There were houses on either side of the street, and the doors of most were painted with pictures of a bewildering variety of musical instruments.  Margaret identified a kind of harp, an assortment of wooden flutes, and something vaguely like a violin.  Its shape was different, more elongated, enough to be sure the tone would be subtly different than anything she knew.  The street was poorly lit by flickering torches and the moon, but she could see wood shavings and small pieces of stuff scattered around on the rough cobbles.  In a less damp climate, it would have been a terrible fire hazard, but she doubted the debris ever dried out enough to be dangerous.

It smelled good.  The woods gave off pleasant fragrances, the mist which dampened the air was clean, and food was cooking behind the brightly painted doors.  These were such homey scents, after days in the confines of the ship, that she felt ready to weep from the pleasure of it.  Margaret could not remember ever reacting so strongly on any previous planetfall, and it was a little unnerving.  Not unpleasant, precisely, but disquieting, as if there were memories hovering just out of mind, wisps she could not quite grasp.

From behind one door, or perhaps from the big shuttered window beside it, came the sound of a group rehearsing with stringed instruments.  Someone hit a very sour note; Margaret winced.  As if in answer, a huge bass voice roared angrily.

"That's Master Rodrigo," Geremy informed her, his earlier formality forgotten.  "He's a terrible bully, but they say he'll be craft master after Master Everard, because he's a better musician than Everard's son Erald.  He really is good; I heard him sing last Midwinter, and it made goose bumps all over my arms.  He's almost the best singer in Thendara except for Ellynyn Ardais - and Ellynyn is comyn and an emmasca, so of course the he has a wonderful voice."

Margaret considered these words.  They had not been on the tape of Trade Language of Thendara City, but she was fairly certain she knew what emmasca meant.  She had heard the famous castrati of the pleasure world of Vainwal, and could almost wish they were legal on other worlds.  They had the reputation of being the finest voices in the Empire.  Were they legal on Darkover?  Or were they whatever they were, born that way?  The other term remained a mystery, because while she knew it, something seemed to be blocking her ability to understand its meaning.

Then she realized that Ivor was no longer beside her.  She looked around, and found the professor standing underneath one of the street signs, studying the oddly-shaped violin on it.  Margaret shook her head, retreated to him, and herded him gently down the narrow street.  He was muttering happily to himself, asking himself questions and answering them almost immediately.

When they caught up with the boys, who were waiting very patiently, she asked, "The job of craft master is generally handed down from father to son, then?"  Her brain might be tired, but it seemed her tongue ran on automatic and continued to ask questions.

The boys looked at each other and shrugged.  It was Ethan who answered.  "Sometimes.  It depends on the son's skill or lack of it.  The MacArdis, and the MacArans, have been craft masters in the Music Guild for a long time now.  Just as the MacEwans and the MacCalls are master tailors, and the MacDoevids are the best weavers in Thendara.  Erald MacArdis will not care, for what he likes best is to wander about and gather songs.  My sister Becca is married now to Rodrigo's brother, so I hear a lot of music gossip when she comes home.  Is that something like you do, domna?"

"That is exactly what I do.  But, if you'll forgive me for asking - I don't know what's rude here - didn't your family want Becca to marry in the cloth guild?  Why did she marry an outsider?"