Free Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey

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.
    She sighed and turned on the landing for the second flight and stopped. Piemur was in the hall, motionless, his eyes enormous as he followed the excited flitting of the fire lizards. Lazy and Uncle had subsided to the banister.
    ‘I’m not seeing things?’ he asked her, watching Lazy and Uncle with apprehensive gaze. From the hand held rigid at his side, the forefinger indicated the two fire lizards.
    ‘No, you’re not. The brown one is Lazy, and the blue is Uncle.’
    His eyes followed the flight of the others a moment longer, trying to count. Then they popped out further as Beauty landed daintily on Menolly’s