“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.
But the gesture heartened her. Funny-looking kid, Piemur was, with his tangle of tight black curls, missing half a front tooth and by far the smallest of the apprentice lot. How kind of him to reassure her.
When Menolly realized that Master Morshal must be taking her to the archroom, she sent a mental command to the fire lizards to stay quiet or go find a sunny roof until she called them again. There wasn’t so much as a rustle or a chirp when she and Morshal entered. With a resigned attitude, he seated himself on the only backed chair at the sandtable. As he didn’t indicate that she could seat herself, she remained standing.
“Now, recite for me the notes in a C major chord,” he said. She did so. He regarded her steadily for a moment, and blinked.
“What notes would comprise a major fifth in C?”
When she had answered that, he began to fire questions at her, irritable if she paused, however briefly, to reply, but Petiron had drilled her too often the same way. Morshal’s bored expression was disconcerting but, as his queries became more and more complex, she suddenly realized that he was taking examples from various traditional Sagas and Ballads. Once he mentioned the signature and which chord, it was simple enough for her to visualize the record hide and recite from memory.
Suddenly he grunted and then murmured in his throat.
Abruptly he asked her if she'd been taught the drum. When she admitted some knowledge, he asked tedious questions about basic beats in each time factor. How would she vary the beat? Now, as to finger positions on a tenor pipe, what closures did one make for a chord in F? He took her through scales again. She could have demonstrated more quickly, but he gave her no chance to suggest it.
“Stand still, girl,” he said testily as she shifted her throbbing feet. “Shoulders back, feet together, girl, head up.” He heard a soft twitter, but as he’d been glaring at Menolly, it was obvious she hadn’t opened her lips. He glanced about, to seek the source, as Menolly silently reassured Beauty and urged silence. “Don’t slouch. What was my question?”
She told him, and he continued the barrage. The more she answered, the more he asked. Her feet were aching so that she had to ask permission to sit, if only briefly. But, to her amazement, before she could, Morshal abruptly stabbed a finger at the stool next to him. She hesitated, not quite believing the gesture.
“Sit! sit! sit!” he said in an excess of irritation at her delay. “Now, let’s see if you know anything about writing down what you’ve been repeating so glibly.”
So she’d been answering correctly, and he was annoyed because she knew so much. Her flagging spirits lifted, and as Master Morshal dictated musical notations, her fingers drove the pointer quickly over the sands. In her mind, a different, kinder voice dictated; and the exercise became a game, rather than an examination by a prejudiced judge.
“Well, move back so I can see what you’ve written.” Morshal’s testy voice recalled her to the present.
He peered at her inscriptions, pursed his lips, humphed and sat back. He gestured peremptorily for her to smooth the sand surface and rapidly gave her another set of chords. They included some difficult modulations and time values, but after the first two, she recognized the “Riddle Song” and was very glad Petiron had made her learn the haunting tune.
“That’s enough of that,” Master Morshal said, drawing his overtunic about him with quick, angry motions. “Now, have you an instrument?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get it and that third score from the top shelf. Over there. Be quick about it.”
Menolly hissed to herself as she stepped on her throbbing feet. Sitting had not relieved the swelling, and her feet felt thick at the ankles and stiff.
“Hurry up, girl. Don’t waste my time!”
Beauty gave a soft hiss, too, from her perch on the top shelf, unlidding her eyes, and from the rustling sounds in the same general area, Menolly knew the other fire lizards had roused. With her back to Master Morshal, she gestured to Beauty to close her eyes and be quiet. She cringed at the thought of Master Morshal’s probable reaction to fire lizards.
“I said to hurry, girl,”
She shuffled to the place where she had laid the gitar and hurried back with instrument and music. The Master took the hides, his lips twitching with annoyance as he turned the thick leaves. This was new copying, Menolly saw, for the hide was almost white and the notes clear and easily read. The hide edges were neatly trimmed, too, the lines going from margin to margin, to be sure, but no notes lost in decayed edges.
“There! Play me that!” The music was slid across the sandtable with—Menolly thought, somewhat shocked—complete disregard for the value of the work.
By some freak of chance, Master Morshal had chosen the “Ballad of Moreta’s Ride.” She’d never manage the verse chords as written, and he’d fault her if she couldn’t.
“Sir, my…” she began, holding out her left hand.
“I want no excuses. Either you can play it as written or I assume that you are unable to perform a traditional work to a creditable standard.”
Menolly ran her fingers across the strings to see if the tuning had held. “Come, come. If you can read written scores, you can play them.”
That was assuming a lot, Menolly thought to herself. But she struck the opening chords and, mindful that he was undoubtedly waiting for her to falter, she played the so well-known Ballad according to the score before her, rather than by rote. There were variations in the chords: two of which were easily managed, but she flubbed the fourth and fifth because her scarred hand would not stretch.
“I see, I see,” he said, waving her to stop, but he looked oddly pleased. “You cannot play accurately at tempo. Very well, that is all. You are dismissed.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Morshal…”Menolly began, again extending her hand as explanation.
“You what?” He glared at her, his eyes wide with incredulity that she seemed to be defying him. “Out! I just dismissed you! What is the world coming to when girls presume to be harpers and pretend to compose music! Out! Great shells and stars!” His voice changed from scold to panic. “What’s that? What are they? Who let them in here?”
Already making her way down the steps, Menolly lost her anger with him at the fright in his voice. His anger had roused her friends, and since she was apparently in danger, they had rushed to protect her, by squeaking and diving at him. She laughed as she heard the slamming of a heavy door, and as instantly regretted the scene. Master Morshal would be against her, and that would not make her life easy in the Harper Hall. “Nothing to fear from harpers?” Was that what T’gellan had said last night? Maybe not fear, but certainly she was going to have to be cautious with them. Perhaps she ought not to have been so knowledgeable about music; that had irritated him. But wasn’t that knowledge what he was testing? Once again, she wondered if there really was a place for her here? Presume to be a harper? No, she hadn’t, and it was up to Master Robinton, wasn’t it? Were Master Morshal and Master Domick part of the conventional procedures Master Robinton had mentioned? Even if she needn’t have much to do with them, she sensed their antagonism and dislike.