Authors: Anne McCaffrey
Alessan did not take umbrage because a party of men now bore purposefully down on the two Lords Holder, their expressions determined and anxious.
“Lord Alessan . . .”
“Yes, Turvine,” Alessan replied to the man, a crop holder in the southeastern corner of Ruatha. His companions were herdsmen.
“We’ve no drums near us and we’re expected back. I’m not one to go against Healer’s advice but there are other considerations. We can’t bide here . . .
Makfar had noticed the deputation and, although Alessan gave Turvine his complete attention, he was aware that his brother had signaled several armed holders to converge.
“You’ll bide here! That’s my order!” Alessan spoke forcefully and the men backed off, looking uncertainly for support from Tolocamp. The Fort Holder stiffened, ignoring their tacit plea. Alessan raised his voice, projecting it beyond the group to those watching and listening from the roadway and the forecourt. “The drums have decreed the quarantine! I am your Lord Holder. As surely as if Thread were Falling, you are under my orders. No one, no animal leaves here until that drum”—Alessan jabbed his arm at the tower—“tells us that the quarantine is lifted!”
In the silence that ensued, Alessan strode rapidly toward the hall door, Tolocamp in step beside him.
“You will have to get messages out to prevent people coming in,” Tolocamp said in a low voice when they were inside the Hall.
“I know that. I just have to figure out how. Without exposing animals or people.” Alessan swung to the left, into the Hold’s office where the bloody Records he did not have time to peruse were stacked in accusing ranks. Although the office had been put to use as sleeping space during the Gather, it was vacant but sleeping furs were scattered about, their owners apparently having left them in haste. Alessan kicked several aside to reach his maps. He finally located the small-scale chart of the Holding on which the roads were marked in different colors for trail, track, or path, and the holds similarly differentiated.
Tolocamp exclaimed in surprise at the fine quality of the map. “I’d no idea you were so well equipped,” he said with a want of tact.
“As the harpers are fond of telling us,” Alessan said, with a slight smile to sweeten his words, “Fort Hold happened, but Ruatha was planned.” He traced a forefinger up the northern trail, to the dividing tracks that went northwest, west, and northeast, reaching twenty holds, large and small, and three mineholds. The main western trail through the mountains wandered with occasional hazards into the plateau.
“Lord Alessan . . .”
He turned and saw Tuero at the door, the other harpers behind him in the corridor.
“I thought we might volunteer as messengers.” Tuero grinned, which made his long, crooked nose slant even more dramatically to the left. “That’s the subject of rather heated discussions outside. The harpers of Pern are at your disposal.”
“I thank you, but you’ve been as exposed as anyone else here. It’s the disease I wish to contain, not the people.”
“Lord Alessan”—Tuero was smilingly insistent—“a message can be
relayed.
” Tuero mimed putting something down quickly with one hand and taking it up in the other with a sharp pull. He walked quickly to the map. “Someone in this hold”—he stabbed at the first one of the northern track—“could take a message to the next one, and so on, relaying instructions as well as the drum call.”
Alessan stared at the map, mentally reviewing the inhabitants of the holds and cots. Even the farthest settlement, the iron minehold, was no more than three days’ hard riding. Dag would have taken the fastest runners, Squealer’s ilk, with him, but there would be beasts to make the first leg of the relay, and no risk to other stock if the runner returned to Ruatha. If the runner returned . . .
“And as none of us has any reason to stay away from your bountiful hospitality, you can depend on us to return. Besides, this sort of thing is
our
duty.”
“A very good point,” Tolocamp murmured.
“I concur. So, may I leave it to you, Thero, to organize the contents of the messages and instructions to be forwarded by this relay system of yours? Drum messages went here, here, here, and here.” Alessan tapped the cardinal holds. “I doubt if they would have thought of communicating the bad news to the smaller places. Seven holds are capable of supplying runners for the relay, each covering outlying cotholds.”
“How fortunate that we are seven!”
Alessan grinned. “Indeed, Tuero. Let the harpers spread the news that heralds are available. Our drummer is still in the drum tower, I take it—well, then, his supplies are in those cupboards: ink and hide and pen. Let me know when you’re available. I’ve travel maps. I’ll arrange mounts. You’ll want to be quick about this business or risk sleeping out.”
“That’s no novelty for harpers, I assure you.”
“And you might discover, if you can, who else brought in animals from Keroon over the past few weeks.”
“Oh?” Both Tuero’s eyebrows lifted expressing surprise.
“Vander picked up new runners from a ship out of Keroon—”
“The drum mentioned Keroon, didn’t it? We’ll find out. This winter’s lack of ice is not the blessing it seemed, eh?”
“Not at all!”
“Ah, well, it’s not ended yet!” With a quick courteous bow of his head, Tuero led his craftfellows off to the main hall.
“Alessan, there is so much to be done, too, at Fort—” Tolocamp pleaded.
“Tolocamp, Farelly is in the drum tower and at your disposal.” Alessan waved him courteously toward the tower steps and then left the office. Lord Leef had once confided that the way to avoid arguments was to keep them from starting. Tactful withdrawal, he had called it.
Alessan paused briefly in the shadow of the Hall doors, observing the activity in the forecourt, along the roadway, and beyond. Tents had been raised, small fires had tripods, kettles hung above the flames, a new fire had been started in the roasting pit and the spit reset. From the east a party of mounted riders and a string of runners were slowly walking up the road, the leader flanked by Alessan’s next oldest brother, Dangel, and two Ruathan cotholders, all three men with drawn swords. He’d asked Dangel where to put Baid, the reluctant cropholder. Above the dip where he’d told Norman to burn the dead beasts, a thin gout of black smoke hovered. Yes, anyone apprehended leaving the hold proper could serve on the burial detail.
A rider, running his mount hard, galloped up the stubble field, clattering over the roadway, dodging tent and fire. The rider jumped down, looking anxiously about him. When Alessan stepped out of the shadow, the rider dropped his reins and ran to him.
“Lord Alessan, Vander’s dead!”
CHAPTER VII
Healer Hall and Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.11.43
T
HE BOOMING REVERBERATED
through Capiam’s head until he woke, clutching at his skull defensively. The drumming had even haunted his nightmares before he woke. He could hardly call the vivid scenes that had tortured him dreams, and his awakening was as much a protest against them as against the intrusive rhythms. He lay in his bed, spent with the effort of renewed consciousness. Another drum roll caused him to haul the pillows feebly over his head.
Would they never stop? He’d no idea that the drums were so infernally loud. Why had he never noticed them before? The Healers really deserved their own quiet precinct. He was forced to add his hands to his ears to obtain some relief from the throbbing. Then he remembered the messages that he had left to be relayed to all the major Halls and Holds. Had they taken so long to send them? It must be midday! Didn’t the drum master realize how important a quarantine was? Or had some snide little apprentice mislaid the messages to allow time for his own sleep?
The ache in his skull was like nothing Capiam could remember. Intolerable. And his heartbeat had speeded up to the drum tempo. Highly unusual! Capiam lay in the bed, his head painfully resounding and his heart doing its own peculiar unsyncopated palpitation.
Mercifully the drums ceased presently, but neither his head nor his heart took any notice. Rolling to his side, Capiam attempted to sit up. He must have relief from this headache. Swinging his feet to the floor, he levered his body up. A groan of agony was forced from him as he managed to sit upright. The pain in his head intensified as he staggered to his cupboard.
Fellis juice. A few drops. That would do the trick. It never failed him. He measured the dose, blinking to clear his blurred vision, then splashed water into the cup and swallowed the mixture. He wove back to his bed, unable to remain perpendicular. He was panting from the slight effort and realized that not only had the frantic beat of his heart increased, but he was sweating profusely from a simple few steps across his own room.
He had had too much experience with sleepless nights and tight schedules to chalk up his condition to such things. He groaned again. He didn’t have
time
to be sick. He ought not to have contracted the damnable disease. Healers didn’t
get
sick. Besides, he’d been so careful to wash thoroughly in redwort solution after examining each patient.
Why didn’t the fellis juice work? He couldn’t think with the headache. But he had to think. There was so much to be done. His notes to organize, to analyze the course of the disease and the probability of dangerous secondary infections, like pneumonia and other respiratory infections. But how could he work when he couldn’t hold his eyes open? Groaning again at the injustice of his situation, he pressed his hands to his temples and then to his hot, moist forehead. Shards! He was burning up with fever.
He was aware that someone else was in the room before he heard the slight sound of entry. “Don’t come near me,” he said urgently, holding up one hand abruptly and uttering another cry of pain when his injudicious movement increased the ache in his head.
“I won’t.”
“Desdra!” An exaggerated breath escaped his lips.
“I had an apprentice posted at your door to listen for sounds, but I wouldn’t let anyone disturb you until you’d slept yourself out.” Her calm unexcitable voice reassured him. “You’ve caught this fever of yours?”
“There’s an ironic justice in that, you know.” Capiam’s sense of humor. seldom left him.
“There would be if you weren’t the most sought-after man on Pern.”
“The quarantine isn’t popular?”
“You might say so. Drum tower’s been besieged. Fortine’s been coping.”
“My notes are in my pack. Give them to Fortine. He’s much better at organizing than diagnosing. He’ll have all I’ve discovered about this epidemic.”
Desdra glided across the floor and took the Healer’s note case from the pack. She flipped it open. “Which isn’t much.”
“No, but I’ll soon understand it all much better.”
“Nothing like personal experience. What do you need?”
“Nothing! No, not nothing. I’ll want water, any fresh juice—”
“You cut off our supplies with that quarantine—”
“Then water will suffice. No one is to enter this room, and
you
are not to come farther than the door. Anything I ask for must be left on the table.”
“I am quite prepared to stay in here with you.”
He shook his head and regretted the motion. “No. I’d rather be by myself.”
“Suffer in silence.”
“Don’t mock, woman. This disease is highly contagious. Has anyone else in Hall or Hold contracted it?”
“As of a half-hour ago, no.”
“It’s now?” Capiam was simply unable to see the timepiece.
“Late afternoon. Four.”
“Anyone who was at either Gather and returns here—”
“Which is forbidden by your drum message—”
“Some wise-ass will think he knows better . . . Anyone who comes is to be isolated for four days. Two seem to be the usual incubation period, judging by the best reports—”
“And your good self—”
“Experience teaches. I don’t know yet how long someone
stays
infectious so we must be doubly wary. I shall keep notes on my symptoms and progress. They will be here . . . In case . . .”
“My, we are being dramatic.”
“You’ve always maintained that I’d die of something I couldn’t cure.”
“Don’t talk like that, Capiam!” Desdra sounded more angry than fearful. “Master Fortine has apprentices and journeymen at the Records round the clock.”
“I know. I heard their snores last night.”
“So Master Fortine surmised when no one could tell him your time of return. Unfortunately Master Fortine must have only just retired himself for he didn’t get back to his desk until noon. He will want to see you.”
“He’s not to come in here.”
“He’ll doubtless prefer not to.”
Why wasn’t the fellis juice taking effect? The palpitations of his heart were dramatic!
“Tell Fortine, will you, Desdra, that sweatroot has no effect and provides no relief. In fact, I think it is counterproductive. That’s what they were using in Igen and Keroon for the first stage of the illness. Tell Fortine to try featherfern to reduce fever. Tell him to try other febrifuges.”
“What? All on the same poor patient?”
“He will have patients enough for the different remedies.” Capiam spoke from wretched certainty. “Go, Desdra. My head is a drum tower.”
Desdra was cruel enough to chuckle softly. Or maybe she thought she was being sympathetic? One never knew what reaction to expect from Desdra. That was part of her charm, but she’d never make Master on the strength of it. She spoke her mind and sometimes a healer
had
to be diplomatic and soothing. She certainly didn’t soothe Capiam. But he was relieved that she was in charge of him.
He lay supine, trying to rest his head as lightly as possible on a pillow that had apparently turned into stone. He willed the pain to subside, willed the fellis juice to dispense its numbing magic. His heart thudded. Erratic heartbeat had been mentioned by many of the patients. He’d had no idea that the symptom would be so severe. He hoped it would subside when the fellis juice took effect.
He lay for what seemed a very long time and, although the ache in his skull appreciably lessened, the palpitations did not. If he could just regain a normal heartbeat, he might be able to sleep. He was very conscious of his bone-deep weariness and that he had not benefited from that nightmare-filled sleep. He reviewed the appropriate herbs to relieve palpitations: whitethorn, adonis, glovecap, tansy, aconite, and decided on the latter, the old reliable root.
His rising from the bed was accompanied by much effort and suppressed moans—suppressed because Capiam did not want apprentice ears to witness masterly weakness. It was enough that the Masterhealer had basely succumbed; the grim details of his travail need not be advertised.
Two drops should suffice. It was a strong drug and must always be administered carefully. He remembered to secure a writing hide from his supply, gathered up ink and pen, and took all back to his bed, where he arranged his stool as his writing desk. Heart still pounding, Capiam composed his first entries, carefully noting the day and the exact time.
He was grateful to lie down again. He concentrated on his breathing, slowing it and willing his heart to slow. At some point in the exercise, sleep overcame him.
Holth is upset. He is angry and so is Leri.
Orlith’s concerned but apologetic tone roused Moreta from a profound slumber.
“Why didn’t he stay asleep and leave the ordering of the Weyr to me?”
He says Leri is too old to fly, and the plague kills the elderly first.
“Scorch him! This epidemic business has addled his wits!” She dressed quickly, grimacing as she stuffed her feet into clammy boots.
Leri says that she must speak with the ground crews, especially at a time like this, to find out who gets ill and to spread the word. She says she can do so without unnecessary physical contact.
“Of course she can.” Leri had never been in the habit of dismounting to accept ground-crew reports. She was not tall and remaining on her queen gave her many advantages.
Moreta raced up the stairs through the thick fog. She could hear Holth’s agitated rumblings by the time she reached the weyr entrance. Sh’gall’s angry voice made her quicken so that she entered the weyr in a burst of speed.
“How dare you interfere with the queens’ wing?” she demanded, allowing her momentum to carry her right up to him.
He spun around and, holding both hands up to keep her at a distance, backed off. Blinking with distress, Holth was swinging her head anxiously from side to side over Leri. A Weyrleader was an unlikely source of danger for her rider.
“How dare you upset Holth and Leri?” Moreta shouted.
“I’m not yet so decrepit I can’t handle an hysterical bronze rider!” Leri retorted, her eyes snapping with anger.
“You queens stick together, don’t you,” Sh’gall shouted back, “against all logic and reason!”
Holth roared, and from the weyr below, Orlith trumpeted; then the fog resounded with dragon queries.
“Calm down, Sh’gall! We don’t need the Weyr in an uproar!” Leri spoke in a tense but controlled voice, her eyes catching and holding Sh’gall’s. She might have retired as senior Weyrwoman but just then she exuded the unmistakable authority of her many Turns in that position. When Sh’gall looked away, Leri glanced sternly at Moreta. The younger Weyrwoman spoke soothingly to Orlith and the furor outside the weyr subsided. Holth stopped her agitated head-swinging.
“Now!” Leri folded her hands over the cumbersome Record she was trying to keep in her short lap. “A fine time to be quarreling over small points. The Weyr needs undivided leadership now more than ever—we’ve a double threat to overcome. So let me tell you a few things, Sh’gall, that you seem to have overlooked in your very laudable concern for protecting the Weyr from this plague of Capiam’s. As of yesterday’s Gathers there can’t be many of our dragonriders who haven’t been exposed to it. In fact, you’re the most likely carrier since you were actually in the infirmary at Southern Boll as well as at Ista, viewing that poor beast.”
“I never went into the infirmary and I never touched the feline. I washed thoroughly in the Ice Lake before I returned to the Weyr.”
“So that’s why your wits are slow—too bad your tongue thawed first! Hold it, Weyrleader!” Leri’s forceful tone and her stern face quelled the retort on the bronze rider’s lips. “Now, while you slept, Moreta was busy. So was I.” She hefted the heavy Record in her lap. “The watch-riders all know to deny the Weyr, not that anyone’s likely to be flying in this fog after two Gathers. The drum towers of Fort Hold have been booming all day. Peterpar’s checked the herds for sign of illness, which isn’t likely since the last drove came from Tillek. Nesso has been busy talking to those sober enough to absorb information. K’lon continues to improve. Moreta, exactly what do you think is wrong with Berchar?”
Moreta had never doubted that Leri kept an ear on everything that occurred outside her weyr, but the former Weyrwoman was too discreet to display her knowledge.
“Berchar?” Sh’gall exclaimed. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Quite likely what ailed K’lon. At Berchar’s instructions, S’gor isolated him and will himself remain weyrbound.”
Sh’gall began to sputter with the questions he wanted to ask.
“If K’lon has recovered, Berchar should as well,” Moreta continued reasonably.
“Two sick!” Sh’gall’s hand went to his throat, then his forehead.
“If Capiam says two to four days before the onset of illness, you shouldn’t be feeling ill yet,” Leri said bluntly but not unkindly. “You’ll lead in tomorrow’s Fall. Holth and I will fly with the queens’ wing and, as is my custom, I will receive ground-crew reports—that is, if any ground crew are about. It’s unlikely that Nabol and Crom will panic. A disease would have to be desperate indeed to seek victims in those forsaken holds. As is my custom, I shall remain on Holth, thus keeping to a minimum any possible contagion. It is essential to the main duty of the Weyrs to keep in contact with every holder. Without ground crews to assist us, we’d have twice the work. Do you not agree, Weyrleader?”
Judging by the consternation on Sh’gall’s face, he had not yet considered the possibility of inadequate ground-crew support.
“Not that it would matter if I did contract this plague of Capiam’s. As well as being elderly”—Leri cast a malicious glance at Sh’gall—“I’m certainly the most expendable rider.”
Holth and Orlith trumpeted in alarm. Even Kadith spoke as Moreta rushed to embrace Leri, her throat suddenly thick at the casual remark.
“You are not expendable! You are not! You’re the most valiant of all the queen riders on Pern.”
Leri gently disentangled herself from Moreta’s fierce grasp then dismissed Sh’gall imperiously. “Go. All that can be done has been done.”