“I’ve only got nine—”

“Only nine, she says,” and the boy rolled his eyes, encouraging his tablemates to second his envious response. “I’m Piemur,” he added as an afterthought of courtesy.

“She shouldn’t be here,” complained the lad immediately opposite Menolly. He spoke directly to Piemur, as if by ignoring Menolly he could be rude. He was bigger and older looking than Piemur. “She belongs over there with them.” And he jerked his head backward, toward the girls at the hearth table.

“Well, she’s here now, and fine where she is, Ranly,” said Piemur with unexpected aggressiveness. “She couldn’t very well change once we were seated, could she? And besides, I heard that she’s to be an apprentice, same as us. Not one of them.”

“Aren’t they apprentices?” asked Menolly, inclining her head in the girls’ general direction.

“Them?” Piemur’s astounded query was as scornful as the look on Ranly’s face. “No!” The drawl in his negative put the girls in an inferior category. “They’re in the special class with the journeymen, but they’re not apprentices. No road!”

“They’re a right nuisance,” said Ranly with rich contempt.

“Yeah, they are,” said Piemur with a reflective sigh, “but if they weren’t here, I’d have to sing treble in the plays, and that’d be dire! Hey, Bonz, pass the meat back.” Suddenly he let out a startled yip. “Feldon! I asked first. You’ve no right…” A boy had taken the last slice as he handed down the platter.

The other boys shushed Piemur vigorously, darting apprehensive glances toward the right corner.

“But it’s not fair. I asked,” Piemur said, lowering his voice slightly but not his insistence. “And Menolly only had one slice. She should get more than that!”

Menolly wasn’t certain if Piemur was more outraged on her behalf or his own, but someone nudged her right arm. It was Camo.

“Camo feed pretty Beauty?”

“Not now, Camo. They’re not hungry now,” Menolly assured him because his thick features registered such anxiety.

“They’re not hungry, but she is, Camo,” Piemur said, shoving the meat platter at Camo. “More meat, Camo. More meat, please, Camo?”

“More meat please,” Camo repeated, jerking his head to his chest; and before Menolly could say anything, he had shuffled off to the corner of the dining hall where sliding shelves brought food directly up from the kitchen.

The boys were sniggering with the success of Piemur’s stratagem, but they wiped their faces clear of amusement when Camo shuffled back with a well-laden platter.

“Thank you very much, Camo,” Menolly said, taking another thick slice. She couldn’t fault the boys for their greed. The meat was tasty and tender, quite different from the tough or salted stuff she was used to at Half-Circle Sea Hold.

Another slab was dumped onto her plate.

“You don’t eat enough,” Piemur said, scowling at her. “Too bad she’ll have to sit with the others,” he told his tablemates as he passed the platter. “Camo likes her. And her fire lizards.”

“Did he really feed them with you?” asked Ranly. He sounded doubtful and envious.

“They don’t frighten him,” Menolly said, amazed at how fast news of everything spread in this place.

“They wouldn’t frighten me,” Piemur and Ranly assured her on the same breath.

“Say, you were at Impression at Benden Weyr, weren’t you?” asked Piemur, nudging Ranly to be silent. “Did you see Lord Jaxom Impress the white dragon? How big is he really? Is he going to live?”

“I was at the Impression…”

“Well, don’t go off in a trance,” said Ranly. “Tell us! All we get is secondhand information, That is, if the masters and journeymen think we apprentices ought to know.” He sounded sour and disgusted.

“Oh, shell it, Ranly,” Piemur suggested. “So what happened, Menolly?”

“I was in the tiers, and Lord Jaxom was sitting below me with an older man and another boy…”

“That’d be Lord Warder Lytol, who’s raised him, and the boy was probably Felessan. He’s the son of the Weyrleader and Lessa.”

“I know that, Piemur. Go on, Menolly.”

“Well, all the other dragon eggs had hatched, and there was just the little one left. Jaxom suddenly got up and ran along the edge of the tier, shouting for help. Then he jumped onto the Hatching Ground and started 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 graying 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 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 upward 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.