Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  “No, I think you could say that something has come right,” Moreta said in a positive manner, “but Master Capiam needs our cooperation.” Quickly Moreta once more explained, irritated by the sincere way in which B’lerion expressed astonishment. “Parts of Nabol, Crom, and the High Reaches are totally isolated. Master Capiam feels that they could wait so your involvement won’t be as large—”

  “Moreta, after saving Tamianth you can have anything in this Weyr . . . except S’ligar and Gianarth. Fortunately”—Falga’s delightful laugh pealed out—“he’s feeling his age. B’lerion, I know you time it as a matter of everyday convenience. This is the sort of thing you’re good at organizing. Besides, I doubt if there’s a cot you don’t know in any western hold.”

  “Falga!” B’lerion affected indignation and hurt, laying his right hand on his heart. “May I see this plan of Master Capiam’s?”

  The bronze rider was a very shrewd dissembler for he examined the plan as if that were his first viewing. Moreta wished that B’lerion were not so comprehensively charming.

  “Moreta,” Falga said, eyeing her thoughtfully, “if Tamianth says Holth says Orlith’s asleep, High Reaches has not been your first stop.”

  “No, I kept the best for the last.”

  “Could that be why Tamianth tells me Holth now informs her that Raylinth and his rider have arrived, in great agitation, at Fort?” When Moreta nodded grimly, she added, “M’tani would have none of it?”

  “The watchrider made Arith land on the Rim.”

  B’lerion cursed with real fervor, all langor gone.

  “If I’d been on Orlith, that squatty mildewed brown of C’ver’s would—”

  “Consider the source,” Falga said earnestly. “A mere brown rider! Really, Moreta, save your wrath for something worth the energy to spit at. I don’t know what has got into M’tani over the last Turn. Maybe he’s battle-weary from fighting Thread for so many years. He’s gone sour totally, and it’s affecting his whole Weyr. That would be disastrous enough in ordinary times, but this plague has only shown up his deficiencies. Do we have to force a change there? We’ll take up that matter later. Meanwhile, High Reaches will take up distribution on the eastern side of Telgar’s region. Bessera can time it, and has, which accounts for that smug look so often on her face. B’lerion, which of the bronzes?”

  “Sharth, Melath, Odioth,” B’lerion closed a finger into his palm with each name. “Nabeth, as you suspected, Ponteth and Bidorth. That makes seven, and if my memory serves me, N’mool, Bidorth’s rider, comes from Telgar Upper Plains. Of course, T’grel’s not the only rider who’s dissatisfied with M’tani’s leadership. I told you, didn’t I, Falga, that once those Telgar riders had had a taste of real leadership, there’d be trouble.” He smiled winningly at Moreta. “I actually do defer to Sh’gall’s abilities. He may be a dull stick in other matters—oh, no, you can’t fool your old friend B’lerion—but he is a bloody fine Leader! Don’t waggle your finger at me, Falga.”

  “Do stop your chatter, B’lerion. Holth has told Tamianth that Moreta had better get back to her Weyr. And we’ll send you oven a few weyrlings from our cavern. You can take your pick. If we discover any more likely lads and girls while we’re delivering Master Capiam’s brew, we’ll bring them in.”

  “I’ll just give Moreta a leg up,” B’lerion called back over his shoulder as he hurried out with her.

  “It’s a good thing you’ve only the one arm, B’lerion,” Falga called after them good-humoredly.

  “I was going back by way of Ruatha,” Moreta said anxiously.

  “I thought you might be. You don’t have to. They’re doing splendidly. Capiam’s sent more people in to help. Desdra’s overseeing. She says Tirone and his harpers are doing a magnificent job with the Lords Holder and Crafthallmasters.”

  “He must be. I haven’t seen K’lon in days.”

  “Good fellow, K’lon; and I don’t say that about just any blue rider.”

  Then they were beside Arith and, one-armed or not, B’lerion nearly lifted her over the blue dragon.

  Orlith was awake on Moreta’s return to Fort Weyr because Sh’gall had roused her while looking for Moreta. He was pacing up and down in front of the tier and whirled belligerently at her when she entered.

  “M’tani sent a green weyrling,” he cried, fuming, “hardly more than a babe, to give our watchrider the most insulting message I have ever received. He has repudiated any agreement made at the Butte, a meeting at which I was not present.” Sh’gall shook his fist first at Moreta and then in the vague direction of the Butte. “And at which arbitrary decisions were made, which I cannot condone, though I’ve been forced to comply with them! M’tani has repudiated any arrangement, agreement, accord, understanding, undertaking. He is not to be bothered—bothered, he says—not to be bothered by problems of any other Weyr. If we are so poor that we have to beg and Search from other Weyrs, then we do not deserve to have a clutch at all.” Sh’gall ended up swinging his arms about like a drum apprentice.

  Moreta had never seen him so furious. She listened to what he had to say but offered no response, hoping he would vent his rage and leave. Having repeated himself at length on his displeasure with her shameless venture for the Weyr that had resulted in such an insufferable message from M’tani, he ranted on through his usual grievances, about his illness, about the puny size of the clutch. Finally Moreta could bear no more.

  “There is a queen egg, Sh’gall. There have to be enough candidates to give the little queen some choice. I applied to Telgar Weyr as I did to Benden, Igen, Ista, and the High Reaches. No one else thought my appearance or my request importunate. Now leave the Ground. You’ve upset Orlith sufficiently for one day.”

  Orlith was visibly upset as Moreta ran across the hot sands to her, but not, Moreta knew very well, by Sh’gall. By Telgar Weyr. She paced in front of her eggs, her eyes wheeling from red to yellow and orange as she recited to her rider a list of the damages she would inflict on bronze Hogarth in such detail that Moreta was torn between laughter and horror. A mating dragon could be savage with the drive of that purpose, but a clutching dragon was usually passive.

  Moreta scratched Orlith’s eye ridges and head knob to soothe her, urging the dragon to have a care for her eggs and come lie down again and let the hot sands lull her.

  She has some very good ideas, came the unmistakable voice of Holth. Leri says that Raylinth’s rider understands all that is necessary. She says that in the interests of tranquility, you are to stay in the Ground, eat and sleep well.

  Do you miss anything, Holth—Leri?

  No. If Orlith does not finish Hogarth appropriately, I will do so.

  Leri says—and the voice was now only Orlith’s, her tone sullen—that we must not stop Holth. Why not? If you had ridden me, you would not have been insulted.

  “Actually, I’d rather have C’ver’s skin for a floor rug,” Moreta said in a considered tone. “He’s hairy enough.”

  The notion of flaying a rider was originally Leri’s, but thinking about the process restored Moreta and indirectly placated Orlith. Perhaps she should go for Sh’gall’s hide, too, except that she was fond of Kadith and wouldn’t cause him anxiety.

  Kamiana comes, Orlith said, her tone calmer, her eyes more green than yellow.

  Moreta looked up and saw the Weyrwoman beckoning urgently for Moreta to join her on the tier.

  “Leri told me to wait until you’d both had a chance to cool down!” Kamiana said, rolling her eyes and grinning sympathetically at Moreta. “Sh’gall will drone on when he’s offended, won’t he? You’d think the plague had been invented to annoy him alone. And that M’tani? We’re all tired of Thread but we still do what is expected. He may find himself flying by his lonesome, and I know his Weyr’s at half strength. Can we not replace him? Or must we wait until Telgar’s Dalgeth rises to replace him as Leader? However, we’re flying for Capiam tomorrow, Lidora, Haura, and myself. I wish you could persuade Leri not to, but she does k
now the hole-in-the-hill places better anyone else in the Weyr. She’s talked S’peren into taking a few runs and K’lon, though he’s only a blue.” Kamiana frowned dubiously over that choice. “I think P’nine would have been wiser but he got scored.”

  “K’lon’s already stumbled onto timing; besides, he’s done a lot of conveying lately, you know.”

  “I didn’t know”—Kamiana rolled her eyes expressively again—“just how much was going on around here, Moreta, and your queen on the Hatching Ground, pushing sand about to warm her eggs!”

  3.22.43

  In the main Hall of Ruatha Hold, which had so recently been a hospital, forty cartwheels had been rigged as centrifuges. A hundred or more ornamental bottles had also served their purpose and were now stacked against the stair wall where once the banquet table of Ruathan Lords had graced the raised end of the long Hall. The frenzied activity of the past three days had, in the late hours of this night, abated to weary preparations for the morning’s final effort. It was no comfort to the fatigued that similar activity had wearied anxious men and women in Keroon Beasthall and Benden Hold.

  In the corner nearest the kitchen entrance, a trestle table had been serving as dining table at appropriate hours and a worktable at all other times. The remnants of an evening meal were at the end nearest the wall, where maps and lists had been tacked to the hangings. On its long benches sat the eight people whom Alessan called his Loyal Crew, relaxing with a cup of wine from Alessan’s skin of Benden white.

  “I wasn’t so taken with that Master Balfor, Lord Alessan,” Dag was saying, his eyes on the wine in his cup.

  “He’s not confirmed in the honor,” Alessan said. He was too weary to take part in an argument and well aware that Fergal was listening with avid ears to store bits and pieces of irrelevant information in his cunning young mind.

  “I’d worry who else might have the rank, for Master Balfor certainly hasn’t the experience.”

  “He has done all that Master Capiam asked,” Tuero said with an eye on Desdra, who apparently was not listening.

  “Ah, it’s sad to realize how many good men and women have died.” Dag lifted his cup in a silent toast. “And sadder to think of the fine bloodlines just wiped out. When I think of the races Squealer will walk away with and no competition to stretch him in a challenge.”

  Alessan poured a bit more wine in his cup, Fergal’s eyes on the business. He’d been offered a portion but disdained it with an insolence that Alessan excused only because the lad had worked so diligently at any task assigned him. But then, the work had been to save runners, and the boy had obviously inherited his grandfather’s total commitment to the breed.

  “You say Runel died?” Dag continued, finding it hard to comprehend how few of his old cronies remained. “Did all his bloodline go?”

  “The oldest son and his family are safe in the hold.”

  “Ah, well, he’s the right one for it. I’ll just have a look at that brown mare. She could foal tonight. Come along, Fergal.” Dag swung his splinted leg off the bench and took up the crutches Tuero had contrived for him. For just a moment, Fergal looked rebellious.

  “I’ll come with you if I may,” Rill said, rising and unobtrusively assisting Dag. “A birth is a happy moment!”

  Fergal was on his feet in an instant, extremely possessive of Dag and unwilling to share the man’s attention with anyone, not even with Nerilka, for whom he had taken a curious liking.

  Tuero watched the curious trio until they had left the hall. “I know I’ve seen that woman before.”

  “I have, too,” Desdra said, “or maybe her kinfolk. Faces have got blurred. Overdose!” She was leaning back against the wall behind her, hands limp in her lap, a few wisps of dark hair escaping from the tight braids. “When this is over tomorrow, I’m going to sleep and sleep and sleep. Anyone, anyone whosoever attempts to rouse me, shall be . . . shall be . . . I’m too tired to think of something suitably vile.”

  “The wine was excellent, Lord Alessan,” Follen said, rising. He pulled at Deefer’s sleeve. “We’ve just three more batches to decant tonight. There could be breakages, so we must have spares. It won’t take long now.”

  Deefen yawned mightily then belatedly covered his mouth, apologetically glancing around. But a yawn was not in the same category as a sneeze or a cough.

  “When you think that I thought,” Tuero began with a long sigh as he regarded the interior of his empty cup, “that a Ruathan Gather would be less tedious than a Crom wedding, you may wonder what I was doing for wits that day.”

  Alessan looked up, his light-green eyes sparkling. “Does that mean, my friend, you have considered my offer of a post here at Ruatha?”

  Tuero gave a little chuckle. “My good Lord Holder Alessan, there comes a time in a harper’s life when he decides that the variety and change of temporary assignments begin to pall and he wishes a comfortable living where his capabilities are appreciated, where he can be sure of witty conversations over the dinner table—to save his fingers from the harping—where his energies are not abused—”

  “I wouldn’t post to Ruatha in that event,” Desdra remarked caustically, but she smiled.

  “You weren’t asked,” Alessan replied, mischief in his eyes.

  “It’s no joy to serve a cautious man.” Tuero flung an arm about Alessan’s shoulders. “There is one condition, however, which”—the harper held up a long forefinger, pausing before his stipulation—“must be met.”

  “By the first Egg,” Alessan protested, “you’ve already got me to agree to a first-storey apartment on the inside, second tithe of our Crafthalls—”

  “When you’ve got them staffed again—”

  “Your choice of a runnerbeast, top marks as journeyman, and leave, if you wish, to take your mastery when the Pass is over. What more can you ask of an impoverished Lord Holder?”

  “All I ask is what is fitting for a man of my accomplishments.” Tuero humbly put one hand on his heart.

  “So what is this final condition?”

  “That you supply me with Benden white.” He spoiled the gravity of his pronouncement by hiccuping and gestured urgently for Alessan to fill his cup. He sipped wine to stop the spasms. “Well?”

  “Good Journeyman Harper Tuero, if I can procure Benden white, you may have your just share of it.” He raised his cup solemnly and Tuero touched his to it. “Agreed?”

  Tuero hiccuped. “Agreed!” He tried to swallow the next hiccup.

  Desdra looked at Alessan then leaned forward and prodded the wineskin under his elbow. She made a noise of amused reproof.

  “There’s not much left in it,” Alessan assured her.

  “That’s just as well. Tomorrow your heads must be as clear as can be,” she said. “Come, Oklina, you’re half asleep as it is.”

  Regarding her through the lovely euphoria produced by several cups of his superlative Benden white, Alessan wondered if Desdra was being solicitous of his sister or merely needed support up the stairs. The progress of the two women was steady but uncertain, and their indirect course not entirely due to the cartwheels, apparatus, and equipment that lay strewn about the spacious whitewashed Hall. That was another thing he must do, Alessan decided suddenly—repaint the Hall. The austere white was too much a reminder of too many painful scenes.

  “I say, Alessan,” Tuero said as he tugged at the Lord Holder’s sleeve, “where do you get all that white Benden?”

  Alessan grinned. “I have to have a few secrets.” His head was wobbling and if he wasn’t careful, it would fall sideways onto the table.

  “Secrets? Even from your harper?” Tuero tried to sound indignant.

  “If you find out, I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  Tuero brightened. “That’s fair enough. If a harper can’t find out—and this harper is very good at finding things out—if a harper can’t find out, he doesn’t have the right to know. Is that right, Alessan?”

  But Alessan’s head reposed on the table; a sno
re issued from his half-open mouth. Tuero stared at him for a moment in mixed pity and rebuke, then pushed at the wineskin under his elbow and sighed in disgust. There wasn’t more than a dribble in it.

  Footsteps sounded behind Tuero. He turned.

  “Has he finished it?” Rill asked.

  “Yes, it’s empty, and he’s the only one who knows where the supply is!”

  Rill smiled. “The foal is a male, a fine strong one. I thought Lord Alessan would like to know. Dag and Fergal are watching to be sure it stands and suckles.” She looked down at the sleeping Lord Holder, an expression of ineffable tenderness lending her a look of quiet beauty.

  Tuero blinked to be sure it was the wine that had enhanced the tall woman. She had good bones in her face, he decided after making an effort at concentration. With a bit of thought to her clothing, brighter colors, with hair longer than that unattractive crop, she’d be attractive. Unexpectedly her expression altered, and so did the illusion of beauty—once again she bore the resemblance that perplexed Tuero and Desdra.

  “I know I know you,” Tuero said.

  “I’m not the sort of person a journeyman harper knows,” she replied. “Get to your feet, Harper. I can’t allow him to sleep in this uncomfortable position and he needs a proper rest.”

  “Not so sure I can stand.”

  “Try it.” Her terse reply was issued with an authority that Tuero found himself obeying though he was shaky on his legs.

  Rill was only half a head shorter than Alessan so she looped one limp arm over her shoulder, urging Tuero take the other. Between them they managed to get Alessan upright, though he remained only half-conscious of their efforts. Tuero had to cling with his free hand to the bannister but fortunately, Alessan’s rooms were the first apartment past the head of the stairs. They got him through to the bedroom where Rill arranged his limp body comfortably before she covered him. Tuero was mildly jealous that Alessan could arouse such tenderness.

  “I wish . . . I wish . . .” he began but lost the words to express that longing.