Moreta (Dragonlady of Pern) Page 10

  "Malth does," was Orlith's quick rejoinder, implying that the rider was at fault.

  No sooner had the queen spoken than the fog roiled violently and the green dragon settled herself right beside Moreta so that the Weyrwoman need only to take one step.

  "Express my gratitude, Orlith, and compliment her on her flying."

  "I did."

  Moreta swung her leg over Malth's neck ridge. She always felt a trifle strange when mounted on so much smaller a dragon than her great queen. It was ridiculous to think that she might be too heavy for the green, whose rider S'gor was a tall, heavily built man, but Moreta could never dispel that notion on the infrequent occasions when she rode the lesser dragons of the Weyr.

  Malth waited a respectful moment to be sure that Moreta was settled and then sprang lightly upward. Diving blind into the fog disoriented Moreta despite her absolute faith in Malth.

  "You would not worry on me," Orlith said plaintively. "I'm not that egg‑heavy yet."

  "I know, love!"

  Malth hovered for a moment in the gray gloom, then Moreta felt the lightest of jars through the dragon's slender frame as she landed on her weyr ledge.

  "Thank you, Malth!" Moreta projected her voice loudly to give further warning to the weyr occupants then dismounted and walked toward the yellow gleam spilling from the weyr into the corridor. She couldn't see her feet or the ledge. She looked behind her, at the dragon who appeared to be suspended in the fog, but Malth's eyes whirled slowly with encouragement.

  "Don't come in here," S'gor called urgently, and his figure blocked the light.

  "S'gor, I really cannot stand out here in the fog. I gave you plenty of warning." This was not the time for a rider to be coy.

  "It's the illness, Moreta. Berchar's got it. He's terribly unwell and he said I mustn't let anyone in the weyr." S'gor stepped back as he spoke, whereupon Moreta walked purposefully down the aisle and to the weyr. S'gor backed to the sleeping alcove, which he now guarded with outstretched arms.

  "I must speak with him, S'gor." Moreta continued toward the alcove.

  "No, really, Moreta. It won't do you any good. He's out of his head. And don't touch me, either. I'm probably contaminated ..." S'gor moved to one side rather than risk contact with his Weyrwoman. The incoherent mumbles of a feverish man grew audible during the slight pause in the conversation. "You see?" S'gor felt himself vindicated.

  Moreta pushed back the curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from the weyr and stood on the threshold. Even in the dim light she could see the change sickness had made in Berchar. His features were now drawn by fever and his skin was pale and moist. Moreta saw Berchar's medicine case lay open on the table and walked over to it. "How long has he been ill?" She lifted the first bottle left on the table.

  "He was feeling wretched yesterday, terrible headache, so we didn't go to either of the Gathers as we'd planned." S'gor fiddled nervously with the bottles on the table. "He was perfectly all right at breakfast. We were going to Ista, to see that animal. Then Berch says he has this splitting headache and he'd have to lie down. I didn't believe him at first,"

  "He took sweatroot for headache?"

  "No. He took willow salic, of course." S'gor held up the bottle of crystals.

  "Then sweatroot?"

  "Yes, for all the good it did him. He was burning up by midday and then insisted on having this," S'gor read the label, "this aconite. I thought that very odd indeed since I have been of assistance to him several times and he told me off rather abruptly for questioning a healer. This morning, though, he asked me to make him an infusion of featherfern, which I did, and told me to add ten drops of fellis juice. He said he ached all over."

  Moreta nodded in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Aconite for a headache and fever? She could understand featherfern and fellis juice.

  "Was his fever high?"

  "He knew what he was doing, if that's what you mean." S'gor sounded defensive.

  "I'm sure he did, S'gor. He is a Masterhealer, and Fort Weyr's been fortunate to have him assigned to us. What else did he tell you to do?"

  "To keep everyone from visiting." He stared resentfully at Moreta. She did not blink or look away, merely waited until he had himself in control again. "Essence of featherfern undiluted every two hours until the fever abates and fellis juice every four hours, but no sooner than four hours."

  "Did he think he had contracted the fever from K'lon?"

  "Berchar would never discuss his patients with me!"

  "I wish he had this once."

  S'gor looked frightened. "Has K'lon taken a turn for the worst?"

  "No, he's sleeping quite naturally." Moreta wished that she could enjoy the same privilege. "I would like a few words with Berchar when his fever drops, S'gor. Do not fail to inform me. It's very important." She looked down at the sick man with conflicting doubts. If K'lon had the same disease that Master Capiam had diagnosed as an epidemic, why had he recovered when people in southeast Pern were dying? Could it be due to the circumstances of hold life? Were overcrowding in the holds and the unseasonably warm weather promoting the spread of the disease? She realized that her pause was alarming S'gor. "Follow Berchar's instructions. I'll see that you won't be troubled further. Have Malth inform Orlith when Berchar may talk to me. And do thank Malth for conveying me. I know that she was reluctant to disobey."

  S'gor's eyes assumed the unfocused gaze that indicated he was conversing with his dragon. But he smiled as he looked down at Moreta.

  "Malth says you're welcome and she'll take you down now." Dropping back to the Bowl through the thick mist was an eerie sensation.

  "Malth would not dare drop her Weyrwoman," Orlith said stoutly.

  "I sincerely trust not but I cannot see my hand in front of my nose." Then the green dragon daintily backwinged to land Moreta in the same spot by the Lower Caverns from which she had taken off. The fog rolled in a huge spiral as Malth spurted back to her weyr.

  Not sweatroot, Moreta was thinking, to bring a fever out of a body. Featherfern to reduce it. Aconite to ease the heart? That bad a fever. And fellis juice for aches. Sh'gall had not reported aches in Capiam's symptoms. She wished she'd had a chance to talk to Berchar. Maybe she should see if K'lon was awake.

  "He sleeps," Oriith said. "You should sleep awhile."

  Moreta did feel weary now that the stimulus provided by Sh'gall's startling announcement had worn off. What had begun as a mist was now an impenetrable fog. She could get lost trying to find the infirmary.

  "You can always find me," Orlith assured her. "Turn slightly to your left and all you'll have to do is walk straight toward me. I'll have you back in the weyr safely."

  "I'll just have a few hours' sleep," Moreta said. She needed the rest that had been interrupted by Sh'gall's precipitous entry. She'd done what she could for now, and she'd check on her medicines before she went up the stairs to her weyr. She made the slight left turn.

  Now just walk straight," Orlith advised her.

  That was far easier for the dragon to say than for Moreta to do. In a few steps she couldn't even distinguish the bright yellow light from the Lower Caverns; then Orlith's mental touch steadied her and she walked on confidently, the mist swirling in behind her and pushing away before each time she raised a knee.

  K'lon had recovered; her mind dwelled on that thought. Even if holders died, K'lon the dragonrider had survived. Sh'gall had been very tired, hadn't slept when he burst in on her, perhaps he had not got all his facts straight. No, S'peren had said something about illness. Fall was tomorrow and she'd had such a good day, with the exception of the runnerbeast's collapse.

  "Don't fret so," Orlith advised. "You have done all you can with so few people awake to tell. There is sure to be something in the Records. Leri will find it."

  "It's the fog, silly. It's depressing. I feel as if I'm moving nowhere forever."

  "You are near me now. You are almost at the steps."

  And soon enough for Moreta to be wary. S
he kicked the bottom step with her right foot. Behind her the mist surged. She found the wall with one hand and then the frame to the storeroom. The tumblers of the lock were so old that Moreta often wondered why they bothered to use it. When the Pass was over, she'd speak to one of the mastersmiths. Now she didn't even need light for there was a click as the tumblers fell into place. She heaved at the massive door to start it swinging on its hinges. Even the fog could not mask the compound odors released by its opening. Moreta reached up and nipped open the glowbasket, her senses pleasantly assailed and reassured by the pungent spicyness of stored herbs. As she moved farther into the room, she could identify the subtler fragrances and smells. She didn't need to uncover the central light; she knew where the febrifuges were stored. To her eyes, the well‑filled shelves and the bundles of featherfern drying on the rack looked more than adequate even if everyone in the Weyr were to come down with illness. She could very faintly hear the furtive slither of tunnel snakes. The pests had their own ways in and out of solid rock. She must get Nesso to put down more poison. Aconite was to the right, a square glass container full of the powdered root. Plenty of willow salic, and four large jars of fellis juice. Sh'gall had mentioned a cough. Moreta turned to those remedies: tussilago, comfrey, hyssop, thymus, ezob, borrago. More than enough. When the Ancients had made the Crossing, they had brought with them all the medicinal herbs and trees with which they had eased illness and discomfort. Surely some would answer the problem of the new disease.

  She walked back to the door, closed the glow, resting her hand a moment on the door frame, smooth from generations of hands resting just as she did. Generations! Yes, generations that had survived all kinds of bizarre happenings and unusual illnesses, and would survive this one!

  The fog had not abated, and she could see the staircase as only a darker shadow. Her foot kicked the first riser.

  "Be easeful," Oriith said.

  "I will." Moreta's right hand crept along the wall as she ascended. She seemed to be walking upward into nothing until her lead foot discovered the safety of the next step and the mist churned about her. But Orlith kept murmuring encouragement until Moreta laughed, saying she was only a few steps from her weyr and her bed. For all of that, she nearly missed her step at the landing for the light from her weyr was diminished to a feeble glow.

  The weyr was noticeably warmer. The golden dragon's eyes gleamed as Moreta crossed to caress her, scratching Orlith's eye ridges. She leaned gratefully against Orlith's head, thinking that Orlith exuded an odor that was a combination of all the best herbs and spices.

  "You are tired. You must get some sleep now."

  "Ordering me about again, huh?" But Moreta was on her way to her sleeping quarters. She pulled off tunic and trousers and, sliding into the furs, arranged them around her shoulders and was very quickly asleep.

  CHAPTER VI

  Ruatha Hold, Present Pass, 3.11.43

  Alessan watched as the great dragon sprang into the air with Moreta lifting her arm in farewell. The dragon glowed in the darkgray sky, and not from the feeble light of the dying lamp standards. Did her gravid state account for that luminescence? Then the phenomenon occurred for which Alessan waited. The golden glowing queen and her lovely Weyrwoman disappeared. A whoosh of air made the languid banners flutter.

  Smiling, Alessan took a deep breath, well satisfied by the high moments of his first Gather as Lord of Ruatha Hold. As his sire had often repeated, good planning was the essence of success. True enough that good planning had resulted in his sprinter's win, but he had never counted on Moreta's company at the races, she had been such a spontaneous companion. Nor had he anticipated her dancing with him. He'd never had such an agile partner in the toss dance. Now, if his mother could find a girl in any way comparable to Moreta ...

  "Lord Alessan ..."

  He swung around, surprised out of his pleasant reverie by the hoarse whisper. Dag scuttled out of the shadows and stopped, bolt still, half a dozen paces from him.

  "Lord Alessan ..." The anxiety in Dag's voice and the formal address alerted Alessan.

  "What's the matter, Dag? Squealer?"

  "He's fine. But all Vander's animals is down with the cough, hacking out their lungs, feverish and breaking out in cold sweats. Some of those picketed next to Vander's lot are coughing, too, and sweating. Norman don't know what to make of it, it's so sudden. I know what I make of it, Lord Alessan, and so I'm going to take our animals, those that have been in the beasthold and ain't been near that lot in the pickets. I'm going to take 'em away before that cough spreads."

  "Dag, I'm not,"

  "Now, I ain't saying, Lord Alessan," Dag raised his hand in a placatory gesture, "but what the cough could be the warm weather and a change of grass, but I'm not risking Squealer. Not after him winning."

  Alessan suppressed a smile at Dag's vehemence.

  "I'll just take our bloodstock up to the high nursery meadows, till they clear away." He jerked his thumb at the race flats. "I've packed some provisions and there're plenty of crevice snakes for eating. And I'll take that ruffian of a grandson of mine with me."

  Second only to Squealer in Dag's affections was his daughter's youngest son, Fergal, a lively rascal who was more often in the black records than any other holdling. Alessan had a sneaking admiration for the lad's ingenuity, but as Lord Holder he could no longer condone the antics that Fergal inspired. His most recent prank had so angered Lady Oma, involving as it did the smirching of guest linens, that he had been forbidden to attend the Gather, and the punishment was enforced by locking the boy in the Hold's cell.

  "If I thought, "

  Dag laid a finger along his snub nose. "Better safe than sorry."

  "Get along then." Alessan longed for sleep and Dag was plainly in an obstinate frame of mind. "And take that ... that ..."

  "Dirty piece of laundry?" Dag's grin was slyly infectious.

  "Yes, that's an apt description."

  "I'll wait for a message from you, Alessan, that all the visitors have gone and taken their cough with 'em." Dag's grin broadened and he turned smartly on one heel, setting off toward the beasthold at such a clip that his bandy figure rolled from side to side. Alessan watched his departure thoughtfully for a moment, wondering if he gave Dag too much latitude. Perhaps the old handler was covering up some new prank Fergal had pulled. But a cough spreading through the pickets was not so easily dismissed. When he'd had some sleep, he'd have a word with Norman, see if they had discovered why Vander's runner had died. That incident bothered Alessan. But a cough hadn't killed the runner. Was it possible that Vander, keen to win at the Gather, had ignored the signs of illness to bring his middistance runner? Alessan would prefer not to think so, but he knew well how the desire to win could grip a man.

  Alessan made his way back to the hold on the roadway, passing dark lumps of people rolled in sleeping furs. It had been a good Gather and the weather had held. A slight dampness in the dawn air heralded fog or mist. But the weather wouldn't be the only thing foggy that day.

  The Hall, too, was crowded with sleepers, and he walked carefully so as not to disturb anyone. Even the wide corridor outside his apartment accommodated Gatherers on straw pallets. He considered himself fortunate that his mother had not insisted he share his quarters. But then, perhaps she had hoped that he would! He smiled as he closed the door behind him and began to strip off his finery. It was only then he remembered that Moreta had not retrieved her Gather gown. No matter. That gave him an excuse to talk to her at the next Fall. He stretched out on his bed, pulled the furs over him, and was asleep in moments.

  In what seemed like no time he was being so vigorously shaken that, for one disoriented moment, he thought he was a boy again, being attacked by his brothers.

  "Alessan!" Lady Oma's indignant exclamation brought him to complete awareness. "Holder Vander is extremely ill and Masterhealer Scand insists that it is not from overindulgence. Two of the men who accompanied Vander are also feverish. Your race‑course manager informs
me also that four animals are dead and more appear to be sickening."

  "Whose animals?" Alessan wondered if Dag had known more than he'd admitted.

  "How should I know, Alessan?" Lady Oma had no interest at all in the runnerbeasts that were Ruatha's principal industry. "Lord Tolocamp is discussing it with, "

  "Lord Tolocamp presumes!" Alessan rolled out of the bed, reached for his trousers in a fluid movement, stuffed his feet into the legs and pulled them up as he rose. He dragged a tunic over his head, slammed his feet into boots, kicking aside his discarded Gather finery. He forgot about the sleepers in the hallway and nearly trod on an arm before he checked his haste. Most of those who had slept in the Hall were awake and there was a clear path to the door. Cursing Tolocamp under his breath, Alessan managed a smile for those who noticed his passing.

  Tolocamp was in the forecourt, an arm across his chest, propping the elbow of the other arm as he rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Norman was with him, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, his face gaunt from a sleepless night. As Alessan strode out, Norman's face brightened, and he turned eagerly toward his own Lord Holder.

  "Good day to you, Tolocamp," Alessan said with scant courtesy, controlling the anger he felt at the older man's interference, however well intentioned. "Yes, Norman?" He tried to draw the manager to one side but Tolocamp was not so easily evaded. "This could be a very serious matter, Alessan," Tolocamp said, his heavy features set in a frown of portentous concern.

  "I'll decide that, thank you." Alessan spoke so curtly that Tolocamp regarded him with astonishment. Alessan took the opportunity to move aside with Norman.

  "Four of Vander's runners are dead," Norman said in a low voice, "and the other is dying. Nineteen beasts near them have broken out in sweats and coughing something pathetic."

  "Have you isolated them from the healthy?"

  "I've had men working on that since first light, Lord Alessan."

  "Lady Oma said that Vander's ill as are two of his men?"