used to be when I was Sea Holder, not by a long crack. I mind myself of one Harper we had…”

His voice fell clearly in the suddenly quiet Hall.

“Menolly!” Her mother’s voice was low, but the urgency was unmistakable.

Menolly fumbled in her skirt pocket, found two sweet-balls and popped them into old Uncle’s mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say was stopped by the necessity of dealing with two large round objects. He mumbled contentedly to himself as he chewed and chewed and chewed.

All the food had been served and everyone seated before Menolly got so much as a glimpse of the new arrivals. There had been a new Harper. She heard his name before she ever saw his face. Elgion, Harper Elgion. She heard that he was young and good-looking and had brought two gitars, two wooden pipes and three drums, each carried separately in its own case of stiffened wherhide. She heard that he’d been very seasick across Keroon Bay and wasn’t doing justice to the lavish dinner spread in his honor. With him had come a craftmaster from the Smith-crafthall to do the metal work required on the new ship and other repairs beyond the metalman in the Sea Hold. She heard that there was urgent need at Igen Hold for any salted or smoked fish the Sea Hold might have to spare on the return voyage.

From where Menolly sat with Old Uncle, she could see the backs of heads at the high table and occasionally a profile of one of the visitors. Very frustrating. So was Old Uncle and the other elderly relatives whose old bones rated them a spot near the fire. The aunts were, as usual, squabbling over who had received the choicer portions of fish, and then Old Uncle decided to call them to order, only his mouth was full at that moment and he choked. So the aunts turned on Menolly for trying to stuff him to an early death. Menolly could hear nothing over their babble. She tried to content herself with the prospect of hearing the Harper sing, as he surely would once the interminable meal was ended. But it was hot so close to the big fire and the heat made Old Uncle smell worse than ever, and she was very tired after the day’s exertions.

She was roused from a half doze by a sudden hall-wide thudding of heavy seaboots. She jerked fully awake to see the tall figure of the new Harper rising at the head table. He had his gitar ready and was taking an easy stance, one foot on the stone bench.

“You’re sure this Hall isn’t rocking?” he asked, strumming a few chords to test the instrument’s pitch. He was assured that the Hall had been steady for many, many Turns, never known to rock at all. The Harper affected not to be reassured as he tuned the G-string slightly higher (to Menolly’s relief). He made the gitar moan then, like a seasick soul.

As laughter rippled through the eager audience, Menolly strained to see how her father was taking this approach. The Sea Holder had little humor. A Harper’s welcome was a serious occasion, and Elgion did not appear to realize this. Petiron had often told Menolly how carefully Harpers were chosen for the Hold they were assigned to. Hadn’t anyone warned Elgion about her father’s temperament?

Suddenly Old Uncle cut across the gentle strumming with a cackle of laughter. “Ha! A man with humor! That’s what we need in this Hold—some laughter. Some music! Been missing it. Let’s have some rollicking tunes, some funny songs. Give us a good rib-popping ditty, Harper. You know the ones I like.”

Menolly was aghast. She fumbled in her skirt pocket for some of the sweetballs as she shushed Old Uncle. This was exactly the sort of incident that she was supposed to prevent.

Harper Elgion had turned at the imperious order, bowing with good respect to the old gentleman by the hearth.

“I would that I could, Old Uncle,” he said most courteously, “but these are serious times,” and his fingers plucked deep sombre notes, “very serious times and we must put lightness and laughter behind us. Square our backs to the problems that face us…” and with that he swung into a new exhortation to obey the Weyr and honor the dragonrider.

The sticky sweetballs had got warmed and stuck to the fabric of her pocket, but Menolly finally got some out and into Old Uncle’s mouth. He chewed angrily, fully aware that his mouth was being plugged and resenting it. He chewed as fast as he could, swallowing to clear his mouth for more complaints. Menolly was only just aware that the new tune was forceful, the words stirring. Harper Elgion had a rich tenor voice, strong and sure. Then old Uncle began to hiccup. Noisily, of course. And to complain, or try to, through the hiccups. Menolly hissed at him to hold his breath, but he was furious at not being allowed to talk, at getting hiccups, and he started to pound the arm of his chair. The thumps made an out-of-tempo counterpoint to the Harper’s song and brought her furious glances from the head table.