Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey Read Free Book Online Page B

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 absentminded craftsman about Master Jerint now.
    ‘It’s 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 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 practise 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 practise 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 towards 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 school-room, to judge by