Everyone was suddenly exceedingly occupied in their interrupted tasks, and the resultant energetic blows, twangs and whistles made Beauty spread her wings and screech in protest. “I can hardly fault her,” said Domick as Menolly soothed the fire lizard.

“What an extraordinary range of sounds she can make,” remarked Master Jerint.

“A gitar for Menolly? So we can judge the range of sounds she can make?” Domick reminded the man in a bored tone.

“Yes, yes, there’s any number of instruments to choose from,” said Jerint, walking with jerky steps toward the courtyard side of the L-shaped room.

And indeed there were, Menolly realized as they approached the corner clutter of drums, pipes, harps of several sizes and designs, and gitars. The instruments depended from hooks set in the stone and cords attached to the ceiling beams, or sat dustily on shelves, the layers of dust increasing as the instruments went beyond easy range.

“A gitar, you said?” Jerint squinted at the assortment and reached for a gitar, its wood bright with new varnish.

“Not that one.” The words were out before Menolly realized how brash she must sound.

“Not this one?” Jerint, arm still upraised, looked at her. “Why not?” He sounded huffy, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her; there was nothing of the slightly absent-minded craftsman about Master Jerint now.

“Its too green to have any tone!”

“How would you know by looking?”

So, thought Menolly, this is a sort of test for me.

“I wouldn’t choose any instrument on looks, Master Jerint, I’d choose by the sound, but I can see from here that the wood of that gitar is badly joined on the case. The neck is not straight for all it’s been veneered prettily.”

The answer evidently pleased him, for he stepped aside and gestured to her to make her own selection. She picked the strings of one gitar resting against the shelves and absently shook her head, looking further. She saw a case, its wherhide worn but well-oiled. Glancing back at the two men for permission, she opened it and lifted out the gitar; her hands caressed the thin smooth wood, her fingers curling appreciatively about the neck. She placed it before her, running her fingers down the strings, across the opening. Almost reverently she struck a chord, smiling at the mellow sound. Beauty warbled in harmony to the chord she struck and then chirruped happily. Menolly carefully replaced the gitar.

“Why do you put it back? Wouldn’t you choose it?” asked Jerint sharply.

“Gladly, sir, but that gitar must belong to a master. It’s too good to practice on.”

Domick let out a burst of laughter and clapped Jerint on the shoulder.

“No one could have told her that one’s yours, Jerint. Go on, girl, find one just bad enough to practice on but good enough for you to use.”

She tried several others, more conscious than ever that she had to choose well. One sounded sweet to her, but the tuning knobs were so worn that the strings would not keep their pitch through a song. She was beginning to wonder if there was a playable instrument in the lot when she spotted one depending from a hook almost lost in the shadows of the wall. One string was broken, but when she chorded around the missing note, the tone was silky and sweet. She ran her hands around the sound box and was pleased with the feel of the thin wood. The careful hand of its creator had put an intricate pattern of lighter shades of wood around the opening. The tuning knobs were of newer wood than the rest of the gitar but, except for the missing string, it was the best of all but Master Jerint’s.

“I’d like to use this one, if I may?” She held it toward Jerint.

The Master nodded slowly, approvingly, ignoring Domick, who gave him a clout on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a new E string…” And Jerint turned to a set of drawers at one end of the shelves, rummaged a moment and brought out a carefully coiled length of gut.

As the string was already looped, she slipped it over the hook, lined it over the bridge and up the neck into the hole of the tuning knob. She was very conscious of intent scrutiny and tried to keep her hands from trembling. She tuned the new string first to the next one, then to the others and struck a true chord; the mellowness of the sound reassured her that she had chosen well.

“Now that you have demonstrated that you can choose well, string and tune, let’s see if you can play the gitar of your choice,” said Domick, and taking her by the elbow, steered her from the workroom.

She had only time to nod her thanks to Master Jerint as the door slammed behind her. Still gripping her arm and unperturbed by Beauty’s hissing, Domick propelled her up the stairs and into a rectangular room built over the entrance archway. It must serve a dual purpose as an office and an additional schoolroom, to judge by the sandtable, the record bins, the wall writing board and the shelves of stored instruments. There were stools pulled back against the walls, but there were also three leathered couches, the first that Menolly had ever seen, with time-darkened armrests and backs, some patched where the original hide had been replaced. Two wide windows, with folding metal shutters, overlooked the broad road to the Hold on one side, the courtyard on the other.

“Play for me,” Domick said, gesturing for her to take a stool as he collapsed into the couch facing the hearth.

His tone was expressionless, his manner so noncommittal that Menolly felt he didn’t expect her to be able to play at all. What little confidence she had gained when she had apparently chosen unexpectedly well ebbed from her. Unnecessarily she struck a tuning chord, fiddled with the knob on the new string, trying to decide what to play to prove her competence. For she was determined to surprise this Master Domick who teased and taunted and didn’t like her having nine fire lizards.

“Don’t sing,” Domick added. “And I want no distraction from her.” He pointed to Beauty still on Menolly’s shoulder. “Just that.” He jabbed his finger at the gitar and then folded his hands across his lap, waiting.

His tone stung Menolly’s pride awake. With no further thought, she struck the opening chords of the “Ballad of Moreta’s Ride” and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows lift in surprise. The chording was tricky enough when voices carried the melody, but to pluck the tune as well as the accompaniment increased the difficulty. She did strike several sour chords because her left hand could not quite make the extensions or respond to the rapid shifts of harmony required, but she kept the rhythm keen and the fingers of her right hand flicked out the melody loud and true through the strumming.

She half-expected him to stop her after the first verse and chorus, but, as he made no sign, she continued, varying the harmony and substituting an alternative fingering where her left hand had faltered. She had launched into the third repetition when he leaned forward and caught her right wrist.

“Enough gitar,” he said, his expression inscrutable, Then he snapped his fingers at her left hand, which she extended in slow obedience. It ached. He turned it palm up, tracing the thick scar so lightly that the tickling sensation made her spine twitch in reaction though she forced herself to keep still. He grunted, noticing where her exertion had split the edge of the wound. “Oldive seen that hand yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And recommended some of his sticky smelly salves, no doubt. If they work, you’ll be able to stretch for the fingerings you missed in the first verse.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I. You’re not supposed to take liberties with the Teaching Ballads and Sagas—”

“So Petiron taught me,” she replied with an equally expressionless voice, “but the minor seventh in the second measure is an alternative chording in the Record at Half-Circle Sea Hold.”