Moreta - Dragonlady of Pern p-8 Read online

  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 Capiam 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.

  If Burr's ecstatic welcome nearly knocked him off his feet, at least the greeting was sincere, and Capiam was oddly touched by it. Burr humbled along beside him, his chain rattling on the flagstone. He gave Burr a last drubbing across the scalp and then ran up the stairs to open the heavy door of the Hall.

  One dim glow illuminated the inner hall. Capiam closed the door and moved quickly, so near his bed and much needed rest. He went to the left in the main hall, through the doorway that led to the Archives.

  Discordant snores surprised him, and he peered into' the vaulted library room. Two apprentices, one with head pillowed on the Records he had been examining, the other propped more comfortably against the wall, were vying unmusically. Annoyance warred with tolerance in Capiam's mind. Dawn was near and would bring Master Fortine to prod them to their labors and scold them for weakness. They'd be the better readers for his rebuke and the rest. Suddenly Capiam was too tired to answer the questions they would certainly tax him with if he did wake them.

  Quietly then, he took a sheet of well-scraped hide and composed a terse message for the drummaster to broadcast to the Weyrs and the major Holds, to be relayed to lesser holds and halls. He put the message on Master Fortine's writing desk right on the page the Archivist was using. Fortine would see it as soon as he finished his breakfast, which was usually early, so the news of the epidemic would be spread before noon.

  To the sound of the discordant snores, Capiam dragged his feet to his quarters. He'd get some sleep before the drums started. Quite possibly he was weary enough to sleep through them for a while. He walked up the steps into the healers' section of the Harper Hall. When the Pass was over, he must really start the construction of a Healer Crafthall.

  He reached his room and opened the door. A mellow glow softly lit the chamber. A bowl of fresh fruit and a small wine jar had been placed on his bedside table, and his bed fur turned back invitingly. Desdra! He was once more grateful for her thoughtfulness. Tossing his pack to the corner, he sat on the bed, the effort of pulling off his boots almost beyond his remaining physical strength. He loosened his belt, then decided not to remove his tunic and pants-too much effort required. He rolled onto the mattress and in the same movement jerked the fur over his shoulder. The pillow was remarkably welcoming to his tired aching head.

  He groaned. He had left the drum messages. Fortine would know that he had returned, but not at what hour. He had to have sleep! He had been across Pern and up and down it. If he wasn't extra careful of his own health, he'd be a victim of the plague before he found out what it was.

  He staggered from his bed to his table. «Disturb me not!» he printed boldly and, hanging onto the door to keep himself erect for that one last task, he pinned the note where it could not be missed.

  Then when he sank into the comfort of his bed, he could relax into sleep.

  CHAPTER V

  Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.11.43

  Moreta was certain that she had only been asleep a few minutes when Orlith woke her.

  «Two hours you have slept but Kadith is in a frenzy.»

  «Why?» Moreta found it very difficult to lift her head from the pillow. It didn't ache, but her legs did. Whether from the dancing or from the wine, Moreta didn't know and probably would not have time to discover if Sh'gall was in one of his moods.

  «A sickness in the land,» Orlith replied, sounding puzzled. «Sh'gall went first to see K'lon and woke him.»

  «Woke K'lon?» Moreta was disgusted as she pulled on the first tunic she could reach. The clothing was slightly damp and her sleeping quarters were clammy. The weather must have changed.

  «There is a fine mist over the Weyr,» Orlith obligingly reported.

  Moreta shivered as she dressed. «Why on earth should he wake K'lon? The man's been ill and needs his rest.»

  «He is convinced that K'lon has brought the illness here. Orlith sounded truly perplexed. K'lon was in Igen.»

  «K'lon is often in Igen. His friend is a green rider there.»

  Moreta splashed water into her face then rubbed the mint stick over her teeth, but it did little to improve the taste in her mouth. She ran her fingers through her short hair with one hand as she fumbled for a goru pear from the dish in her room. The tart fruit might neutralize the aftereffects of all that Benden wine.

  «Moreta!» Sh'gall's summons resounded from the entrance to her weyr.

  Moreta had time to give Orlith's muzzle a swift caress before Sh'gall burst into the chamber. The queen blinked her eyes shut, feigning sleep. Sh'gall charged ten paces into the weyr and stopped, holding his hand up as if fending off an approach.

  «A sickness is all over Pern. Men are dying and nothing can be done. Runners are dying, too. No one must leave the Weyr.»

  Sh'gall's eyes were wide with a genuine fear, and Moreta stared at him in surprise for a moment.

  «Thread falls tomorrow, Sh'gall. The dragonriders must leave the Weyr.»

  «Don't come close to me. I may have been infected, too.»

  Moreta hadn't moved. «Suppose you give me some details,» she said, speaking calmly. «That animal they showed off at Ista, it was infected with a deadly disease. It's spread from Igen to Keroon Beasthold to Telga
r. It's even in Southern Boll! Men are dead of it in Lord Ratoshigan's Hold. And he's been quarantined by Master Capiam. So are we!»

  «Runners, you said?» Moreta's breath caught in her throat and she turned fearfully toward her dragon. «Dragons?» She'd touched that runner and if she'd contaminated Orlith …

  «No, no, not dragons! Capiam said Talpan agreed they weren't affected. They had the beast killed. It hadn't looked sick to me!»

  «Tell me please how men could die in Southern Boll when that feline was still in Ista?»

  «Because there's an epidemic! It started when the seamen hauled that beast out of the water and brought it home. Everyone wanted to see it, so they took it to Igen Hold, then Keroon Beasthold and Ista before this Talpan fellow realized it was a carrier. Yes, that's what Capiam said, The feline was a carrier.»

  «And they displayed it at Ista Gather?»

  «No one knew! Not until this Talpan fellow came along and talked to Capiam. He'd been to all the infected holds.»

  «Who? Talpan?»

  «No, Capiam! Talpan's an animal healer.»

  «Yes, I know.» Moreta held on to her patience because Sh'gall was obviously so rattled as to be incoherent. «Nothing was mentioned of this at Ruatha Gather.»

  Sh'gall gave her a patient glare. «Of course, the truth wasn't known. Besides, who talks of unpleasant things at a Gather! But I just conveyed Capiam to his hall. I also had to convey Ratoshigan and Capiam to Southern Boll because Ratoshigan received an urgent drum message to return. He had deaths. He also had new runners in from Keroon; they probably brought that sickness to the west.» Sh'gall glowered and then shuddered violently. «Capiam said that if I didn't touch the feline I might not get sick. I can't get sick. I'm the Weyrleader.» He shuddered again.

  Moreta looked at him apprehensively. His hair was damp, pressed in a wet ridge about his forehead by his riding helmet. His lips were slightly blue and his skin very pale. «You don't look well.»

  «I'm fine! I'm fine. I bathed in the Ice Lake. Capiam said that the disease is like Thread. Cold kills Thread and so does water.»

  Moreta took up her fur cloak, which lay where it had fallen from her shoulders a scant two hours before, and approached him with it.

  «Don't come near me.» He stepped backward, his hands extended to fend her off.

  «Sh'gall, don't be idiotic!» She flung the cloak at him. «Put that about you so you won't get sick of a chill. A chill would make you more susceptible to whatever disease is about.» She turned back to the table and poured wine, splashing it in her haste. «Drink this. Wine is also antiseptic. No, I won't come near you.» She was relieved to see him settled, the cloak about his shoulders, and stepped back from the table so he could reach the wine. «An utterly foolish thing to do, plunge yourself into the Ice Lake before the sun is up and then travel between. Now sit down and tell me again what happened at Ista Gather. And where you went with Capiam and exactly what he said.»

  She listened with half her attention to Sh'gall's more orderly recounting while she mentally reviewed what precautions and measures she could take to ensure the health of the Weyr.

  «No good comes from the Southern Continent!» Sh'gall commented gratuitously. «There's a very sound reason why no one is permitted there.»

  «Permission has never been denied. I always understood that everything we need was taken over in the Crossing. Now, what are the symptoms of the disease that's spreading?» Moreta recalled the bloody discharge from the dead runner's nose, the only external sign of its mortal distress.

  Sh'gall stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then collected his thoughts. «Fever. Yes, there's fever.» He glanced at her for approval.

  «There are many kinds of fevers, Sh'gall.»

  «Berchar will know, then. Fever, Capiam said, and headache and a dry cough. Why should that be enough to kill people and animals?»

  «What remedies did Capiam specify?»

  «How could he specify when he doesn't know what the plague is? They'll find out. They've only to search hard enough. Oh, he said to treat the symptoms empirically.»

  «Did he mention an incubation period? We can't just stay quarantined in the Weyr forever, you know.»

  «I know. But Capiam said we mustn't congregate. He really tore into Ratoshigan for the overcrowding in his Hold.» Sh'gall grinned unpleasantly. «We have been warning the Holders, but would they listen? They'll pay for it now.»

  «Sh'gall, Capiam must have told you how long it takes the disease to incubate.»

  The Weyrleader had finished the wine. He frowned and rubbed at his face. «I'm tired. I waited half the night for the Masterhealer at Ratoshigan's. He said it incubates in two to four days. He told me to find out where everyone has been and to order them not to congregate. The Weyr has its duties, too. I've got to get some sleep. Since you're up, you make sure everyone knows about this. Tell them all just what they may have caught yesterday.» He gave her a hard, warning stare. «I don't want to find out when I wake up that you've jollied people along.»

  «An epidemic is a far different affair from reassuring a rider with a wing-damaged dragon.»

  «And find Berchar. I want to know exactly what K'lon was ill of. K'lon didn't know, and Berchar wasn't in his quarters!» Sh'gall didn't approve of that. Fully male and hold-bred, Sh'gall had never developed any compassion or understanding of the green and blue riders and their associations.

  «I'll speak to Berchar.» She had a fairly good idea she'd find him with S'gor, a green rider.

  «And warn the Weyr?» He rose, groggy with fatigue and the wine he'd taken on an empty stomach. «And no one's to leave the Weyr and no one's to come in. You be sure that the watchrider passes on that order!» He waggled an admonitory finger at her.

  «It's a bit late to cry Thread when the burrow's set, isn't it?» she replied bitterly. «The Gathers should have been canceled.»

  «No one knew how serious this was yesterday. You transmit my orders straightaway!»

  Still clutching her fur around him, Sh'gall stumbled from the weyr. Moreta watched him go, her head throbbing. Why hadn't they canceled the Gathers? All those people at Ruatha! And dragonriders from every Weyr in and out of Ista and Ruatha. What was it S'peren had told her? Sickness in Igen, Keroon, and Telgar? But he hadn't said anything about an epidemic. Or deaths. And that runner of Vander's? Had Alessan mentioned a new runner from Keroon in Vander's hold? Thinking of the long picket lines on Ruatha's race flat, Moreta groaned. And all those people! How infectious would that runner have been at the moment of his death, when anxious riders and helpful spectators had crowded around it? She shouldn't have interfered. It was not her business!

  «You are distressed,» Orlith said, her eyes whirling in a soothing blue. «You should not be distressed by a runnerbeast.»

  Moreta leaned against her dragon's head, stroking the near eye ridge, calming her anxiety with the soft feel of Orlith's skin.

  «It's not just the runnerbeast, my love. A sickness is in the land. A very dangerous sickness. Where's Berchar?»

  «With S'gor. Asleep. It is very early. And foggy.»

  «And yesterday was so beautiful!» She remembered Alessan's strong arms about her in the toss dance, the challenge in his light green eyes.

  «You enjoyed yourself!» Orlith said with deep satisfaction.

  «Yes, indeed I did.» Moreta sighed ruefully.

  «Nothing will change yesterday,» Orlith remarked philosophically. «So now you must deal with today.» As Moreta chuckled over dragon logic, the queen added, «Leri wishes to speak with you since you are awake.»

  «Yes, and Leri might have heard about an epidemic like this. She might also know how I'm going to break the news to the Weyr the day before Fall.»

  Since Sh'gall had gone off with her cloak, Moreta slipped into her riding jacket. Orlith had been correct, as always, about the weather. As Moreta left her weyr and started up the steps to Leri's, the fog was swirling down from the ranges. Thread would Fall tomorrow, fog or not, so
she devoutly hoped the weather would clear. If the wind failed to clear the mist, the possibility of collision would be trebled. Dragons could see through fog but their riders couldn't. Sometimes riders did not heed their dragons and found themselves in one-sided arguments with bare ridges.

  «Orlith, please tell the watchrider that no one, dragonrider or holder, is permitted into the Weyr today. And no one is to leave it, either. The order is to be passed to each watchrider.»

  «Who would visit the Weyr in such fog?» Orlith asked. «And the day after two Gathers.»

  «Orlith?»

  «I have relayed the message. Balgeth is too sleepy to question why.» Orlith sounded suspiciously meek.

  «Good day to you, Holth,» Moreta said courteously as she entered the old Weyrwoman's quarters.

  Holth turned her head briefly in acknowledgment before closing her eyelids and snuggling her head more firmly into her forelegs. The old queen was nearly bronze with age.

  Beside her, on the edge of the stone platform that was the dragon's couch, Leri sat on a heap of pillows, her body swathed in thick woven rugs. Leri said she slept beside Holth as much for the warmth the dragon had stored up in her from so much sunning over so many Turns as to save herself the bother of moving. The last few Turns, Leri's joints rebelled against too much use. Repeatedly Moreta and Master Capiam had urged the woman to take up the standing invitation to remove to the south to Ista Weyr. Leri adamantly refused, declaring that she wasn't a tunnel snake to change her skin. She'd been born in Fort Weyr and intended to live out her Turn with those few old friends who remained, and in her own familiar quarters.

  «Hear you enjoyed yourself past the first watch,» Leri said. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. «Was that why Sh'gall was berating you?»

  «He wasn't berating. He was bemoaning. An epidemic's loose on Pern.»