Moreta (4 page)

“Most of it?” His voice was wistfully pleading, quite at variance with his sparkling eyes and grin. “I know what I have to do but . . .”

“There’ll be girls here from
all
over—”

“Yes, a Search has been conducted for my benefit.”

“What else did you expect, Lord Alessan, when you’re now such a suitable match?”

“Suriana liked
me,
not my prospects,” Alessan said in a flat bleak voice. “When that match was arranged, of course, I had none, so we could suit ourselves. And we did.”

So that explained why he had been allowed to grieve and defer a second marriage. Moreta hadn’t thought Lord Leef had so much compassion in him. “You were more fortunate than most,” she said, oddly envious. Once she had Impressed a queen, personal choice had been denied her. Once she had Impressed Orlith, their love compensated for many things; love for another human paled in comparison.

“I was acutely aware of my good luck.” In that quiet phrase, Alessan implied not only his loss but his realization that he must discharge the responsibilities of his new rank. Moreta wondered why Sh’gall had developed a curious antipathy to the man.

They were moving through the Gatherers, past the stalls. Moreta sniffed deeply of the aromas of spicy stew and sweet fruit pies, the odor of well-tanned leathers, the acrid smell from the glass-blowers’ booth, the mingled smells of perfumes and garment herbs, the sweat of human and animal. And above all, the pleasant excitement that permeated the atmosphere.

“Within the bounds of Gather propriety, I accept your partnering. Provided that you like racing and dancing.”

“In that order?”

“Since the one comes before the other, yes.”

“I appreciate your courtesy, Weyrwoman!” His tone was mock-formal.

“Have the harpers arrived yet?”

“Yesterday . . .” Alessan grimaced.

“They
do
eat, don’t they?”

“They
talk.
There are enough of them, however, to keep the dancing square filled until dawn, now that your queen has graced it. And our ever jovial Masterharper has promised to dignify our Gather with his presence.”

Moreta frowned at yet another undercurrent in Alessan’s speech. Didn’t he like Tirone? The Masterharper was a big hearty man with a robust bass voice that he allowed to dominate every group he sang in. He favored the rousing ballads and stirrings sagas that best displayed his own talents, but that was his one conceit, and Moreta had never considered it a flaw. But then, herself only lately the Weyrwoman, she had not seen as much of him in his capacity as Masterharper of Pern as had Alessan. She didn’t think she would like to antagonize Tirone.

“He has a beautiful voice,” she said noncommitally. “Is Master Capiam coming?”

“So I believe.”

Shells, thought Moreta to herself at Alessan’s terse reply. With the exception of Lord Shadder, Alessan apparently did not share any of her preferences among the leaders of Pern. She’d never heard of anyone who didn’t like Masterhealer Capiam. Could Alessan fault the man for failing to mend his wife’s broken back?

“Is that sort of exercise good for Orlith at this time, Moreta?” demanded Lord Tolocamp, bearing down on them suddenly. He must have been following their progress along the roadway to have intercepted them so neatly.

“She’s not due to clutch for another ten days.” Moreta stiffened, annoyed both by the question and the questioner.

“Orlith flew with great precision,” Alessan said. “An ability well appreciated by Ruatha.”

Lord Tolocamp checked, coughed, covering his mouth belatedly and plainly not understanding Alessan’s reference.

“She’s thoroughly shameless,” Moreta said, “whenever there’s a new audience for her tricks. She’s never so much as bunged a claw.”

“Yes, well, ah, Lady Pendra is just over here; Moreta,” Tolocamp went on with his usual ponderous geniality. “Alessan, I would like you to become better acquainted with my daughters.”

“At the moment, Lord Tolocamp, I am obliged to become better acquainted with the Weyrwoman, as Sh’gall is not here as her escort. Your daughters”—Alessan looked over at the young women, who were talking placidly with some of his subordinates—“seem well suited.”

Tolocamp began to huff.

“A glass of wine, Moreta? This way.” Alessan firmly propelled her away from Lord Tolocamp, who stood staring after them, somewhat surprised by their abrupt departure.

“I’ll never hear the last of this from him, you know,” Moreta said as she allowed herself to be hurried off.

“Then you can drown your sorrow in a Benden white wine I have chilling.” He beckoned to a servitor, pantomiming the pouring of wine into a glass.

“Benden white? Why; that’s my favorite!”

“And here I thought you were partial to Tillek’s.”

Moreta made a face. “I’m obliged to
assume
a partiality for Tillek’s wines.”

“I find them sharp. Soil’s acid in Tillek.”

“True, but Tillek tithes its wines to Fort Weyr. And it’s far easier to agree with Lord Diatis than argue with him.”

Alessan laughed.

As the servitor returned with two finely engraved cups and a small wineskin, Moreta glimpsed Lord Tolocamp, Lady Pendra, and Lady Oma shepherding the daughters toward them. Just then a stentorian voice proclaimed the start of the runner races.

“We’ll never elude Lady Pendra. Where can we go?” Moreta asked, but Alessan was staring toward the race course.

“I have a particular reason for wanting to watch that first race. If we hurry . . .” He pointed to the roadway that wound to the racing flats, but that path would not avoid the Fortian progression.

“Short of calling on Orlith’s assistance, we’d never make it. And she’s asleep.” Then Moreta saw the scaffold surrounding the wall being built at the southern edge of the forecourt. “Why not up there?” She pointed.

“Perfect—and you’ve a head for heights!” Alessan took her hand and guided her deftly through the guests and away from the Fortians.

Those already standing by the unfinished courses of the wall made room for the Lord Holder and the Weyrwoman. Alessan put his goblet in her free hand and neatly jumped to the top course. Then he knelt, gesturing for her to hand up both wine cups.

For just a moment, Moreta hesitated. L’mal had often chided her about the dignity expected of Weyrwomen, especially outside the precincts of the Weyr, where holder, crafter, and harper could observe and criticise. Quite likely she had been stimulated by Orlith’s outrageous exhibition. What affected dragon affected rider. It was a lovely warm Gather, just the respite she’d needed from her onerous responsibilities all Turn. There was racing and Benden wine; there’d be dancing later. Moreta, Weyrwoman of Fort Weyr, was going to enjoy herself.

You should, you know,
Orlith commented sleepily.

“Hurry,” Alessan said. “They’re milling at the start.”

Moreta turned to the nearest dragonrider at the wall.

“Give me a leg up, R’limeak, would you?”

“Moreta!”

“Oh, don’t be scandalized. I want to see the race start.” She arranged her skirts and bent her left knee. “A good lift, R’limeak. I’d rather not scrape my nose on the stones.”

R’limeak’s lift was not wholehearted. If Alessan’s strong hands had not steadied her, she would have slipped.

“How shocked he looks!” Alessan laughed, his green eyes merry.

“It’ll do him good. Blue riders can be so prim!” She took her wine from Alessan. “Ah, what a marvelous view!” Having observed that the race was not about to start, she turned slowly, to appreciate the sweep of the land from the foot of Ruatha’s cliff hold, over the crude roofs of the decorated stalls, to the empty dancing square, the fields beyond, the walled orchards on each side, and then the slope that descended gradually to Ruatha’s river, its source the Ice Lake high in the mountains above. True, the orchards were bare, the fields browned by what frost had fallen that Turn, but the sky was a vivid-green-blue, not a cloud in sight, and the air was pleasantly warm. Favored with a long eye, Moreta saw that three laggard racers had yet to join the starters.

“Ruatha’s looking so gay,” she said. “Generally when I’m here, the shutters are all in place against Thread, not a soul or beast in sight. Today it’s a different place entirely.”

“We are often good company here,” Alessan said. His eyes lay on the scene at the starting poles. “Ruatha is considered one of the best-placed Holds. Fort may be older but, I think, not so well laid out.”

“The harpers tell us that Fort Hold was thrown together as a temporary accommodation after the Crossing.”

“A mere fourteen hundred Turns
temporary.
Whereas we of Ruatha have always been planners. We even have special accommodations for visiting race enthusiasts.”

Moreta grinned at him. She realized that they were both rambling on in excitement at the impending race.

“Look! They’re finally lined up!”

The mild breeze cooperated by blowing the churned dust of the racing flats away from the straggling line of cavorting beasts. She saw the white flag drop, caught her breath at the incredible leap as the animals surged forward.

“This is the sprint?” she asked, trying to make out an early leader in the knot of nodding heads, bobbing bodies, and flashing legs. So close packed were the runners that neither riders’ hat colors nor saddle pads could be identified.

“As is usual,” Alessan replied absently, shielding his eyes with his hand to see better.

“Good field, too. Spreading out and . . . I’d swear the leader is wearing Ruathan colors!”

“I hope so!” Alessan cried in considerable excitement.

Cheers and exhortations rose from nearby and drifted up from the race course.

“Fort is challenging!” Moreta said as a second beast separated from the pack. “And fast!”

“It has only to hold!” Alessan’s words were half threat, half entreaty.

“It will!” Moreta’s calm assurance elicited a quick disbelieving glare from Alessan, who remained taut with suspense until the winners passed the post. “It did!”

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly. The poles are parallel to this vantage point. You’ve a winner! Did you breed it yourself?”

“Yes, yes, I did. And it did win!” He seemed to need her confirmation of his achievement.

“It certainly did. A very respectable two lengths the winner or I miss my mark. And I don’t miss in racing. To your winner then!” She raised her goblet to his.

“My winner!” His voice was curiously fierce, and the light in his eyes became more defiant than triumphant.

“I’ll come with you to the finish,” she suggested, noticing that the sprinters were finally pulling up in the stubble.

“I can savor this moment just as fully in your company,” he said unexpectedly. “And with no inhibitions,” he added with a grin. “Dag’s there. He’s my herdsman, and this is as much his victory as it is mine. I won’t detract from his moment. Then, too, it would be highly inappropriate for the Gathering Lord Holder to caper about like a fool over a mere sprint win.”

Moreta found his admission of unlordly glee rather charming. “Surely this isn’t your first winner?”

“Actually, it is.” He was searching the enclosure and suddenly beckoned peremptorily at a servitor, signaling for more wine. “Breeding for special traits was the project Lord Leef assigned me eight Turns ago.” Alessan went on in a more conversational tone though his voice still carried an edge. “A well-established Pernese tradition is breeding.”

“Eight Turns ago?” Moreta gave Alessan a long look. “If you’ve been breeding since then, surely this can’t be your
first
winner?”

“A race, yes. The quality Lord Leef wished me to perpetuate was stamina for long-distance carting, combined with more efficient use of fodder.”

“More work out of fewer animals for less food?” Moreta didn’t find that hard to believe of the old Lord, but she stared at Alessan with confused respect. “And out of that breeding, you got a sprint racer?”

“Not intentionally.” Alessan gave her a rueful smile. “That winner is from a strain of rejects from the original project: tough, hardy, good doers even on poor feed, but small bodied and thin boned. They don’t eat much, and everything they consume goes into short spurts of energy—fifty dragon-length sprint distances, to be truthful. Over the ninety-length mark, they’re useless. Give ’em half an hour’s rest and they can repeat that sort of winning performance. And they live long. It was Dag who saw the sprint potential in the scrubs.”

“But, of course, you couldn’t race the beasts during your father’s lifetime.” Moreta started to chuckle at Alessan’s deception.

“Hardly.” Alessan grinned.

“I imagine that your winnings today—an untried beast in its first race—will be substantial.”

“I should hope so. Considering how long Dag and I have succored that wretched creature for just such an occasion as this.”

“My sincerest congratulations, Lord Alessan!” Moreta raised her newly filled goblet. “For putting one over on Lord Leef and winning your first race at your first Gather. You’re not only devious, you’re a menace to racing men.”

“Had I known you were such a race enthusiast, I’d’ve given you odds—”

“Spectator, not speculator. You’ll race it next at Fort’s Gather?”

“Considering its capability, I could race in the last sprint today and be sure of its winning, but that would not be courteous.” The gleam in his eye suggested that if he weren’t Lord Holder, he would not have felt any such restraint. “At that, most will assume it a lucky win. Only the one race in it, like as not.” Alessan’s voice imitated the pitch and inflection of the confirmed racer, querulous and skeptical. “So I shall get it to whatever Gathers we can reach. I like winning. It’s a new experience.”

His candor surprised her. “Are you sure your sire didn’t know what you were about? Lord Leef always struck me as a man who had firm control of everything that occurred in his Hold—in the entire west.”

Alessan gave her a long hard look, mulling her remark. “D’you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he
had
found out. We, Dag and I, took such extraordinary precautions. We thought we’d covered every possibility of discovery.” Then Alessan shook his head, chuckling. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths to which we went—but you could be right. The old Lord could have known.”