“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-mornin
g 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 bumbled 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. Capiarn 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 Telgar. 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.”
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