Moreta (39 page)

Kamiana comes,
Orlith said, her tone calmer, her eyes more green than yellow.

Moreta looked up and saw the Weyrwoman beckoning urgently for Moreta to join her on the tier.

“Leri told me to wait until you’d both had a chance to cool down!” Kamiana said, rolling her eyes and grinning sympathetically at Moreta. “Sh’gall will drone on when he’s offended, won’t he? You’d think the plague had been invented to annoy him alone. And that M’tani? We’re all tired of Thread but we still do what is expected. He may find himself flying by his lonesome, and I know his Weyr’s at half strength. Can
we
not replace him? Or must we wait until Telgar’s Dalgeth rises to replace him as Leader? However, we’re flying for Capiam tomorrow, Lidora, Haura, and myself. I wish you could persuade Leri not to, but she does know the hole-in-the-hill places better anyone else in the Weyr. She’s talked S’peren into taking a few runs and K’lon, though he’s only a blue.” Kamiana frowned dubiously over that choice. “I think P’nine would have been wiser but he got scored.”

“K’lon’s already stumbled onto timing; besides, he’s done a lot of conveying lately, you know.”

“I didn’t know”—Kamiana rolled her eyes expressively again—“just how much was going on around here, Moreta, and your queen on the Hatching Ground, pushing sand about to warm her eggs!”

3.22.43

In the main Hall of Ruatha Hold, which had so recently been a hospital, forty cartwheels had been rigged as centrifuges. A hundred or more ornamental bottles had also served their purpose and were now stacked against the stair wall where once the banquet table of Ruathan Lords had graced the raised end of the long Hall. The frenzied activity of the past three days had, in the late hours of this night, abated to weary preparations for the morning’s final effort. It was no comfort to the fatigued that similar activity had wearied anxious men and women in Keroon Beasthall and Benden Hold.

In the corner nearest the kitchen entrance, a trestle table had been serving as dining table at appropriate hours and a worktable at all other times. The remnants of an evening meal were at the end nearest the wall, where maps and lists had been tacked to the hangings. On its long benches sat the eight people whom Alessan called his Loyal Crew, relaxing with a cup of wine from Alessan’s skin of Benden white.

“I wasn’t so taken with that Master Balfor, Lord Alessan,” Dag was saying, his eyes on the wine in his cup.

“He’s not confirmed in the honor,” Alessan said. He was too weary to take part in an argument and well aware that Fergal was listening with avid ears to store bits and pieces of irrelevant information in his cunning young mind.

“I’d worry who else might have the rank, for Master Balfor certainly hasn’t the experience.”

“He has done all that Master Capiam asked,” Tuero said with an eye on Desdra, who apparently was not listening.

“Ah, it’s sad to realize how many good men and women have died.” Dag lifted his cup in a silent toast. “And sadder to think of the fine bloodlines just wiped out. When I think of the races Squealer will walk away with and no competition to stretch him in a challenge.”

Alessan poured a bit more wine in his cup, Fergal’s eyes on the business. He’d been offered a portion but disdained it with an insolence that Alessan excused only because the lad had worked so diligently at any task assigned him. But then, the work had been to save runners, and the boy had obviously inherited his grandfather’s total commitment to the breed.

“You say Runel died?” Dag continued, finding it hard to comprehend how few of his old cronies remained. “Did all his bloodline go?”

“The oldest son and his family are safe in the hold.”

“Ah, well, he’s the right one for it. I’ll just have a look at that brown mare. She could foal tonight. Come along, Fergal.” Dag swung his splinted leg off the bench and took up the crutches Tuero had contrived for him. For just a moment, Fergal looked rebellious.

“I’ll come with you if I may,” Rill said, rising and unobtrusively assisting Dag. “A birth is a happy moment!”

Fergal was on his feet in an instant, extremely possessive of Dag and unwilling to share the man’s attention with anyone, not even with Nerilka, for whom he had taken a curious liking.

Tuero watched the curious trio until they had left the hall. “I know I’ve seen that woman before.”

“I have, too,” Desdra said, “or maybe her kinfolk. Faces have got blurred. Overdose!” She was leaning back against the wall behind her, hands limp in her lap, a few wisps of dark hair escaping from the tight braids. “When this is over tomorrow, I’m going to sleep and sleep and sleep. Anyone, anyone whosoever attempts to rouse me, shall be . . . shall be . . . I’m too tired to think of something suitably vile.”

“The wine was excellent, Lord Alessan,” Follen said, rising. He pulled at Deefer’s sleeve. “We’ve just three more batches to decant tonight. There could be breakages, so we must have spares. It won’t take long now.”

Deefen yawned mightily then belatedly covered his mouth, apologetically glancing around. But a yawn was not in the same category as a sneeze or a cough.

“When you think that I thought,” Tuero began with a long sigh as he regarded the interior of his empty cup, “that a Ruathan Gather would be less tedious than a Crom wedding, you may wonder what I was doing for wits that day.”

Alessan looked up, his light-green eyes sparkling. “Does that mean, my friend, you have considered my offer of a post here at Ruatha?”

Tuero gave a little chuckle. “My good Lord Holder Alessan, there comes a time in a harper’s life when he decides that the variety and change of temporary assignments begin to pall and he wishes a comfortable living where his capabilities are appreciated, where he can be sure of witty conversations over the dinner table—to save his fingers from the harping—where his energies are not abused—”

“I wouldn’t post to Ruatha in that event,” Desdra remarked caustically, but she smiled.

“You weren’t asked,” Alessan replied, mischief in his eyes.

“It’s no joy to serve a cautious man.” Tuero flung an arm about Alessan’s shoulders. “There is one condition, however, which”—the harper held up a long forefinger, pausing before his stipulation—“must be met.”

“By the first Egg,” Alessan protested, “you’ve already got me to agree to a first-storey apartment on the inside, second tithe of our Crafthalls—”

“When you’ve got them staffed again—”

“Your choice of a runnerbeast, top marks as journeyman, and leave, if you wish, to take your mastery when the Pass is over. What more can you ask of an impoverished Lord Holder?”

“All I ask is what is fitting for a man of my accomplishments.” Tuero humbly put one hand on his heart.

“So what is this final condition?”

“That you supply me with Benden white.” He spoiled the gravity of his pronouncement by hiccuping and gestured urgently for Alessan to fill his cup. He sipped wine to stop the spasms. “Well?”

“Good Journeyman Harper Tuero, if I can procure Benden white, you may have your just share of it.” He raised his cup solemnly and Tuero touched his to it. “Agreed?”

Tuero hiccuped. “Agreed!” He tried to swallow the next hiccup.

Desdra looked at Alessan then leaned forward and prodded the wineskin under his elbow. She made a noise of amused reproof.

“There’s not much left in it,” Alessan assured her.

“That’s just as well. Tomorrow your heads must be as clear as can be,” she said. “Come, Oklina, you’re half asleep as it is.”

Regarding her through the lovely euphoria produced by several cups of his superlative Benden white, Alessan wondered if Desdra was being solicitous of his sister or merely needed support up the stairs. The progress of the two women was steady but uncertain, and their indirect course not entirely due to the cartwheels, apparatus, and equipment that lay strewn about the spacious whitewashed Hall. That was another thing he must do, Alessan decided suddenly—repaint the Hall. The austere white was too much a reminder of too many painful scenes.

“I say, Alessan,” Tuero said as he tugged at the Lord Holder’s sleeve, “where do you get all that white Benden?”

Alessan grinned. “I have to have a few secrets.” His head was wobbling and if he wasn’t careful, it would fall sideways onto the table.

“Secrets? Even from your harper?” Tuero tried to sound indignant.

“If you find out, I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

Tuero brightened. “That’s fair enough. If a harper can’t find out—and this harper is very good at finding things out—if a harper can’t find out, he doesn’t have the right to know. Is that right, Alessan?”

But Alessan’s head reposed on the table; a snore issued from his half-open mouth. Tuero stared at him for a moment in mixed pity and rebuke, then pushed at the wineskin under his elbow and sighed in disgust. There wasn’t more than a dribble in it.

Footsteps sounded behind Tuero. He turned.

“Has he finished it?” Rill asked.

“Yes, it’s empty, and he’s the only one who knows where the supply is!”

Rill smiled. “The foal is a male, a fine strong one. I thought Lord Alessan would like to know. Dag and Fergal are watching to be sure it stands and suckles.” She looked down at the sleeping Lord Holder, an expression of ineffable tenderness lending her a look of quiet beauty.

Tuero blinked to be sure it was the wine that had enhanced the tall woman. She had good bones in her face, he decided after making an effort at concentration. With a bit of thought to her clothing, brighter colors, with hair longer than that unattractive crop, she’d be attractive. Unexpectedly her expression altered, and so did the illusion of beauty—once again she bore the resemblance that perplexed Tuero and Desdra.

“I know I know you,” Tuero said.

“I’m not the sort of person a journeyman harper knows,” she replied. “Get to your feet, Harper. I can’t allow him to sleep in this uncomfortable position and he needs a proper rest.”

“Not so sure I can stand.”

“Try it.” Her terse reply was issued with an authority that Tuero found himself obeying though he was shaky on his legs.

Rill was only half a head shorter than Alessan so she looped one limp arm over her shoulder, urging Tuero take the other. Between them they managed to get Alessan upright, though he remained only half-conscious of their efforts. Tuero had to cling with his free hand to the bannister but fortunately, Alessan’s rooms were the first apartment past the head of the stairs. They got him through to the bedroom where Rill arranged his limp body comfortably before she covered him. Tuero was mildly jealous that Alessan could arouse such tenderness.

“I wish . . . I wish . . .” he began but lost the words to express that longing.

“The doss-bed is still in the next room, Harper.”

“Will you cover me up, too?” Tuero asked wistfully.

Bill smiled and merely pointed to the pallet on the floor and shook out the blanket folded on it. With a sigh of weary gratitude, Tuero lay down on his side.

“You’re good to a drunken sot of a harper,” he murmured as he felt the blanket spread over him. “One day I’ll rememmmm . . .”

The morning began as any other in the Weyr. Though bothered by a lingering cough, Nesso had otherwise recovered from her illness. She brought Moreta breakfast and so many complaints about Gorta’s management of the Lower Caverns during hen illness that Moreta cut short the tirade by saying she had to check Leri’s harness.

“I can’t imagine why the queen riders would fly with Telgar after what M’tani did yesterday.”

Moreta was grateful that the Fall would mask the queens’ real activities and grateful, too, that Nesso had obviously not discerned that the rising to Fall was merely an excuse, that Telgar had nothing to do with the queens’ flight that day.

“It’s the last time,” Moreta said, hastily draining her cup. “We had our duty to hold and hall!”

Orlith was carefully turning eggs on the hot sands, testing their shells with a gentle tongue. She was more solicitous of the queen egg and turned it nearly every hour; the lesser ones were rearranged only three or four times a day. Moreta would see Leri safely off on her mission and then take Orlith to the feeding ground. They would have to insist that drovers restock the Weyr, once the threat of plague was over. Just then there wasn’t much choice among what beasts were left. She’d speak to Peterpar. Maybe wild wherries could be found nearby fattening on the spring growth in the lower range. Once the day was over, there’d be a lot of details she’d best attend and get affairs back to a normal pace. And then a real Search for candidates would be initiated.

Leri was dressed in her flying gear but grumpy.

“Maybe you’d better not fly your run if your joints are bothering you so much. Did you take enough fellis juice in your wine?”

“Hah! I knew there’d come a day when you’d beg me to take fellis juice!”

“I’m not begging you—”

“Well, you don’t need to remind me either. Just didn’t sleep well last night. Kept going over the details of what goes where and with whom. M’tani couldn’t have picked a better time to be obnoxious.” Leri was blackly sarcastic. “You’re going to have to cope with Sh’gall today, you know, and all that injured dignity. Good thing we planned for you to stay in the Hatching Ground; otherwise he’d get suspicious.”

“He’s asleep.”

“He should be! Gorta tells me he put away two wineskins on his own. Now, if you’ll just pass that strap?—There!”

Holth nuzzled Moreta with unexpected affection as she bent her head to accept the neck strap, and Moreta gave her eye ridge a scrape.

“You’ll take good care of Leri today, won’t you, Holth?”

Of course!

“Of all the nerve. Talking behind a rider’s back!” Leri pretended indignation, but she smiled warmly at Moreta before she tugged at the harness to be sure that the clips were secure. “There!” She thumped Holth on the neck. “We’d best be off. I’m taking the upper ranges. When I collect the animal vaccine from Ruatha, shall I leave in any messages?”

“You’ll wish them well, of course. And see what Holth thinks of Oklina.”

“Naturally!”