Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  When Moreta arrived, the Lower Cavern was already well populated. Most of the Weyr was about, in fact. Judging by the clutter of dishes and cups on the tables, a hearty meal had been consumed. Women and weyrlings moved among the diners with klah pitchers, but not many wineskins were in evidence. The other queen riders—Lidora, Haura, and Kamiana—were at the raised table to one side of the dining area, their weyrmates seated with them.

  Moreta’s presence was noted, and conversations subsided briefly. She located T’ral, who was busy at his leather-mending, then made her way across the cavern, nodding and smiling to riders and weyrfolk, feeling more at ease as she began to appreciate the receptive mood of the assembled.

  “Leri’s neck strap needs a mend, T’ral.”

  “We can’t be losing her!” the brown rider said, taking the strap and putting it on top of other work.

  “Did we mishear the drums, Moreta?” one of the younger brown riders asked in a voice suddenly too loud and brash.

  “Depends on the strength of your morning headache,” she said with a laugh, which drew a scatter of echoes.

  “Klah or wine?” Haura asked Moreta as she stepped up on the dais.

  “Wine,” Moreta said firmly, a choice-that was greeted appreciatively by those nearby.

  “It’s her legs that wobble,” someone suggested.

  “The dancing was good at Ruatha, wasn’t it?” She took a sip of the wine and then looked out over the faces turned toward her. “Who doesn’t know what the drums have been relaying?”

  “Whoever slept through them heard the news from Nesso at the breakfast hearth,” someone remarked from the center of the diners. Nesso brandished her ladle in that direction.

  “Then you all know as much as I do. An epidemic’s loose on Pern, caused by that unusual beast the seamen rescued in the Current between Igen and Ista island. Runnerbeasts are affected but Master Talpan says that watchwhers, wherries, and dragons don’t contract the disease. Master Capiam hasn’t a name for it yet but if the disease originated from the Southern Continent, the odds are it’ll be mentioned in the Records—”

  “Like everything else,” a wit called out.

  “Consequently it’s only a matter of time before we know how to treat it. However”—Moreta altered her voice to a serious tone—“Master Capiam warns against any congregating—”

  “He should have told us that yesterday—”

  “Agreed. We may have Fall tomorrow, but I want no heroes. Headache and fever are the symptoms.”

  “Then K’lon had the plague?”

  “It’s possible, but he’s hale again.”

  A worried voice came from the eastern side of the cavern. “What about Berchar?”

  “Caught it from K’lon, more than likely, but he and S’gor have isolated themselves, as you are probably aware.”

  “Sh’gall?”

  An uneasy stir rippled around the Cavern.

  “He was fine ten minutes ago,” Moneta said dryly. “He’ll fly Thread tomorrow. As we all will”

  “Moreta?” T’nure, green Tapeth’s rider, rose from his table to speak. “How long does this quarantine condition last?”

  “Until Master Capiam rescinds it.” She saw the rebellious look on T’nure’s face. “Fort Weyr will obey!” Before she finished that injunction, the unmistakable trumpeting of the queens was heard. No lesser dragon would disobey the queens. Moreta thanked Orlith for the timely comment. “Now, in view of Berchar’s indisposition, Declan, you and Maylone share responsibility for the injured. Nesso, you and your team must be prepared to assist. S’peren, can I rely on your help?”

  “Anytime, Weyrwoman.”

  “Haura?” The queen rider nodded, none too keen. “Now, are there any other matters to be discussed?”

  “Does Holth fly?” Haura asked quietly.

  “She does!” Moreta spoke in a flat voice. She would not have that right challenged by anyone. “Leri, as is her custom, will speak to the ground crews, keeping her distance up on Holth.”

  “Moreta?” T’ral spoke up. “What about ground crews? I know Nabol and Crom will turn out tomorrow, but what happens next Fall—over Tillek and, after that, at Ruatha—if this plague spreads and we’ve no ground crews?”

  “Time enough to worry about that in the next Fall,” Moreta said quickly, with an unconcerned smile. Ruatha! With all the Gatherers there, crowded in! “The Holds will do their duty as the Weyrs discharge theirs.”

  An approving applause capped her restatement as she sat down, signaling that the discussion was at an end. Nesso stepped up on the dais with a plate of food.

  “I think you should know,” she said in a low voice, “that all the drum messages sign Fortine as sender now.”

  “Not Capiam?”

  Nesso shook her head slowly from side to side. “Not since the first one this noon.”

  “Has anyone else noticed that?”

  Nesso sniffed in offended dignity. “I know my duty, too, Weyrwoman.”

  The headache didn’t know when to quit, Capiam decided, trying for another position in which to ease his aching skull and his feverish body. His clock was slow: He had another hour before he could take a fourth draught of fellis juice. His heartbeat was more regular thanks to the aconite. Carefully the Healer rolled onto his right side. He forced himself to relax his neck muscles, let his head sink into the fiber-filled pillow. He was certain he could count every strand within the case from its pressure on the sensitized skin of his cranium.

  To compound his misery, the drum tower began to transmit an urgent message. At this hour? Were they manning the drums on a twenty-four-hour basis? Could no one sleep? Capiam recognized that the message was being relayed to Telgar Weyr but that was as far as he could force himself to concentrate.

  An hour before he could take more fellis juice? It was his duty to Pern not to be insensible as the disease followed its course with his resisting body. Sometimes duty was a very difficult task.

  Capiam sighed again, willing his execrable headache to abate. He ought to have listened to that message to Telgar. How was he to know what was happening on Pern? How the disease was progressing? How could he think?

  CHAPTER VIII

  Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.12.43

  THE NEXT MORNING when Orlith roused Moreta early, the fog had cleared from Fort Weyr’s mountain slopes.

  “And to the northwest? Toward Nabol and Crom?” Moreta asked as she donned riding gear.

  Sweeprider’s gone out. He’ll know, Orlith replied.

  “Sh’gall?”

  Awake and dressing. Kadith says he’s well and rested.

  “What does Malth say about Berchar?”

  The conversation paused while Orlith inquired. Malth says the man feels worse today than he did yesterday.

  Moreta didn’t like the sound of that. If Berchar had been taking sweatroot, the fever should have been sweated from his body.

  Neither you nor the Weyrleader are ill, Orlith remarked by way of encouragement.

  Emerging from her sleeping quarters, Moreta laughed and went to throw her arms around her queen’s neck, scratching the eye ridges affectionately. She couldn’t help but notice the protruberances marring the curve of Orlith’s belly.

  “Are you sure you should fly Fall today?”

  Of course I can. Orlith craned her neck around to look at the bulges. They will settle once I am airborne.

  “Holth and Leri?”

  They still sleep.

  “Staying awake until the small hours, poring over Records!”

  Orlith blinked.

  When Moreta had returned the mended strap to Leri after the Weyr meeting, she found the old Weyrwoman deep in her studies.

  “Weyrfolk don’t get sick,” she had said with considerable disgust. “Bellyache from overeating or drinking raw wines, Threadscore, stupid collision, knife fights, abscesses, kidney and liver infections by the hundreds, but sick? I’ve looked through twenty Turns after the last Fall”—Leri paused to give a
great yawn—“bloody boring. I’ll read on, but only because duty requires. Dragonriders are a healthy lot!”

  Moreta had been quite willing to take that reassurance with her to bed. Though Nesso might have found it curious that Fortine was sending drum messages, Moreta logically concluded that Capiam was sleeping off the exhaustion of his round of the afflicted Holds. Sh’gall said that the man had been traveling for days. Sh’gall’s excessive alarm over the epidemic was likely compounded by his innate antipathy for injury or minor ailments. The Weyrleader had been overreacting. She felt more sanguine about her contact with the diseased runner: It had been so brief that she failed to see how she could be affected.

  Consequently, after a good night’s sleep, Moreta was able to face Fall in good heart as she stepped out in the brightness cia crisp wintry day. Moreta preferred an early start on a Fall day: that day especially for, with Berchar sick, she must check that the supplies for treating scored dragons had been set out properly.

  Declan, Maylone, and six of the weyrfolk were already setting up supplies in the infirmary. Declan and Maylone were runnerhold bred like herself. Searched the previous Turn for Pelianth’s clutch, they had not Impressed. Because Declan had proved himself useful to Berchar and Maylone was young enough to Impress again, the two had been allowed to stay on in the Weyr. Even if Declan made a dragonrider, his skill would give Moreta much needed assistance. A Weyr never had enough healers for men and dragons.

  Declan, a thin-faced man of nearly twenty Turns, brought Moreta a mug of klah while she checked his efforts. Moreta had briefly considered sending a weyrling to the Healer Hall for a more experienced healer to replace Berchar, but because of the quarantine and the efficiency shown by Declan and Maylone, she decided the Weyr would be well enough tended. Most riders knew how to treat minor scores on themselves and their dragons.

  She was serving herself from the porridge kettle when Sh’gall entered the cavern. He went straight to the dais and pulled all the chairs but one from the table. He sat down, beckoned to a sleepy weyrling, and, when the boy would have mounted the dais, Sh’gall warded him off with a peremptory command. While those in the cavern watched with amused surprise, the boy brought the cup of klah and the cereal bowl, placing them carefully at the far end of the table. Sh’gall waited till the boy had gone before he collected his breakfast.

  Moreta felt impatience for such elaborate precautions. The Weyr had enough on its mind with Fall at midday. Out of deference to the Weyrleader’s authority, she kept her expression bland. Nesso had added something flavorful to the cereal, and Moreta concentrated on identifying the addition.

  Wingleaders and wingseconds began to arrive, to report the readiness of their wings to Sh’gall. They prudently observed his isolation.

  The three queen riders arrived together and sought Moreta. She signaled a weyrling to serve the women and replenish her klah. Kamiana, a few Turns younger than Moreta, was her usual imperturbable self, her short dark hair spiky from the bath, her tanned face smooth. Lidora, who had flown enough Thread not to be unduly anxious, was clearly upset about something, but she had recently changed her weyrmate and her moods were often changeable. Haura, the youngest, was never at her best before Threadfall, but she always settled down once the queens’ wing went into action.

  “He’s taking no risks, is he?” Kamiana said after noting Sh’gall’s segregation.

  “He did convey Capiam from Ista to Southern and Fort Hold.”

  “How’s Berchar?”

  “Still feverish.” Moreta’s gesture intimated that this was only to be expected.

  “Hope there’s no serious injuries.” Kamiana aimed that remark at Haura, who was a capable if unenthusiastic nurse.

  “Holth will fly lead,” Moreta said, reproving Kamiana with a glance. “She’s valiant in that position and we can all keep an eye on her. Haura and you fly as wing backs. Lidora and I will do the upper level. Nabol and Crom may not be cursed with fog—”

  “Has a sweeprider gone out?”

  “Sh’gall’s less likely to fly blind than any other Weyrleader I’ve known,” Moreta told Lidora dryly.

  The weyrling returned with the porridge and klah, and served the Weyrwoman. Dragonriders began to arrive in groups, making their way to the breakfast hearth and then drifting to tables. The wingseconds moved about, checking their riders, giving instructions. All in a normal, perfectly routine fashion, despite Sh’gall, until the sweeprider came in.

  “The High Reaches rider says it’s all clear to the coast,” A’dan announced in a cheerfully loud voice, peeling back his headgear as he strode to the hearth.

  “The High Reaches rider says!” Sh’gall demanded. “You spoke to him?”

  “Of course.” A’dan turned round to the Weyrleader in surprise. “How else could I know? We met at—”

  “Were you not told yesterday—” Sh’gall, appearing to enlarge with anger, rose. He glared at Moreta with piercingly accusative eyes. “Were you not told yesterday that contact with anyone was forbidden?”

  “Riders aren’t anyone—”

  “Other riders! Anyone! We must keep this disease from reaching Fort Weyr and that means staying away from everyone. Today, during Fall, no rider of this Weyr is to approach any holder, any rider from High Reaches. Give any necessary orders adragonback, preferably on the wing. Touch no one and nothing belonging to anyone outside this Weyr. Have I made my orders perfectly clear this time?” He ended his outburst with another searing look at Moreta.

  “What does Sh’gall think he can do to offenders?” Kamiana asked in an undertone meant for Moreta’s ears alone.

  Moreta gestured peremptorily for Kamiana’s silence. Sh’gall had not finished speaking.

  “Now,” he went on in a stentorian but less forbidding tone that no one in the Lower Cavern could ignore. “We’ve Thread Falling today! Only dragons and their riders can keep Pern Threadfree. That is why we live apart, in Weyrs, why we must keep apart, preserving our health. Remember! Only dragonriders can keep Pern Threadfree. We must all be equal to that task!”

  “He really is rousing us for Fall, isn’t he?” Lidora said, leaning toward Moreta. “How long does he mean to keep us cooped up here?” Irritation colored her voice and sent a flush to her cheeks.

  Moreta gave the dark woman a long measuring look, and Lidora caught at her lower lip.

  “Aggravating to be sure, Lidora, but few Gather loves are ever caught for long.” She had accurately guessed the source of Lidora’s discontent and wondered who had caught the weyrwoman’s fancy at Ruatha Gather. Moreta looked away, with apparent unconcern, but she thought again of Alessan and how much she’d enjoyed his company. She’d been showing off a bit, rushing to the runnerbeast’s aid, trying to catch his attention.

  The scuffling of bootheels and bench legs on stone roused her from her momentary lapse. She rose hastily. Custom dictated that she receive last-minute instructions concerning the queens’ wing from Sh’gall. She stopped a few feet from the dais before he looked toward her, his expression warning her to keep her distance.

  “Leri insists on flying?”

  “There’s no reason to stop her.”

  “You’ll remind her, of course, to stay mounted.”

  “She always does.”

  Sh’gall shrugged, absolving himself of responsibility for Leri. “Tend your dragons, then. Threadfall is slated for midday.” He turned to beckon the wingleaders forward.

  “Is he complaining about Leri again?” Kamiana asked, perversely forgetting her own objections.

  “Not really,” Moreta replied then made her way out of the cavern, the queen riders following her.

  Around the Bowl, on the ledges or on the ground, riders were harnessing dragons, arranging firestone sacks on dragon necks. Others daubed oil on recent scars and examined rough patches on hide or wing membranes. Wingleaders and wingseconds were busy overseeing the preparations. Weyrlings ducked around riders and dragons on errands. The atmosphere was busy but not frantic. Th
e bustle had the right tone to it, Moreta decided as she made her way to the far side of the Bowl. The activity was routine, familiar, almost comforting when she considered the probability that, elsewhere on Pern, men and beasts might be dying of the plague.

  That is not a good thought, Orlith said sternly.

  “True. And not one to take into Fall. Forgive me.”

  There is no fault. The day is clear! We will meet Thread well.

  Orlith’s sturdy confidence imbued Moreta with optimism. The sun streamed in from the east, and the crisp air was invigorating after the clammy weather that had prevailed. A good deep frost now would be most beneficial, she thought as she climbed the stairs. Not too long a cold spell, just enough to freeze the pernicious insects and reduce the snake population.

  “I’ll do Holth’s harness first.” Leri has help.

  Moreta grinned at Orlith’s impatience. That was a good spirit in a dragon. As she entered the weyr, Orlith was off her couch, her eyes sparkling, their whirl speeding up with anticipation. Orlith lowered her head. In a burst of affection and love for her partner and friend, Moreta flung her arms about the triangular muzzle, squeezing as tightly as she could, knowing that her strongest embrace would be as nothing to the husky beast. Orlith rumbled and Moreta could feel the loving vibration. Reluctantly she released Orlith. Briskly then, she turned to the harness hanging on its wall pegs.

  As she arranged the straps, she ran the leather through knowing hands. The cold of between ate into equipment, and most riders changed harnesses three or four times a Turn. Finding all was well with the leather, Moreta then examined Orlith’s wings despite the queen’s growing impatience to be up on the Star Stone height, overseeing the final preparations. Next Moreta checked the gauge on the agenothree tank, made sure the nozzle head was clean, and strapped on the tank. Then queen and rider moved out to the ledge. On the one above, Holth and Leri were already waiting.