Moreta (10 page)

“Sh’gall’s story was a little incoherent but he’d taken Lord Ratoshigan to Ista to see the feline; Capiam had arrived from seeing what ailed Igen Sea Hold, Keroon, and Telgar—”

“Great Faranth!”

Moreta nodded. “Ista, of course. Then Ratoshigan had an urgent drum message summoning him back because of illness, so Sh’gall conveyed him and Master Capiam.”

“How did the sickness get there so fast? The beast only got as far as Ista!”

“Yes, but it was first at Keroon Beasthold to be identified by Master Sufur and no one realized that it was carrying sickness—”

“And because it’s been an open winter, they’ve been shipping runners all over the continent!” Leri concluded, and the two women looked at each other gravely.

“Talpan told Capiam that dragons are not affected.”

“We should be grateful for small mercies, I suppose,” Leri said.

“And Fall’s tomorrow. We’ll have that over with before any of us fall sick. Incubation’s two to four days.”

“That’s not a big mercy, is it? But you weren’t at Ista.” Leri frowned.

“No, Sh’gall was. However, a runner fell in the second race at Ruatha and it shouldn’t have . . .”

Leri nodded, her comprehension complete. “And naturally you were close enough to go have a look. It died?”

“And shouldn’t have. Its owner had just received some new stock from Keroon.”

“Hooooo!” Leri rolled her eyes and sighed in resignation. “So, what medication does Capiam recommend? Surely he must have some idea if he’s been flipping across the continent?”

“He recommends that we treat the symptoms empirically until he finds out just what it is and what the specific medicine is.”

“And what is it we treat empirically?”

“Headache, fever, and a dry cough.”

“They don’t kill.”

“Until now.”

“I don’t like this at all,” Leri said, pulling her shawl across her shoulders and hunching into its warmth. “Though mind, we’d a harper here—though L’mal shooed him off for he was doleful—who used to say ‘there’s nothing new under the sun.’ A slim hope in these circumstances, but I don’t think we can ignore any avenues of exploration. You just bring me up more Records. Say the ones starting the last Pass. Fortunately I hadn’t planned on going anywhere this morning.”

As Leri only left her weyr to fly with the queens’ wing, Moreta offered her a smile for her attempt to lighten the bad tidings.

“Sh’gall’s left it to you to tell the Weyr?”

“Those who are awake. And Nesso . . .”

Leri snorted. “That’s the right one to start with. Be sure she gets the facts tight or we’ll have hysteria as well as hangovers by noontime. And since you’re up, would you fix my wine for me, please, Moreta?” Leri shifted uneasily. “The change in the weather does get to my joints.” She saw Moreta’s reluctance. “Look, if you fix it, then you’ll know I haven’t exceeded the proper amount of fellis juice.” Eyes sparkling with challenge, she cocked her head at the younger Weyrwoman. Moreta did not like Leri to use much fellis juice and contended that if Leri went south where the warmer weather would ease her condition, she wouldn’t need fellis juice at all.

But Moreta did not hesitate. The clammy cold made her feel stiff so it would certainly be making Leri miserable.

“Now, tell me, did you enjoy the Gather?” Leri asked as Moreta measured the fellis juice into her tall goblet.

“Yes, I did. And I got down on the race flats and watched most of the races from a very good vantage point with Lord Alessan.”

“What? You monopolized Alessan when his mother and the mother of every eligible girl able to creep or crawl to that Gather . . .”

Moreta grinned. “He did his duty with the girls on the dance square. And we,” she added, smiling more broadly than ever, “managed to stay upright in a toss dance!”

Leri grinned back at Moreta. “Alessan could be quite a temptation. I assume he’s got over the death of that wild one he married. Sad, that! Now, his grandfather, Leef’s sire . . . Ah, no, you’ll have heard all that.” Moreta had not, but Leri’s comment meant she was unlikely to. “I always chat Alessan up while the ground crews are reporting. Always has a flask of Benden white with him.”

“He does, does he?”

Leri laughed at Moreta’s alert tone.

“Don’t tell me he tried it on you, too, at his own Gather?” Leri chortled and then assumed a masculine pitch to her voice, “I just happen to have one skin of Benden white . . .” And she laughed all the more as Moreta reacted to the mimicry. “He’s got a full cave of ’em, I’d say. However, I’m glad Leef gave him the succession. He’s got more guts than that elder brother of his-never could remember the man’s name. Never mind. Alessan’s worth three of him. Did you know that Alessan was Searched?”

“And that Lord Leef refused.” Moreta frowned. Alessan would have made a superb bronze rider.

“Well, if the lad was to succeed, Leef was entitled to refuse. That was twelve Turns ago. Before you arrived from Ista. Alessan would have Impressed a bronze, I’m sure.”

Moreta nodded, bringing Leri her fellis juice and wine.

“Your health!” she said ironically, raising the cup to Moreta before she took a careful sip. “Hmmm. Do get some rest today, Moreta,” she said more briskly. “Two hours’ sleep is not enough when there’s Fall tomorrow and who knows how many dragonriders will do stupid things thanks to two Gathers, let alone Capiam’s unidentified disease.”

“I’ll get some rest once I’ve organized a few matters.”

“I sometimes wonder if we did right, L’mal and I, monopolizing your healing arts for the Weyr.”

“Yes!” Moreta’s quick reply was echoed by Holth and Orlith.

“Well, ask a silly question!” Leri was reassured, and she patted Holth’s cheek.

“Quite. Now, what Records should I send you?”

“The oldest ones you can find that are still legible.”

Moreta scooped up the pillow Leri had loaned her and threw it back to the old Weyrwoman, who caught it deftly.

“And eat something!” Leri shouted as Moreta turned and left the weyr.

Wisps of fog were infiltrating the valleys, oozing toward the western rim of the Bowl, and the watchrider was standing within the forearms of his dragon, finding what protection he could from the elements. Moreta shuddered. She didn’t like the northern fogs even after ten Turns, but she hadn’t liked the humidity of the southern latitude at Ista any better. And it was far too late to return to the comfortable climate of the highlands of Keroon. Was the disease in the highlands, too? And Talpan diagnosing it! How strange that he had been in her mind yesterday. Would the epidemic bring them together again?

She gave hersçlf a little shake and began the descent to the floor of the Bowl. First she would see K’lon, then find Berchar, even if it meant invading the privacy of S’gor’s weyr.

K’lon was asleep when she reached the infirmary and there was not so much as a bead of fever perspiration on his brow or upper lip. His fair skin was a healthy color, wind-darkened where the eyepieces left the cheeks bare. Berchar had attended K’lon during the initial days of his fever so Moreta saw no point in rousing the blue rider again.

Folk were moving about the Bowl by then, swirling fog about them as they began the preparations for the next day’s Threadfall. The shouts and laughter of the weyrlings filling firestone sacks was muted by the mist. Moreta thought to check with Weyrlingmaster F’neldril to find out how many of the weyrlings had drawn convey duty the day before. A rare animal in Ista might well have attracted some of them despite their strict orders to convey and return directly.

“Put some energy into the task, lads. Here’s the Weyrwoman to see the sacks are properly filled for tomorrow’s Fall.”

Many Fort dragonriders insisted that F’neldril was the one rider all Fort dragons obeyed, a holdover from weyrling days under his tutelage. He did have an uncanny instinct, Moreta thought, if he could see her through the rolling fog. He appeared right beside her, a craggy-faced man with a deep Thread scar from forehead to ear, and the lobe missing, but she had always liked him and he was one of her first friends at Fort Weyr.

“You’re well, Weyrwoman? And Orlith thrives? She’s near clutching now, isn’t she?”

“More weyrlings for you to tyrannize, F’neldril?”

“Me?” He pointed his long curved thumb at his chest in mock dismay. “Me? Tyrannize?”

But the old established exchange did not lift her spirits. “There’s trouble, F’neldril . . .”

“Which one?” he demanded.

“No, not your weyrlings. There’s a disease of epidemic proportion spreading over the southeast and coming west. I’ll want to know how many of the weyrlings were on convey duty yesterday and where they took their passengers, and how long they stayed on the ground at Ista. The entire Weyr will be answering the same questions. If we are to prevent the epidemic’s spreading here, we’ll need to know.”

“I’ll find out exactly. Never fear on that count, Moreta!”

“I don’t, but we must avoid panic even though the situation is very serious. And Leri would like to have some of the oldest Records, the still legible ones, brought to her weyr.”

“What’s the Masterhealer doing then with his time, and all those apprentices of his, that we have to do his job for him?”

“The more to look the quicker to find; the sooner the better,” Moreta replied. F’neldril could be so parochial.

“Leri’ll have her Records as soon as the lads have finished sacking firestone and had a bit of a wash. Wouldn’t do to have stone-dust messing up our Records—You there, M’barak, that sack’s not what I’d call full. Top it off.”

Another of F’neldril’s quirks was to finish one job before starting the next. But Moreta moved off, secure in the knowlege that Leri would not have a long wait for her Records.

She went on to the Lower Caverns and stood for a moment in the entrance, noting how few people occupied the tables, most of those few obviously nursing wine-heads. How awkward and inconvenient it all was, Moreta thought with a rush of distressed exasperation, for an epidemic to break out the day after two Gathers, when half the riders would consider the news a bad joke and the rest wouldn’t be sober enough to understand what was happening. And Fall tomorrow! How could she
tell
the Weyr if they weren’t available to tell?

If you eat, you’ll think of something,
came the calm imperturbable voice of her dragon.

“An excellent notion.” Moreta went to the small breakfast hearth and poured herself a cup of klah, added a huge spoonful of sweetener, took a fresh roll from the warming oven and looked around for a place to sit and think. Then she saw Peterpar, the Weyr herdsman, sharpening his hoof knife. His hair was rumpled and his face sleep creased. He was not really attending to the job at hand, which was honing an edge against the strop.

“Don’t cut yourself,” she said quietly, sitting down.

Peterpar winced at the sound of her voice but he kept on stropping.

“Were you at Ista or Ruatha?”

“Both, for my folly. Beer at Ista. That foully acid Tillek wine at Ruatha.”

“Did you see the feline at Ista?” Moreta thought that it would be kinder to break the news gently to a man in Peterpar’s fragile state.

“Aye.” Peterpar frowned. “Master Talpan was there. He told me not to get too close though it was caged and all. He sent you his regards, by the way. Afterward”—Peterpar’s frown deepened as if he didn’t quite trust his memory of events—“they put the animal down.”

“For a good reason.” Moreta told him why.

Peterpar held the knife suspended, midstrop, shocked. By the time she had finished, he had recovered his equanimity.

“If it’s to come, it’ll come.” He went on stropping.

“That last drove of runnerbeasts we received in tithe,” she asked, “from which hold did it come?” She sipped at the klah, grateful for its warmth and stimulation.

“Part of Tillek’s contribution.” Peterpar’s expression reflected the relief he felt. “Heard tell at Ista that there’s been an illness among runners at Keroon. Same thing?” The tone in Peterpar’s voice begged Moreta to deny it.

She nodded.

“Now, how can a feline that came from the Southern Continent give us, man and runnerbeast, a sickness?”

“Master Talpan decided that it did. Apparently neither man nor runnerbeast has any immunity from the infection that feline brought with it.”

Peterpar cocked his head to one side, contorting his face. “Then that runnerbeast that dropped dead at Ruatha races had it?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Tillek doesn’t get breeding stock from Keroon. Just as well. But soon’s I finish my klah, I’ll check the herds.” He returned his hoof knife to its case, rolled up his strop and shoved it into his tunic pocket. “Dragons don’t get this, do they?”

“No, Master Talpan didn’t believe they could.” Moreta rose to her feet. “But riders can.”

“Oh, we’re a hardy lot, we weyrfolk,” Peterpar said pridefully, shaking his head that she would doubt it. “We’ll be careful now. You wait and see. Won’t be many of
us
coming down sick. Don’t you worry about that now, Moreta. Not with Fall tomorrow.”

One was offered reassurance from unlikely sources, Moreta thought. Yet his advice reminded her that one of the reasons weyrfolk were so hardy was because they ate well and sensibly. Many illnesses could be prevented, or diminished, by proper diet. One of her most important duties as Weyrwoman was altering that diet from season to season. Moreta looked about the Cavern, to see if Nesso was up. She had better not be laggard with the tidings to Nesso who would relish disseminating information of such caliber.

“Nesso, I’d like you to add spearleek and white bulb to your stews for a while, please.”

Nesso gave one of her little offended sniffs. “I’ve already planned to do so and there’s citron in the morning rolls. If you’d had one, you’d know. A pinch of prevention’s worth a pound of cure.”

“You’d already planned to? You’ve heard of the sickness?”

Nesso sniffed again. “Being waked up at the crack of dawn—”

“Sh’gall told you?”

“No, he didn’t tell me. He was banging around the night hearth muttering to himself half-demented, without a thought or a consideration for those of us sleeping nearby.”