Authors: Anne McCaffrey
A new fear enveloped Capiam. With such unprecedented demands on stillroom supplies, would there be enough of even the simple medicaments? Keroon Runnerhold, dealing as it did with many animal health problems, ought to be able to supply all its needs. Capiam despaired afresh as he thought of smaller holds. They would have on hand only a limited amount of general remedies. Most holds traded the plants and barks indigenous in their area for those they lacked. What lady holder, no matter how diligent and capable, would have laid in sufficient to deal with an epidemic?
To compound demand, the disease had struck during the cold season. Most medicinal plants were picked in flower, when their curative properties were strongest; roots and bulbs gathered in the fall. Spring and flowering, autumn and early harvest were too distant, the need was now!
Capiam writhed in his furs. Where was Desdra? How much longer did he have to endure before the wretched lethargy abated?
“Capiam?” Desdra’s quiet voice broke into his self-pitying ruminations. “More soup?”
“Desdra? That message from Keroon Runnerhold—”
“As if we had only one febrifuge in our pharmacopia! Fortine has compiled a list of alternatives.” Desdra was impatient with Gorby. “There’s ash bark, box, ezob, and thymus as well as borrago and featherfern. Who’s to say one of them might not prove to be specific for this? In fact, Semment of Great Reach Hold believes that thymus is more effective for the pulmonary infections he’s been treating. Master Fortine holds out for featherfern, being one of the few indigenous plants. How are you feeling?”
“Like nothing! I cannot even raise my hands.” He tried to demonstrate this inability.
“The lassitude is part of the illness. You wrote that symptom often enough. What can’t be cured—”
Summoning strength from a sudden spurt of irrational anger, Capiam flung a pillow at her. It had neither the mass nor the impetus to reach its target, and she laughed as she collected the missile and lofted it easily back to his bed.
“I believe that you are somewhat improved in spirit. Now drink the soup.” She set it down on the table.
“Are all healthy here?”
“All here, yes. Even the officious Tolocamp, immured in his quarters. He’s more likely to catch pneumonia while standing at unshuttered windows to check up on the guards.” Desdra chuckled maliciously. “He’s got messengers stationed on the forecourt. He sails notes down to them to take to offenders. Not even a tunnel snake could slip past his notice!” A tiny smirk curved Desdra’s lips. “Master Tirone had to talk long and hard to get him to set up that internment camp in the hollow. Tolocamp was certain that offering shelter would be an invitation to undesirables to lodge and feed at his expense. Tirone is furious with Tolocamp because he wants to send his harpers out with the assurance that they can return, but Tolocamp refuses to believe that harpers can avoid infection. Tolocamp sees the disease as a visible mist or fog that oozes out of meadows and streams and mountain crevices.”
Desdra was trying to amuse him, Capiam thought, for she wasn’t normally garrulous.
“I did order a quarantine.”
Desdra snorted. “True! Tolocamp ought not to have left Ruatha. He overruled the brother when Alessan fell ill. And with every other breath, Tolocamp is said to moan for abandoning his dear wife, Lady Pendra, and those precious daughters of his to the mercies of the plague rampaging at Ruatha.” Desdra’s chuckle was dry. “He left them there on purpose. Or Lady Pendra insisted they all stay. They’ll have insisted on nursing Alessan!”
“How
are
matters at-Fort Weyr and Ruatha?”
“K’lon tells us that Moreta is doing as well as can be expected. Berchar probably has pneumonia, and nineteen riders—including Sh’gall—are weyred. Ruatha is badly hit. Fortine has dispatched volunteers. Now drink that soup before it cools. There’s much to be done below. I can’t stay to chat with you any longer.”
Capiam found that his hand shook violently as he picked up the mug.
“Shouldn’t’ve wasted all that energy tossing that pillow,” she said.
He used both hands to bring the mug to his lips without spilling. “What
have
you put in it?” he demanded after a careful swallow.
“A little of this, a little of that. Trying a few restoratives out on you. If they work, I’ll make kettlesful.”
“It’s vile!”
“It’s also nutritional. Drink it!”
“I’ll choke.”
“Drink it or I’ll let Nerilka, that laundry pole daughter of Tolocamp’s, come nurse you in my stead. She offers hourly.”
Capiam cursed Desdra but he drained the cup.
“Well, you do sound improved!” She chuckled as she closed the door quietly behind her.
“I didn’t say I liked it either,” Leri told S’peren. “But old dragons
can
glide. That’s why Holth and I can still fly Thread in the queens’ wing.” Leri gave Holth an affectionate clout on the shoulder, beaming up at her lifelong friend. “It’s the tip, the finger, and elbow joints that harden so the finer points of maneuverability go. Gliding’s from the shoulder. Doesn’t take much effort, either, with the sort of wind we’re likely to get now. Why did it have to get so bloody cold on top of everything else? Rain’d be more bearable as well as more seasonable.” Leri adjusted the furs across her shoulders. “I wouldn’t trust the weyrlings to such dull work. They’d do something fancy, like the stunt young T’ragel tried on the ridge with Moreta.
“Now, you said L’bol is grieving badly?”
“Indeed he is. He’s lost both sons.” S’peren shook his head sadly before he took another sip of the wine Leri had served him “to wet your throat after the dust at Red Butte.” S’peren took comfort in the familiar act of reporting to Leri. It was like the old times, only a few Turns past at that, when L’mal had been Weyrleader and S’peren had been much in this weyr. He almost expected to see L’mal’s chunky figure swing into the chamber and hear the hearty voice greeting him. Now
there
was a Leader to encourage and comfort in this disastrous Turn. Still, S’peren thought with a blink, Leri was as brisk and quick as ever. “Could Igen put eight full wings up to Fall?”
“What?” Leri snapped out in surprise at the question, then snorted. “Not likely. Torenth told Holth that half the Weyr is sick and the other half looks sick. Their damned curiosity and all that sun on their heads all the time. Slows ’em down. Nothing to do with their spare time but bake their brains. Of course, they all went to gawk at a raree! And we’ll never hear the last of their moans for the unexpected tariff!” She made a business of scanning the lists S’peren had handed her. “Can’t say as I can put a face or pair a dragon name with some of these. Must all be new. When L’mal was Leader, I kept up with all the new riders in every Weyr.”
“S’ligar asked about Moreta.”-
“Worried about Orlith and her eggs?” Leri peered wisely over the lists at the bronze rider.
S’peren nodded. “S’ligar volunteered candidates in case—”
“Only what I’d expect.” Leri’s answer was tart but, seeing the expression on S’peren’s face, she relented. “It was good of him to offer. Especially since Orlith is the only queen currently bearing eggs.” Leri’s round face produced a slightly malicious smile.
S’peren continued to nod for he hadn’t realized that. It put another light on S’ligar’s concern for Moreta and Orlith.
“Don’t worry, S’peren. Moreta’s doing well. Orlith’s with her constantly and that queen’s a marvel of comfort, as everyone in this Weyr should know by now.”
“I thought it was just with injured dragons.”
“And no comfort for her own weyrmate and rider? Of course Orlith helps Moreta. The other Weyrs could learn a thing or two from our senior queen dragon. Wouldn’t surprise me if there were some pretty crucial changes made when Moreta’s well. And when Orlith rises to mate again!” Leri winked broadly at S’peren. “That girl has got to show her true preference to her queen.”
S’peren managed to hide his surprise at Leri’s outspokenness. Of course, they were old friends and she probably felt able to be candid in his company. Then he took a quick sip of the wine. What could Leri possibly be suggesting? He liked Moreta very much. She and Orlith had done a fine job of healing a long Threadscore on his Clioth’s flank last Turn. And Clioth had risen to fly in Orlith’s last mating flight. He had been perversely relieved when Clioth had failed, despite his admiration and respect for Moreta, and despite a natural desire to prove his bronze dragon superior to the other bronzes of Fort. On the other hand, he had never questioned Sh’gall’s ability as a flight leader. The man had an uncanny instinct for which dragon might be failing in strength or losing his flame, or which rider might not be as courageous as he ought in following Thread out of path, but S’peren did not covet the Leadership half as much as his Clioth yearned to mate with Orlith.
“K’lon?” Leri said, breaking into his thoughts. She and her dragon looked toward the weyr entrance.
Clioth confirmed the arrival of Rogeth to S’peren, telling his rider that he was moving over to permit the blue to land on Holth’s ledge.
“About bloody time that young man came back to his own Weyr,” Leri said, frowning. “There
has
to be another dragonrider able to do what K’lon’s doing or he’ll kill himself. Misplaced guilt. Or more likely the chance to get in and out of Igen to see that lover of his.”
There was no question that the blue rider was exhausted as he entered the weyr. His shoulders sagged and his step had no spring. His face was travel-stained except for the lighter patches of skin around his eyes, protected from flight dirt by his goggles. His clothes were stiff with moisture frozen into the hide by constant journeys
between.
“Five drops from the blue vial,” Leri said quickly in an undertone, leaning toward S’peren. Then she straightened, speaking in a normal tone. “S’peren, fix a mug of klah laced with that fortified wine of mine for K’lon. And sit down there, young man, before you fall.” Leri pointed imperiously to a chair. She had replaced her one stool with several comfortable seats positioned, as she phrased it, in noncontagious spacing in front of Holth’s couch.
K’lon barely avoided falling into the appointed chair; his legs slid out in front of him as he slouched into the seat. Dangling helmet and goggles from one limp hand, he accepted the mug from S’peren.
“Take a long swallow now, K’lon,” Leri said kindly. “It’ll restore your blood to normal temperature after all that
betweening.
You’re nearly as blue as Rogeth. There! That tastes good, doesn’t it? A brew of my own to hearten the weary.” Though her voice was kind, she watched K’lon intently. “Now, what news from the halls?”
K’lon’s weary face brightened. “There is
good
news. Master Capiam really is recovering. I spoke to Desdra. He’s weak but he’s swearing out loud. She said they’d probably have to tether him to his bed to keep him there long enough to regain his strength. He’s yelling for Records. Best of all”—K’lon seemed to shrug off his fatigue in his cheerful recital—“he insists that the disease itself doesn’t cause the deaths. People are actually dying from other things, like pneumonia and bronchitis and other respiratory ailments. Avoid those and”—K’lon made a wide sweep of his hand, his helmet and goggles clacking together—“all’s well.” Then his expression altered dolefully. “Only that’s just not possible in the Holds, you know. So many people crammed into inadequate space . . . and not enough facilities . . . especially now, when it’s got so cold. The Lords Holder would put people into hide tents that are well enough for a Gather but not for the sick. I’ve been everywhere. Even holds that don’t know what’s been happening elsewhere and think it’s only them that’re in deep trouble. I’ve been so many places . . .” His face turned bleak and his body slumped deeper into the chair.
“A’murry?” Leri spoke the green rider’s name gently.
K’lon’s misery broke through the tight hold he must be keeping on his private anxiety. “He’s got a chest infection—one of the weyrfolk nursing him had a bad cold.” His condemnation was plain. “Fortine gave me a special mixture and a comfrey salve for his chest. I made A’murry take the first dose and it really did stop him midcough. And I rubbed the salve thick on his chest and back.” Some instinct made K’lon look at the other two riders and he saw their unvoiced apprehension. “I’ve got to go to A’murry. Whenever I can. I can’t
give
him what I’ve got over! And don’t tell me it’s enough that Rogeth and Granth stay in touch. I’ve very much aware that they do, but
I
have a need to be with A’murry, too, you know.” K’lon’s face contorted. He looked about to break into tears, a display he averted by drinking deeply of the wine-laced
klah.
“That’s quite tasty, really,” he said courteously to Leri. Then he finished the drink. “Now, what else can I tell you from my . . .”
He paused, blinked, swallowed, and then his head began to loll to one side. Leri, who had been waiting for that, signaled urgently to S’peren.
“Perfectly timed, I think,” she said as S’peren caught K’lon before he slid from the chair. “Here.” She tossed a pillow and pulled the fur from her shoulders. “Roll him into this, pillow his head, and he’ll sleep a good twelve hours. Holth, be a pet and tell Rogeth to go curl up in his own weyr and get some rest. You”—she prodded the resisting flesh of her queen with her foreflnger—“will keep your ears open for Granth.”
“What if he’s needed?” S’peren asked, arranging K’lon comfortably. “By the Halls or the Hold or A’murry?”
“A’murry is, of course, a priority,” Leri replied thoughtfully. “I can’t really condone his breaking of quarantine. I’ll think of some discipline later, for K’lon
has
disobeyed a direct order. I have just decided that we can use other messengers in K’lon’s place. Especially if most of what he does is convey supplies or healers. Weyrlings can do that! They’ll feel brave and daring, and be scared enough to be careful. Packages can certainly be deposited without making contact and messages collected at a discreet distance from cots. Let them practice setting down by a pennant instead of a ridge. Good practice.” Leri peered down critically at the sleeping K’lon. “However, you’d better circulate the news he brought us from the Hall—that the plague doesn’t kill. We must be more wary than ever for our convalescents. No one with the slightest sign of a head cold or even a pimple is to attend the riders.”