Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  Another of F’neldril’s quirks was to finish one job before starting the next. But Moreta moved off, secure in the knowlege that Leri would not have a long wait for her Records.

  She went on to the Lower Caverns and stood for a moment in the entrance, noting how few people occupied the tables, most of those few obviously nursing wine-heads. How awkward and inconvenient it all was, Moreta thought with a rush of distressed exasperation, for an epidemic to break out the day after two Gathers, when half the riders would consider the news a bad joke and the rest wouldn’t be sober enough to understand what was happening. And Fall tomorrow! How could she tell the Weyr if they weren’t available to tell?

  If you eat, you’ll think of something, came the calm imperturbable voice of her dragon.

  “An excellent notion.” Moreta went to the small breakfast hearth and poured herself a cup of klah, added a huge spoonful of sweetener, took a fresh roll from the warming oven and looked around for a place to sit and think. Then she saw Peterpar, the Weyr herdsman, sharpening his hoof knife. His hair was rumpled and his face sleep creased. He was not really attending to the job at hand, which was honing an edge against the strop.

  “Don’t cut yourself,” she said quietly, sitting down.

  Peterpar winced at the sound of her voice but he kept on stropping.

  “Were you at Ista or Ruatha?”

  “Both, for my folly. Beer at Ista. That foully acid Tillek wine at Ruatha.”

  “Did you see the feline at Ista?” Moreta thought that it would be kinder to break the news gently to a man in Peterpar’s fragile state.

  “Aye.” Peterpar frowned. “Master Talpan was there. He told me not to get too close though it was caged and all. He sent you his regards, by the way. Afterward”—Peterpar’s frown deepened as if he didn’t quite trust his memory of events—“they put the animal down.”

  “For a good reason.” Moreta told him why.

  Peterpar held the knife suspended, midstrop, shocked. By the time she had finished, he had recovered his equanimity.

  “If it’s to come, it’ll come.” He went on stropping.

  “That last drove of runnerbeasts we received in tithe,” she asked, “from which hold did it come?” She sipped at the klah, grateful for its warmth and stimulation.

  “Part of Tillek’s contribution.” Peterpar’s expression reflected the relief he felt. “Heard tell at Ista that there’s been an illness among runners at Keroon. Same thing?” The tone in Peterpar’s voice begged Moreta to deny it.

  She nodded.

  “Now, how can a feline that came from the Southern Continent give us, man and runnerbeast, a sickness?”

  “Master Talpan decided that it did. Apparently neither man nor runnerbeast has any immunity from the infection that feline brought with it.”

  Peterpar cocked his head to one side, contorting his face. “Then that runnerbeast that dropped dead at Ruatha races had it?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Tillek doesn’t get breeding stock from Keroon. Just as well. But soon’s I finish my klah, I’ll check the herds.” He returned his hoof knife to its case, rolled up his strop and shoved it into his tunic pocket. “Dragons don’t get this, do they?”

  “No, Master Talpan didn’t believe they could.” Moreta rose to her feet. “But riders can.”

  “Oh, we’re a hardy lot, we weyrfolk,” Peterpar said pridefully, shaking his head that she would doubt it. “We’ll be careful now. You wait and see. Won’t be many of us coming down sick. Don’t you worry about that now, Moreta. Not with Fall tomorrow.”

  One was offered reassurance from unlikely sources, Moreta thought. Yet his advice reminded her that one of the reasons weyrfolk were so hardy was because they ate well and sensibly. Many illnesses could be prevented, or diminished, by proper diet. One of her most important duties as Weyrwoman was altering that diet from season to season. Moreta looked about the Cavern, to see if Nesso was up. She had better not be laggard with the tidings to Nesso who would relish disseminating information of such caliber.

  “Nesso, I’d like you to add spearleek and white bulb to your stews for a while, please.”

  Nesso gave one of her little offended sniffs. “I’ve already planned to do so and there’s citron in the morning rolls. If you’d had one, you’d know. A pinch of prevention’s worth a pound of cure.”

  “You’d already planned to? You’ve heard of the sickness?”

  Nesso sniffed again. “Being waked up at the crack of dawn—”

  “Sh’gall told you?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me. He was banging around the night hearth muttering to himself half-demented, without a thought or a consideration for those of us sleeping nearby.”

  Moreta knew very well why Nesso imposed on herself the night-hearth duty on a Gather night. The prying woman loved to catch people sneaking in or out; that knowledge gave her a feeling of power.

  “Who else in the Weyr knows?”

  “Whoever you’ve been telling before you came to me.” And she cast a dark look over her shoulder at Peterpar, who was trudging out of the Cavern.

  “What did you actually hear Sh’gall saying?” Moreta knew Nesso’s penchant for gossip and also her fallibility in repeating it correctly.

  “That there’s an epidemic on Pern and everyone will die.” Nesso gave Moreta a look of pure indignation. “Which is downright foolish.”

  “Master Capiam has declared that there is.”

  “Well, we haven’t got one here!” Nesso pointed her ladle at the floor. “K’lon’s fine and healthy, sleeping like a babe for all he was woke up and questioned sharp. Holders die of epidemics.” Nesso was contemptuous of anyone not connected intimately with Weyrs. “What else could be expected when so many people are crammed into living space that wouldn’t suit a watchwher!” All of Nesso’s indignation drained out of her as she looked up and saw Moreta’s expression. “You’re serious?” Her eyes widened. “I thought Sh’gall just had too much wine! Oh! And everyone here was either to Ista or Ruatha!” Nesso might love to gossip but she was not stupid, and she was quite able to see the enormity of the situation. She gave herself a little shake, picked up the ladle, wiped it off with her clout, and gave the porridge such a stirring that globs fell to the burning blackstone. “What’re the signs?”

  “Headache, fever, chills, a dry cough.”

  “That’s exactly what put K’lon in his bed.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. And for that matter, K’lon’s fine. Weyrfolk are healthy folk!” Nesso’s assertion was as prideful as Peterpar’s and a matter of some consolation to Moreta. “And, saving your look-in on him yesterday afternoon, only Berchar tended him—but he was recovered by then. Mind you, I shouldn’t go telling everyone suddenlike about the symptoms, as we’ll have enough sore heads this morning and it’s an epidemic of wine they had last night, that’ll be all.” She gave the porridge a final decisive poke and turned fully toward Moreta. “How long does it take this sickness to come on people?”

  “Capiam says two to four days.”

  “Well, at least the riders can concentrate on Fall tomorrow with a clear mind.”

  “There’s to be no congregating. No visitors into the Weyr and none to go out. I’ve told the watchrider so.”

  “Visitors aren’t likely today in any case, with Gathers yesterday and the fog so thick you can’t hardly see the other side of the Bowl. You’ll find Berchar in S’gor’s weyr, you know.”

  “I thought that likely. Sh’gall’s not to be disturbed.”

  “Oh?” Nesso’s eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. “Does he fancy he’s already got this disease? And Thread Falling tomorrow? What do I tell the wingleaders if they ask for him?”

  “Tell them to seek me. He’s not ill in any case but he was conveying Master Capiam yesterday and he’s exhausted.”

  Moreta left Nesso on that. By sleeping, Sh’gall would recover from the first flare of panic and be as eager as eve
r for the stimulation of a Fall. He was always at his best leading the Weyr’s fighting wings.

  Fog swirled around her as Moreta stepped out of the Lower Cavern.

  Orlith, would you please bespeak Malth for me and ask for a lift to her weyr?

  I’ll come.

  I know you would, my love, but you are egg-heavy, the fog is thick, and by making such a request, I give them due notice of my coming.

  Malth comes. Something in Orlith’s tone made Moreta wonder if Malth had been reluctant to obey the summons. Malth should have known that the Weyrwoman would not intrude unnecessarily.

  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 dispell 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 into 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, Orlith 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 infinnary.

  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 men
tal 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. She 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 flipped open the glowbasket, her senses pleasantly assailed and reassured by the pungent spiciness 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.