Moreta (18 page)

They retrieved more sail fragments than she’d initially dared believe. Moreta began to feel more confident as she stitched a reed to the tendon. In time the whole would mend although the new growth, overlapping the old, would be thicker and unsightly for seasons to come, until windblown sand had abraded the heavier tissue. Dilenth would learn to compensate for the alteration on the sail surface. Most dragons readily adapted to such inequalities once they were airborne again.

Dilenth will fly again,
Orlith said placidly as Moreta stepped back from the repaired wing.
You’ve done as much as you can here.

“Orlith says we’ve done a good job, A’dan,” she told the greenrider with a weary smile. “You were marvelous assistants, M’barak, D’ltan, B’greal!” She nodded gratefully to the three weyrlings. “Now, we’ll just get Dilenth over to the ground weyrs—and you can all collapse.”

She jumped down from the table and would have sprawled had A’dan’s hand not steadied her. His wry grin heartened her. She propped herself against the table edge for a moment. Nesso appeared, dispensing wine to Moreta first and then the others.

Dilenth, released from Orlith’s rigid control, began to sag on his legs, tilting dangerously to his right. Orlith reasserted her domination while Moreta looked around for F’duril.

“He’ll be no help to anyone,” Nesso observed sourly as they all watched the blue rider sinking slowly to the ground in a faint.

“It was the strain and his wound,” A’dan said as he rushed to his weyrmate.

Dilenth moaned and lowered his muzzle toward his rider.

“He’s all right, Dilenth,” A’dan said, gently turning F’duril over. “A little sandy—”

“And a lot drunk!” M’barak murmured as he signaled the other two lads to aid A’dan with F’duril.

“The worst is over now!” A’dan said with brisk cheer.

“He doesn’t know what worst is,” Nesso muttered gloomily at Moreta’s side as the blue dragon lurched away, supported on one side by A’dan’s Tigrath and K’lon and blue Rogeth on the other.

It took Moreta a few moments to realize that K’lon and Rogeth should not be about. “K’lon? . . .”

“He volunteered.” Nesso sounded peeved. “He
said
that he was fine and he couldn’t stand being idle when he was so badly needed. And he the only one!”

“The only one?”

Nesso averted her face from the Weyrwoman. “It
was
a command the Weyr could not ignore. An emergency, after all. He and F’neldril decided that he must respond to the drum message.”

“What drum message are you talking about, Nesso?” Abruptly Moreta understood Nesso’s averted gaze, She’d been overstepping her authority as Headwoman again.

“Fort Hold required a dragonrider to convey Lord Tolocamp from Ruatha to Fort Hold. Urgently. There is illness at Ruatha and more at Fort Hold, which cannot be deprived of its Lord Holder during such a disaster.” Nesso blurted out the explanation in spurts, peering anxiously up at Moreta to gauge her reaction. “Master Capiam is sick—he must be, for it is Fortine who replies to messages, not the Masterhealer.” Nesso grimaced and began to wring her hands, bringing them by degrees to her mouth as if to mask her words. “And there are sick
riders
at Igen, Ista, and many at Telgar. There’s Fall in two days in the south . . . I ask you, who will fly against Thread if three Weyrs have no riders to send?”

Moreta forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, absorbing the sense of Nesso’s babbling. The woman began to weep now, whether from the relief of confession or from remorse Moreta couldn’t ascertain.

“When did this drum message come?”

“There were two. The first one, calling for a conveyance for Lord Tolocamp, just after the wings left for Fall!” Nesso mopped at her eyes, appealing mutely to Moreta for forgiveness. “Curmir said we had to respond!”

“So you did!” Nesso’s blubbering irritated Moreta. “I see that you could not delay until we had returned from Fall. Surely Curmir responded that the Weyr was at Fall?”

“Well, they knew that. But F’neldril and K’lon were here—no, there”—Nesso had to find the exact spot near the Cavern—“so we all heard the drum message. K’lon said immediately that he could go. He said, and we had to agree with him, that since he had been ill of the fever, he was unlikely to contract it. He wouldn’t let F’neldril or one of the weyrlings or the disabled take the risk.” Nesso’s eyes pleaded for reassurance. “We tried to ask Berchar about the danger of infection, but S’gor would not let anyone see him and could not answer for him. And we
had
to respond to Lord Tolocamp’s request! It is only right that a Lord Holder be in his Hold during such a crisis. Curmir reasoned that, in such an unusual instance, we were constrained by duty to assist the Lord Holder even if it meant disobeying the Weyrleader!”

“Not to mention the Masterhealer and a general quarantine.”

“But Master Capiam is
at
Fort Hold,” Nesso protested as if that sanctioned all. “And what will be happening at Fort Hold in Lord Tolocamp’s absence I cannot imagine!”

It was the happenings at Ruatha Hold that concerned Moreta more vitally, and the second drum message.

“What is this of sick riders? Did it come in on open code?”

“No, indeed! Curmir had to look it up in his Record. We did nothing about that. Not even forward it for it didn’t have the pass-on cadence. F’neldril and K’lon said you should know. There are forty-five riders ill at Telgar alone!” Nesso placed one hand on her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Nine are very ill! Twenty-two are ill at Igen and fourteen at Ista.” Nesso seemed obscurely pleased by the numbers.

Eighty-one riders ill of this epidemic? Despair and fear welled through Moreta.
Riders
ill? Her mind reeled. It was Fall! All the dragonriders were needed. Fort Weyr was down thirty in strength from the last Fall, and thirty-three from this one. It would be a full Turn before Dilenth flew. Why this? Only eight Turns remained in this Pass and then the riders would be free of the devastation that Thread wrought on dragons, themselves, and Pern. Moreta shook her head in an effort to clear her thinking. She ought to have paid more heed to Sh’gall’s agitated report of illness instead of discounting the truth because it was unpalatable. She knew that Master Capiam was not in the habit of issuing arbitrary orders. But riders were healthy, fit, less susceptible to minor ailments. Why should they, in their splendid isolation, pursuing their historic occupation, be vulnerable to an infection rampant in crowded holds, halls, and among beasts?

Yet, her rational self said, the damage was already spreading by the time Sh’gall brought her the news. Even she had already innocently compounded her involvement by showing off her sensitivity to impress Alessan.
How
could anyone at Ruatha Gather have realized the danger in approaching that dying runnerbeast? Why, when Talpan had correlated illness to the journeyings of that caged beast, she and Alessan had probably been watching the races.

You are not at fault,
the tender, loving voice of Orlith said.
You did no harm to that runnerbeast. You had the right to enjoy the Gather.

“Is there anything we should
do
about the other Weyrs, Moreta?” Nesso asked. She had stopped weeping but she still twisted and washed her hands in an indecisive way that annoyed Moreta almost as much.

“Has Sh’gall returned?”

“He was here and went off, looking for Leri. He was angry.”

Orlith?

They are busy but unharmed.

“Nesso, did you tell him about the drum messages?”

Nesso cast a desperate look at Moreta and shook her head. “He wasn’t on the ground long enough—really, Moreta.”

“I see.” And Moreta did. Nesso could never have brought herself to inform the Weyrleader of such fateful tidings had there been worlds of time. Moreta would have to present the matters to Sh’gall soon enough, a conversation that would cause more acrimony on a day when both had more problems than hours. “How is Sorth?”

“Well, now, he’s going to be fine,” Nesso said with considerably more enthusiasm for that topic. “He’s just over here. I thought you might like to check over my work.”

The westering sun glinted off the Tooth Crag above Fort Weyr and the glare hurt Moreta’s tired eyes as she looked in the direction Nesso pointed. The repair of Dilenth’s wing had taken far longer than she had realized.

There is still sun on your ledge, Orlith. You should enjoy it. Get the cold of
between
and Fall out of your hide.

You are as tired. When do you rest?

When I have finished what must be done,
Moreta said, but her dragon’s concern was comforting. Moreta scrubbed at her fingertips, which had become insensitive where numbweed had seeped through the oil. She rinsed her hands in redwort and dried them well on the cloth Nesso offered.

A blue dragon wailed plaintively from his ledge, and Moreta looked up, worried.

“His rider only has a broken shoulder,” Nesso said with a sniff. “Torn harness.”

Moreta remembered another blue rider.
Orlith, that blue weyrling—has he returned from the ridge?

Yes, there was no Thread. He reported to the Weyrlingmaster.
He
wants to have a word with you about putting a very young rider at risk.

The lad would have been in more risk continuing his antics, and I’ll have words with the Weyrlingmaster on another score.
“Let’s see Sorth,” she said aloud to Nesso.

“He’s an old dragon. I don’t think he’ll heal well.” Nesso babbled out of a nervous desire to regain favor in Moreta’s eyes, for she didn’t know that much about dragon injuries and far too much about how she thought the Weyr should be managed.

Moreta had also come to the conclusion at some point in the last few moments that she would have ordered someone to convey Lord Tolocamp had she been in the Weyr when the message arrived, despite any protest Sh’gall might have raised about breaking quarantine. Fort Hold would need Tolocamp more than Ruatha needed an unwilling guest. She wondered fleetingly if any were sick at Ruatha. If so, how had Alessan permitted Tolocamp to break quarantine?

Sorth had taken a gout of tangled Thread right on the forward wing-fmger, severing the bone just past the knuckle. L’rayl was full of praise for Declan’s assistance, belatedly including Nesso in his recital while she glared at him. They had done a good job of splinting the bone, Moreta noted professionally, tying reeds into position on well-numbed flesh.

“Nasty enough,” Moreta commented as Sorth gingerly lowered the injured wing for her scrutiny.

“A fraction closer to the knuckle and Sorth might have lost tip mobility,” L’rayl said with laudable detachment. The man had a habit of clenching his teeth after he spoke, as if chopping off his words before they could offend anyone.

“A soak in the lake tomorrow will reduce the swelling once ichor has coated the wound,” Moreta said, stroking the old brown’s shoulder.

“Sorth says,” L’rayl answered after a pause, “that floating would feel very good. The wing would be supported by the water and not ache so much.” L’rayl was then caught between a grin and a grimace for his dragon’s courage and, to cover his embarrassment, he turned and roughly scratched Sorth’s greening muzzle.

“How many riders were injured?” she asked Nesso as they turned toward the infirmary. With eighty-one sick of the plague, they might have to send substitutes.

“More than there should be,” Nesso replied, having recovered her critical tongue.

Nesso hovered while Moreta made her expected brief appearance in the infirmary. Most of the injured riders were groggy with fellis juice or asleep, so she didn’t have to linger. She also seemed unable to extricate herself from Nesso’s company.

“Moreta, what you need right now is a good serving of my fine stew.”

Moreta was not hungry. She knew she ought to eat but she wanted to await the return of Sh’gall and Leri. In a brief flurry of malice, Moreta struck across the Bowl to the Lower Cavern in a long stride that forced Nesso to jog to keep up. Annoyed with herself, Moreta silently put up with Nesso’s fussing to make sure that the cook served Moreta a huge plate. Nesso obsequiously cut bread and heaped slices on Moreta’s plate before making a show of seating the Weyrwoman. Fortunately, before the last of Moreta’s waning penitence was exhausted, one of the fosterlings came running up to say that Tellani needed Nesso “
right
now.”

“Giving birth, no doubt. She started labor at the beginning of Fall.” Nesso raised her eyes and hands ceilingward in resignation. “We’ll probably never know who the father was for Tellani doesn’t know.”

“Babe or child, we’ll have some trace to go by. Wish Tellani well for me.”

Privately Moreta blessed Tellani for her timing; she would have respite from the Headwoman, and a birth after Fall was regarded as propitious. The Weyr needed a good dollop of luck. A boy, even of uncertain parentage, would please the dragonriders. She’d have a stern talk with Tellani about keeping track of her lovers—surely a simple enough task even for so loving a woman as Tellani. The Weyr had to be cautious about consanguinity. It might just be the wiser course to foster Tellani’s children to other Weyrs.

It was easier to think of an imminent birth than tax her tired mind with imponderables such as sick riders in three Weyrs, a Masterhealer who was not signing outgoing messages, the disciplining of a rider and a harper who disobeyed their Weyrleader, a wing-torn dragon who would be weyrbound for months, and a sick healer who might be dying.

Malth says Berchar is very weak and S’gor is very worried,
Orlith told her in a gentle, drowsy voice.
We have decided that the woman has carried a male,
Orlith continued. Moreta was astonished. Since Orlith very rarely used the plural pronoun, she must be referring to other dragons.

How kind you are, my golden love!
Moreta shielded her face with her hands so that no one in the cavern would see the tears in her eyes for her dragon’s unexpected kindly distraction, and her everlasting joy that, of all the girls standing on Ista’s Hatching Ground that day Turns ago, Orlith had chosen the late arrival for her rider.