The enticing aromas of fresh klah and toasted cereals quickened their steps, Menolly leading the way toward the smallest hearth, away from the bustle and hurry of weyrfolk at the larger fires.
“Mirrim?” she called, and the girl at the hearth turned, her face lighting as she recognized the new arrivals. “Menolly! You came! Sebell! How are you? What have you been up to recently to get so tanned? Who’s this?” Her smile disappeared as she noticed Piemur bringing up the rear, as if such a scruffy apprentice shouldn’t be in such good company.
“Mirrim, this is Piemur. You’ve heard me speak of him often enough,” said Menolly, putting her hand on Piemur to draw him forward and closer to her, the intimacy a guarantee of him to Mirrim. “He was my first friend at the Harper Hall, as you were mine here. We’ve all been at the Igen Gather. Baked yesterday, frozen this morning, and very hungry!” Menolly let her tone drift upward plaintively.
“Well, of course, you’re hungry,” said Mirrim, breaking off her stern appraisal of Piemur to turn to the hearth. She filled cups and bowls and set them out on one of the small tables with such alacrity that Piemur changed his first, unflattering impression of her. “I can’t stop long with you. You know how things are at the Weyr when there’s a Hatching; so much to do. The important details you really have to see to yourself to be sure they’re done right.” She flopped gracelessly into a chair with an exaggerated sigh of relief to underscore the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Then she ran both hands through the fringe of brown hair on her forehead, ending the gesture with pats at the near plaits that hung down her back.
Piemur eyed her with a certain skeptical cynicism but, when he realized that Menolly and Sebell took no notice of her mannerisms and had sought out her company from everyone in the busy cavern, he came to the reluctant conclusion that there must be more to her than was obvious.
Beauty landed on Menolly’s shoulder just then, chirruping with some petulance, her eyes whirling reddishly. Diver swooped to Menolly’s other shoulder just as Kimi landed on Sebell’s. Rocky, to Piemur’s intense delight, came to roost on his.
“I thought that was Rocky,” Mirrim said, pointing accusingly at Piemur as if he oughtn’t to have a fire lizard anyhow.
“It is,” said Menolly with a laugh, “but Piemur helps me feed him every day so Rocky’s just reminding us he’s hungry, too.”
“Why didn’t you say they hadn’t been fed?” Mirrim bounced to her feet, scowling with disapproval. “Really, Menolly, I’d’ve thought you’d take care of your friends first…”
Sebell and Menolly exchanged guilty smiles as Mirrim stalked off to a table where women were cutting up wherries for the Hatching Feast. She returned with a generous bowlful of scraps, three fire lizards hovering anxiously above her. She shooed them away, reminding them with gruff affection that they’d already been fed. To Piemur’s relief, because he was developing an antipathy to her manner, Mirrim was called away to one of the main hearths. Rocky poked his cheek imperiously, and Piemur concentrated on feeding him.
“Is she a good friend of yours?” Piemur asked when the first edge of fire lizard hunger had been eased.
Sebell laughed, and Menolly made a rueful grimace.
“She’s very good-hearted. Don’t let her ways put you off.”
Piemur grunted. “They have.”
Sebell laughed again, offering Kimi a large chunk of meat so he could get a swallow of his klah while she struggled to chew. “Mirrim does take a bit of getting used to but, as Menolly says, she’ll give you the shirt from her back…”
“Complaining all the time, I’ll wager,” Piemur said.
Menolly’s expression was solemn. “She was fosterling to Brekke, and Manora’s always said that it was Mirrim’s devoted nursing that helped Brekke live after her queen was killed.”
“Really?” That did impress Piemur, and he looked for Mirrim among the knot of women by the hearth as if this disclosure had caused her to change visibly.
“Don’t, please don’t judge her too quickly, Piemur,” said Menolly, touching his arm to emphasize her request.
“Well, of course, if you say so…”
Sebell winked at Piemur. “She says so, Piemur, and we must obey!”
“Oh, you,” and Menolly dismissed Sebell’s teasing with a scowl of irritation. “I just don’t want Piemur jumping to the wrong conclusion on the basis of a few moments’ meeting—” “When everyone knows,” and Sebell rolled his eyes ceilingward, “that it takes time, endurance, tolerance and luck to appreciate Mirrim!” Sebell ducked as Menolly threatened him with her spoon.
They had finished feeding the fire lizards and sent them out to sun themselves when Mirrim popped up before them again, exhaling a mighty sigh.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get everything finished in time. Why those eggs have to be so awkward in their timing. Half the western guests will be dead of sleep and need breakfast… See?” She waved toward the entrance where dragons were depositing more passengers. “There’s so much to be done. And I want to get to this Hatching. Felessan’s a candidate today, you know.”
“So F’nor told us. I could manage the breakfast hearth, Mirrim,” said Menolly.
“Just set us a task,” said Sebell, throwing his arm across Piemur’s shoulders, “and we’ll do our best to assist.”
“Oh, would you?” Suddenly the affected manners dropped, and Mirrim’s scowl gave way to an incredulous smile of relief, illuminating her face and making her a very pretty girl. “If you would just set up those tables,” and she pointed to stacks of trestles and tops, “that’d be the greatest help!”
She was again summoned across the cavern and dashed off with a smile of such unaffected gratitude that Piemur stared after her in astonishment. Why did the girl act oddly? She was much nicer when she was just herself!
“So, Felessan stands on the Hatching Ground,” said Sebell. “I missed that this morning.”
“Sorry, thought I’d told you,” said Menolly, rising to clear the table of their dishes. “I wonder if he’ll Impress.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” asked Piemur, startled by her doubt.
“He may be the son of the Weyrleaders, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll Impress. Dragon choice can’t be forced.”
“Oh, Felessan’ll Impress,” said a dragonrider, approaching the small hearth, two others just behind him. “Are you tending the pot, Menolly?”
“And a good day to you, T’gellan,” Menolly said with a pert smile for the bronze rider as she poured klah for him.
“How’s yourself, Sebell?” T’gellan went on, seating himself on the bench and gesturing to the other riders to join him.
“Hard put upon,” said Sebell in a long-suffering tone that sounded suspiciously like an imitation of Mirrim. “We just got organized to set up the tables. C’mon, Piemur, before Mirrim lays about us with her ladle.”
Because Menolly had so stoutly championed Mirrim, Piemur kept an eye out for the girl as he and Sebell arranged the additional tables. He spotted Mirrim dashing from one hearth to another, called to assist in trussing wherries for roasting, herdbeasts for the spit. He watched her organize one group of youngsters to peel roots and tubers and another to laying the tables with utensils and platters. He decided that Mirrim had not been puffing up her responsibilities.
Menolly, too, was kept busy, feeding dragonriders and their sleepy-eyed passengers, dragged from their beds for the imminent Hatching.
Sebell and Piemur had just set up the last table when a faint hum reached their ears. Fire lizards reappeared in the cavern, the high notes of their chirruping a counter-cadence to the low bass throb of the humming dragons.
Mirrim, divested of her apron and brushing water stains from her skirt, came dashing toward them. “C’mon, Oharan promised to save us all seats by him,” she cried and led the way across the Bowl at a run.