Moreta (8 page)

Pass the greetings on, Orlith. They’ll like to know they were missed.

After a pause, Orlith replied that Holth was just as glad that she didn’t have to sit through a long night on a cold cliff.

You’re not feeling the chill, are you?
Moreta asked anxiously.

The fire-heights hold the sun heat, and Nabeth and Tamianth keep me warm. You should eat. You’re always telling me to eat. Now I you.

The smugness in Orlith’s tone Moreta found amusing. And merited, for the rough Tillek wine was making her a trifle lightheaded. She was aware of a belly rumbling, and she’d best get to the food before the circle dance ended. She detoured to acquire a full platter of spiced roast wherry, tubers, and other tempting morsels. As she was making her way to the head table and more of the Benden wine, the circle dance ended. Alessan had no sooner bowed to his two partners when Lady Oma was introducing him to yet another girl. Then Moreta caught sight of Lord Tolocamp bearing down on her and she moved off quickly at a tangent, as if she hadn’t seen him. His expression was grim and she was not going to endure one of his lectures at a Gather. She wended her way through the crowds, briefly considered stopping at the harpers’ table for they would have the best wine, but she decided she was no safer from Tolocamp in the harpers’ company. Besides, they’d probably had enough of him, since the Harper Hall was situated so close to Fort Hold. So, instead, she ducked behind the harpers’ platform, standing a moment to accustom her eyes to the welcome darkness.

As it was, she nearly fell over the pack saddles stacked behind the dais. She upended one to make an informal seat and was quite delighted with her solitude and escaping Tolocamp. Come the end of Pass, that man was going to be a high-flying irritant, and she didn’t think that Sh’gall was going to be able to handle him as well as he handled Fall.

This is good, you are eating!
Orlith said.

Moreta neatly folded a slice of the roast wherry and took a huge bite. The meat was as tender and succulent as its roasting odor had advertised.

It’s beautiful!
she told her queen.

She ate eagerly, licking her fingers, not wishing to miss a drop of the juices. Someone stumbled around the corner of the platform and Moreta, balancing her plate and cursing the interruption, slipped into the deeper shadow. Could Tolocamp have followed her? Or was this someone answering natural needs?

Alessan,
Orlith told her, which surprised Moreta for Orlith wasn’t all that good on remembering people names.

“Moreta?” Alessan sounded uncertain. “Ah, you are here,” he added as she stepped forward. “I thought I saw you slip away to elude Tolocamp. I come laden with food and drink. Am I intruding on your privacy?”

“You’re not if you happened to bring any more of that Benden wine. Mind you, the Tillek you’re serving is not bad—”

“—But it doesn’t at all compare with the Benden, and I hope you haven’t mentioned the difference to anyone.”

“What? And miss out on my share? And you brought more wherry! My compliments to your cook: The roast is superior and I’m starving. Here, sit on a pack saddle.” She pushed one toward him and, after emptying her cup of the inferior wine, held it out to him. “More Benden, please?”

“I’ve a full skin here.” Alessan poured carefully.

“But surely you must share it with your partners?”

“Don’t you dare—” Alessan reached for her goblet in a mock attempt to retrieve the wine from her.

“That wasn’t fair of me. You were doing your duty as Lord Holder, and very nicely, if I may say so.”

“Well, I’ve done my duty as Lord Holder and will now resume the responsibilities of being your escort. I will now enjoy the Gather.”

“Hosts rarely do.”

“My mother, the good and worthy—”

“—and duty conscious—”

“Has paraded every eligible girl in the west, with all of whom I have dutifully danced. They’re not much on talking. By the way, speaking of talking, is that bronze rider who’s been monopolizing Oklina a kind and honorable man?”

“B’lerion is kind, and very good company. Is Oklina aware of dragonriders’ propensities?”

“As every proper hold girl is.” Alessan’s tone was dry, acknowledging dragonrider whims and foibles.

“B’lerion is kind and I have known him many Turns,” Moreta went on by way of reassurance. Oklina’s adoration of her brother was not misplaced if he troubled himself to speak to a Weyrwoman about a bronze rider who was paying marked attention to his sister.

They ate in companionable silence, for Alessan was as hungry as Moreta. Suddenly the harpers struck up another tune, one of the sprightlier dances, more of a patterned run, requiring the lighter partner to be lifted, twirled, and caught. She recognized the challenge gleaming in Alessan’s eyes; only the young and fit usually attempted the toss dance’s acrobatics. She laughed low in her throat. She was no timid adolescent, uncertain of herself, and no decorous hold woman, vitality and body drained by constant childbearing; she was the fighting-fit rider of a queen dragon and she could outdance any man—holder, crafter, rider. In addition, Orlith was encouraging her.

Deserting the remains of her food and her wine, she caught Alessan by the hand and pulled him after her toward the dancing square where already one pair had come to grief and lay sprawled, the subject of good-natured teasing.

Weyrwoman and Lord Holder were the only pair to survive the rigors of that dance without incident. Cheers and clapping rewarded their agility. Gasping for breath and trying not to weave with the dizziness generated by the final spins, Moreta reeled to the sidelines. A goblet was put in her hand and she knew before sipping that it would be the Benden. She toasted Alessan as he stood beside her, chest heaving, face suffused with blood, but thoroughly delighted by their performance.

“By the Shell, with the right partner, you can really show your quality,” Falga cried, as she walked up to them. “You’re in rare form tonight, Moreta. Alessan, best Gather I’ve been to in Turns. You’ve outshone your sire who is, as of this moment, no longer lamented. He set a good spread but nothing to compare to this. S’ligar will be sorry he didn’t come with me.”

The other dragonriders with Falga lifted their cups to Alessan.

“See you at Crom,” Falga said to Moreta in parting as the harpers began a gentle old melody.

“Can you move at all?” Alessan asked Moreta, bending to speak quietly in her ear.

“Of course!” Moreta cast a glance in the direction of Alessan’s gaze and saw Lady Oma escorting a girl across the floor.

“I’ve had my shins kicked enough this evening!” Alessan clasped Moreta firmly, his right hand flat against her shoulder blade, the fingers of his left hand twining in hers as he guided her out in the center of the square.

As she surrendered to the swaying step and glide of the stately dance, Moreta had a brief glimpse of the smileless face of Lady Oma. She could feel Alessan’s heart pounding, as hers still was, from the exertions of the previous dance but gradually the thudding eased, her face cooled, and her muscles stopped trembling. She realized that she had not danced to this melody since leaving Keroon—since the last Gather she had attended with Talpan, so many Turns ago.

“You’re thinking of another man,” Alessan whispered, his lips close to her ear.

“A boy I knew. In Keroon.”

“And you remember him fondly?”

“We were to be apprenticed to the same Masterhealer.” Could she detect a note of jealousy in Alessan’s voice? “He continued in the craft. I was taken to Ista and Impressed Orlith.”

“And now you heal dragons.” For a moment, Alessan loosened his grip but only, it seemed, to take a fresh and firmer hold of her. “Dance, Moreta of Keroon. The moons are up. We can dance all night.”

“The harpers may have other plans.”

“Not as long as my supply of Benden white lasts . . .” So Alessan remained by her side, making sure her goblet was full and insisting that she eat some of the small hot spiced rolls that were being served to the dwindling revellers. Nor did he relinquish her to other partners.

The wine got to the harpers before the new day. Even Alessan’s incredible store of energy was flagging by the time Orlith landed again in the dancing square.

“It has been a memorable gather, Lord Alessan,” Moreta said formally.

“Your presence has made it so, Weyrwoman Moreta,” he replied, assisting her to Orlith’s forearm. “Shells! Don’t slip, woman. Can you reach your own weyr without falling asleep?” His voice carried an edge of anxiety despite his flippant words.

“I can always reach my own weyr.”

“Can she, Orlith?”

“Lord Alessan!” The audacity of the man consulting her dragon in her presence.

Orlith turned her head, her eyes sleepily golden.
He means well.

“You mean well, Orlith says!” Moreta knew that fatigue was making her sound silly, so she made herself laugh. She didn’t wish to end the marvelous evening on a sour note.

“Yes, my lady of the golden dragon, I mean well. Safe back!”

Alessan gave her a final wave and then moved slowly through the disarray of fallen benches and messy tables, toward the deserted roadway where most of the stalls had been dismantled and packed away.

“Let’s get back to Fort Weyr,” Moreta said softly, reluctantly. Her eyes were heavy, her body limp with a pleasant if thorough fatigue. It took an effort to think of the pattern of Fort Weyr’s Star Stones. Then Orlith sprang off the dancing square, the standards whipping about with the force of her backwing stroke. They were aloft and Ruatha receding, the darkness punctuated by the last few surviving glows.

CHAPTER IV

South Boll and Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.11.43

“W
ELL
?”

C
APIAM RAISED
his head from the pillow he had made of his arms on the small wooden table in the dispensary. Fatigue and the tremendous strain disoriented him and at first he couldn’t identify the figure standing imperiously in front of him.

“Well, Masterhealer? You said you would return immediately to bring me your conclusions. That was several hours ago. Now I find you sleeping.”

The testy voice and overbearing manner belonged to Lord Ratoshigan. Behind him, just outside the door, was the tall figure of the Weyrleader who had conveyed Capiam and Lord Ratoshigan from Ista’s Gather to Southern Boll.

“I sat down only for a moment, Lord Ratoshigan”—Capiam lifted his hand in a gesture of dismay—“to organize my notes.”

“Well?” The third prompting was a bark of unequivocal displeasure. “What
is
your diagnosis of these . . .” Ratoshigan did not say “malingerers” but the implication would have been plain enough even if the anxious infirmarian had not repeatedly told Capiam that Lord Ratoshigan regarded any man as a malingerer who took his bread and protection but did not deliver a fair day’s work in return.

“They are very ill, Lord Ratoshigan.”

“They seemed well enough when I left for Ista! They’re not wasted or scored.” Ratoshigan rocked from heel to toe, a thin man with a long, thin, bony face, pinched nostrils above a thin, pinch-lipped mouth and hard small eyes in dry sockets. Capiam thought the Lord Holder looked considerably more unwell than the men dying in the infirmary beds.

“Two have died of whatever it is that afflicts them,” Capiam said slowly, reluctant to utter the terrifying conclusion that he had reached before exhaustion had overcome him.

“Dead? Two? And you don’t
know
what ailed them?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Capiam noticed that Sh’gall had stepped back from the doorway at the mention of death. The Weyrleader was not a man who tolerated injury or illness, having managed to avoid both.

“No, I don’t know precisely what ails them: The symptoms—a fever, headache, lack of appetite, the dry hacking cough—are unusually severe and do not respond to any of the commonly effective treatments.”

“But you
must
know. You are the Masterhealer!”

“Rank does not confer total knowledge of my Craft.” Capiam had been keeping his voice low, out of deference to the exhausted healers sleeping in. the next room, but Ratoshigan exercised no such courtesy and his voice had been rising with his sense of indignation. Capiam rose and walked around the table, Ratoshigan giving way before him, backing out into the close night. “There is much we have forgotten through disuse.” Capiam sighed, filled with a weary despair. He ought not to have allowed himself to sleep. There was so much to be done. “These deaths are but the beginning, Lord Ratoshigan. An epidemic is loose on Pern.”

“Is that why you and Talpan had that animal killed?” Sh’gall spoke for the first time, angry surprise in his voice.

“Epidemic?” Ratoshigan waved Sh’gall to silence. “Epidemic! What
are
you saying, man? Just a few sick—”

“Not a few, Lord Ratoshigan.” Capiam pulled his shoulders back and leaned against the cool stucco wall behind him. “Two days ago I was urgently called to Igen Sea Hold.
Forty
were dead, including three of the sailors who had rescued that animal from the sea. Far better that they had left it on its tree trunk!”

“Forty dead?” Ratoshigan was incredulous, and Sh’gall stepped farther back from the infirmary.

“More are falling ill at the Sea Hold and in the nearby mountain hold whose men had come down to see the incredible seagoing feline!”

“Then why was it brought to Ista Gather?” The Lord Holder was outraged now.

“To be seen,” Capiam said bitterly. “Before the illnesses started, it was taken from the Sea Hold to Keroon for the Herdmaster to identify. I was doing what I could to assist the Sea Hold healers when a drum message summoned me to Keroon. Herdmaster Sufur had people and animals sickening rapidly and curiously. The illness followed the same course as that at Igen Sea Hold. Another drum message, and I was conveyed by brown dragon to Telgar. The sickness is there, too, brought back from Keroon by two holders who were buying runnerstock. All the beasts were dead, and so were the holders and twenty others. I cannot estimate how many hundreds of people have been infected by the merest contact with those so contagious. Those of us who live to tell the Harper will thank Talpan’s quick wits”—Capiam looked severely at Sh’gall—“that he linked the journey of the feline to the spread of the disease.”

“But that animal was the picture of health!” Sh’gall protested.

“It was.” Capiam spoke with dry humor. “It seemed immune to the disease it brought to Igen, Keroon, Telgar, and Ista!”

Sh’gall defensively crossed his arms over his chest.

“How could a caged animal spread disease?” Ratoshigan demanded, his thin nostrils flaring.

“It wasn’t caged at Igen, nor on the ship when it was weak from thirst and its voyage. At Keroon, Master Sufur kept it in a run when he was trying to identify it. It had ample opportunity to infect people and plenty of time.” Capiam despaired as he thought of how much time and opportunity. The healers would never be able to trace all the people who had seen the rarity, touched its tawny coat, and returned to their holds, incubating the disease.

“But . . . but . . . I just received a shipload of valuable runners from Keroon!”

Capiam sighed. “I know, Lord Ratoshigan. Master Quitrin informed me that the dead men worked in the beasthold. He’s also had an urgent message of illness from the hold at which the men and the beasts halted overnight on the way from the coast.”

Ratoshigan and Sh’gall at last began to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

“We’re in the middle of a Pass!” Sh’gall said.

“This virus is as indifferent to us as Thread is,” Capiam said.

“You have all those Records in your Crafthall. Search them! You have only to search properly!”

Sh’gall had never had an unfruitful Search, had he? thought Capiam, and suppressed his errant sense of humor. One day, though, he meant to record the various and sundry ways in which men and women reacted to disaster. If he survived it!

“An exhaustive search was initiated as soon as I saw the reports on the Igen Sea Hold death toll. Here is what you must do, Lord Ratoshigan.”

“What
I
must do?” The Lord Holder drew himself up.

“Yes, Lord Ratoshigan, what you
must
do. You came to seek my diagnosis. I have diagnosed an epidemic. As Masterhealer of Pern, I have authority over Hold, Hall, and Weyr in these circumstances.” He glanced at Sh’gall to be sure the Weyrleader was listening, too. “I hereby order you to announce by drum that a quarantine exists on this Hold and the one your beasthandlers used on the way from the coast. No one is to come or go from the Hold proper. There is to be no travel anywhere in your Hold, no congregating.”

“But they must gather fruit and—”

“You will gather the sick, human and animal, and arrange for their care. Master Quitrin and I have discussed empiric treatments since homeopathic remedies have proved ineffectual. Inform your Warder and your ladies to prepare your Hall for the sick—”

“My Hall?” Ratoshigan was aghast at the idea.

“And you will clear the new beastholds of animals to relieve the crowding in your dormitories.”

“I
knew
you’d bring that subject up!” Ratoshigan was nearly spitting with rage.

“To your sorrow, you will find that the healers’ past objections have validity!” Capiam vented his pent-up anxieties and fears by shouting down Ratoshigan’s objections. “You will isolate the sick and care for them, which is your duty as Lord Holder! Or come the end of the Pass, you’ll find you hold nothing!”

The passion with which Capiam spoke reduced Lord Ratoshigan to silence. Then Capiam turned on Sh’gall.

“Weyrleader, convey me to Fort Hold. It is imperative that I return to my Hall as quickly as possible. You will wish to waste no time alerting your Weyr.”

Sh’gall hesitated, but it was not to speak to his dragon.

“Weyrleader!”

Sh’gall swallowed. “Did you
touch
that animal?”

“No, I did not. Talpan warned me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Capiam saw Ratoshigan recoil.

“You cannot leave here, Master Capiam,” Ratoshigan cried, skittering fearfully to grab his hand. “I touched that animal. I might die, too.”

“So you might. You went to Ista Gather to poke and prod a caged creature that has exacted an unexpected revenge for cruelty.”

Sh’gall and Ratoshigan stared at the usually tactful Masterhealer.

“Come, Sh’gall, no time is to be wasted. You’ll want to isolate those riders who attended Ista Gather, especially those who might have been close to the beast.”

“But what shall I do, Master Capiam, what shall I do?”

“What I told you to do. You’ll know in two or three days if you’ve caught the sickness. So I recommend that you order your Hold as quickly as possible.”

Capiam gestured Sh’gall to lead the way to the courtyard where the bronze dragon was waiting. The great glowing eyes of Kadith guided the two men to his side in the predawn darkness.

“Dragons!” Sh’gall halted abruptly. “Do dragons get it?”

“Talpan said not. Believe me, Weyrleader, it was his primary concern.”

“You’re positive?”

“Talpan was. No whers, watchwhers, or wherries have been affected though individuals of all those species had contact with the feline at Igen Sea Hold or Keroon Beasthold. Runners are seriously affected but not herdbeasts or the indigenous whers and wherries. Since dragons are related . . .”

“Not to wherries!”

Capiam did not bother to disagree, though in his Craft the kinship was tacitly acknowledged.

“The dragon that took the feline from Igen to Keroon has not become ill, and he conveyed it over ten days ago.”

Sh’gall looked dubious but he gestured for them to proceed to Kadith.

The bronze dragon had lowered his forequarters for his rider and the healer to mount. Riding dragonback was one of the most enjoyable perogatives of Capiam’s Mastery, though he tried not to presume on that privilege. Gratefully he settled himself behind Sh’gall. He had no compunctions about drafting Sh’gall and Kadith to convey him to his Hall in this extreme emergency. The Weyrleader was strong and healthy and might survive any contagion Capiam carried.

Capiam’s mind was too busy with all he must accomplish in the next few hours to enjoy the dragon’s launching into air. Talpan had promised to initiate quarantine at Ista, to warn the east, and to isolate any who might have had contact with the beast. He would try to trace all runners leaving Keroon Beasthold in the past eighteen days. Capiam would alert the west and intensify the search of Records. The Fort drums would be hot tomorrow with all the messages he must send. The first priority would be Ruatha Hold. Dragonriders had attended Ista Gather and then flown in for a few more hours of dancing and wine at Ruatha. If only Capiam had not succumbed to fatigue. He had already lost valuable time in which the disease would be innocently spread.

Sh’gall’s low warning gave Capiam time to take a good hold of the fighting straps. As they went
between,
he did wonder if the awful cold might kill off any trace of the disease.

They were abruptly above Fort Hold fire-heights and gliding in for a fast landing in the field before the Hall. Sh’gall was not going to stay in the company of the Masterhealer any longer than he had to. He waited until Cap-lam dismounted and then asked the healer to repeat his instructions.

“Tell Berchar and Moreta to treat the symptoms empirically. I’ll inform you of any effective treatment immediately. The plague incubates in two to four days. There have been survivors. Try to establish where your riders and weyrfolk have been.” The freedom to travel as they pleased had worked to the disadvantage of the Weyrs. “Don’t congregate . . .”

“There’s Fall!”

“The Weyrs do have their duty to the people . . . but try to limit contact with ground crews.” Capiam gave Kadith’s shoulder a grateful thump. Kadith turned his gleaming eyes toward the Masterhealer and then, walking forward a few paces, sprang into the air.

Capiam watched until the pair went
between
against the lightening eastern sky, the journey of a breath to the mountains beyond Fort Hold. Then he stumbled up the gentle slope toward the Hall and the bed he was going to welcome. But first he had to compose the drum messages that must go out to Ruatha.

The early-morning air held a bit of dampness that suggested fog was on its way. No glowbaskets were set in the forecourt of Fort Hold and only the one in the entryway of the Harper Hall. Capiam was surprised to see how much progress had been made on the annex of the Hall in the two days. Then the watchwher came snorting up to him, recognizing his smell and gurgling its greeting. Capiam slapped affectionately at Burr’s ugly head, digging his fingers into its skull ridges and smiling at the happy alteration of its noise. Watchwhers had their uses, to be sure, but due to the freak of breeding that had perpetuated them, the creatures were so ugly that they revolted those who saw their debased resemblance to the graceful dragons. Yet the watchwher was as loyal and faithful as any dragon and could be trained to recognize those who were allowed to come and go with impunity. Legends said that watchwhers had been used in the earliest holds as the last-ditch defense against Thread. Though how, since watchwhers were nocturnal creatures that could not tolerate sunlight, Capiam didn’t know.

Burr was quite young, only a few Turns old, and Capiam had cultivated an association with it since it had been hatched. He and Tirone had made it strictly understood that they would not tolerate apprentice abuse of the creature. When Thread fell on Fort, Capiam or Tirone, whichever of the two Masters was present, would take the watchwher into the main entrance of the Hall to remind the young men and women that the watchwher could provide an important function in that perilous period.