Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Of course not, but Lord Tolocamp thinks so. He has so informed us constantly. Ah, a belated attempt on his part to prevent the exodus! Don’t pause!” she added, again in that authoritative voice.
Capiam would have halted in consternation but for her warning. He saw four guards hurrying after Tirone’s group.
“You can walk as slowly as you want, that’s in character, but don’t stop,” she advised.
She watched, too, and if her eyes sparkled and she grinned at the discomfiture of her father’s guards, there was no one but Capiam to observe her unfilial delight. At that distance, Capiam couldn’t tell whether the guards were halfhearted in their efforts or not. There was a brief mêlée from which Tirone and his companions continued unhurriedly down the roadway to the Harper Hall. Nerilka and Capiam continued toward the perimeter.
The internment camp had been established to the left of the massive Fort Hold cliff, in a small valley out of the direct view of the Hold. The guard lines had been set above it, in full view of Lord Tolocamp’s windows. A rough timbered shack had been erected as a guard shelter from which temporary fencing had been built in both directions. Guards constantly patrolled the fence.
Nerilka’s three drudges deposited their burdens at the guardhouse where others were leaving baskets of food. Then the men had begun to retrace their steps to the Hold, empty yokes balanced on their shoulders.
“If you go past the perimeter, Master Capiam, you will not be permitted back,” Nerilka reminded him.
“If there is more than one way into the Hold, is there only one past the perimeter?” Capiam asked flippantly. “I’ll see you later, Lady Nerilka.”
As they approached the shack, guards were being assigned to carry certain of the baskets and bales into the prohibited area where a group of men and women waited patiently for the exchange to be made.
“Here now, Master Capiam.” The guardleader came striding up, his expression alarmed. “You can’t go in there without staying—”
“I don’t want this medicine heaved about, Theng. Make sure they understand it’s fragile.”
“I can do that much for you,” Theng replied, and he strode diffidently to add the demijohn to one side of the bales. “This is to be handled carefully and preferably by a healer. Master Capiam says it’s medicine.”
The internees moved forward to collect the supplies, and Theng backed up. Nerilka was right behind him and as he turned to come back to the guardhouse, she slipped past him and joined those picking up the baskets as if she were one of them.
Capiam waited for an outcry, for surely the other guards had noticed her. Nerilka was already trudging down the slope toward the tents of the internment camp when Theng took him by the arm to escort him back.
“Nah, then, Master Capiam, you know I can’t allow you close contact with any of your craftsmen,” Theng said as Capiam cast one more glance after Nerilka’s retreating figure.
“I know, Leader Theng. The medicine was my concern. So little of its ingredients remain.”
Theng made a conciliatory noise between his teeth and then his attention was taken by the spacing of his guards. Slowly Capiam turned in the direction of the halls.
As he walked, he realized that he could not walk out of his Hall as Nerilka could leave her Hold. Withdrawing his healers from the Hold was quite within his right as Masterhealer, but he must remain in his Hall, availableto those who need him throughout Pern. However, he felt the better for his brief flirtation with the idea. And the camp had gained not only supplies but a valuable assistant. He must ask for volunteers to take the remainder of Nerilka’s purloined supplies to Ruatha with all possible haste.
“The ichor can be extracted from one queen and applied to the joints of another,” Moreta told Leri. “And you shouldn’t be coming all this way for a message someone else could have brought.”
They were standing at the entrance to the Hatching Ground and talking in quiet tones, although it was doubtful that the sleeping Orlith would have paid them any attention had they bellowed. She was still exhausted from the laying of twenty-five eggs. Orlith had curled herself about the leathery eggs, the queen egg within the circle of her forearms, her head laid at an awkward angle. Her belly skin was beginning to shrink and her color was good, so Moreta had no more anxieties about her queen and time to worry about Falga’s Tamianth.
“No one there is capable of doing that,” Leri said with a fine scorn, “or so Holth was informed by Kilanath. Holth says she sounds very worried.”
“She has reason to be if Tamianth is not producing any ichor on that damaged wing.” Moreta paced up and down. “Is Falga conscious?”
“Delirious.”
“Not the plague?”
“No, wound fever. Under control.”
“Shards! Falga knows how to draw ichor. It would have to be Kilanath and Diona . . .” Moreta looked back at the slumbering Orlith.
“She’ll be out a long while,” Leri murmured, stepping inside the Hatching Ground and gripping Moreta’s hands tightly in hers. “It doesn’t take long to draw ichor and spread it—”
“That’s abusing Orlith’s trust in me!”
“She trusts me as well. Every moment you delay . . .”
“I know! I know!” Moreta thought wretchedly of Falga and Tamianth, of all that Weyn had done the last few days.
“If Orlith should rouse, Holth will know and, considering the emergency, Orlith will understand. The clutching’s over!” Leri pressed urgently on Moreta’s hands.
Unusual circumstances, of which there were far too many recently in Moreta’s opinion, warranted unusual actions.
“Holth’s willing. I asked her first, as soon as she told me about Tamianth.”
Obviously Leri felt that no one at Fort realized that Moreta had been absent two days before to treat the injured High Reaches’ queen. Moreta cast a distraught look toward her sleeping queen, returned Leri’s clasp with an answering pressure, and walked hurriedly from the sheltering arch of the Hatching Ground, quickly leaving Leri behind.
“Don’t stride so! I can’t,” Leri whispered after her.
Moreta adjusted her pace. Anyone really observant would have noticed the difference in height between the woman who had entered the Ground and the one who left, but it was the gray hour before dawn and no one was about. Thread would Fall later that day at Nerat and the dragonriders rested whenever possible with so difficult a schedule.
Moreta delayed long enough on her way to Holth to change into her own riding gear. Leri’s had left a broad exposed band across her back and she couldn’t risk kidney chill. Holth greeted her at the entrance to her weyr and Moreta stepped aside for the queen to reach the edge. Then she mounted, conscious once again of the difference between dragons. She wished fervently that she did not feel that she was somehow betraying Orlith.
“Take us to the High Reaches, please, Holth,” she asked in a subdued voice.
The watchrider sleeps and the blue will not note our departure.
Holth said impassively and, despite her dark reflections, Moreta smiled. So Leri and Holth had considered that detail.
Then Holth propelled herself from her ledge and was barely airborne before she went
between.
Moreta gasped at the audacity and hadn’t time to think of her verse before the darkness around them was relieved by the glows surrounding the High Reaches Bowl.
Tamianth is below but it is easier for me to take off from a ledge,
said Holth, neatly landing on one.
Tamianth will not object to my tenancy.
Then she added gently,
Orlith sleeps. And so does Leri.
“The pair of you!” Moreta’s exasperation was good-natured.
Holth turned gleaming eyes toward her and huffed soffly.
“Is that you? Moreta?” a quavering voice asked.
“It’s Moreta.”
“Oh, bless you, bless you. I’m so sorry to drag you here but I simply can’t do it. I’m so afraid of hurting Kilanath. Hitting a nerve or something. They tried to explain to me how simple it all is but I can’t believe them. Oh, do wake up, Kilanath. Moreta’s come.”
A pair of dragon eyes lit the darkness below the ledge. Moreta put her hand on the wall, her left foot seeking for the top step. Light spilled from the weyrling quarters now occupied by Tamianth but the stairs were still in confusing shadow.
“Oh, do hurry, please, Moreta!” Diona’s plea was more wail.
“I would if I could see where I’m going.” Moreta spoke sharply, irritated by Diona’s ineffectuality.
“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t think. You don’t know where anything is in this Weyr.” Dutifully Diona opened a glowbasket but, before she held it up, she turned its illumination away from Moreta. “Yes, Pressen, she’s here. Oh, do hurry, Moreta. Oh, yes, sorry.” Then she remembered to hold the basket high enough to show Moreta the steps.
Moreta skipped down them as fast as she could before something else could distract Diona. Kilanath dipped her head close to Moreta and sniffed, as if testing the quality of the visitor.
“Now, don’t fret, Kilanath,” Diona crooned in a saccharine voice that Moreta thought ought to irritate a queen. “You know she came here just to help.” Diona turned apologetically to Moreta. “She really will behave because she’s terribly worried about Tamianth.”
As Moreta entered the weyrling quarters, she could see why. Tamianth looked more green than gold except for the gray wing and gray-spread score on her side. The wing had been propped at the shoulder and put in a sling so that the queen could relax, but her hide twitched constantly from stress. Tamianth opened one lid of her eyes, which were gray with pain.
“Water! Water, please, water!” Falga’s voice rose in feverish complaint.
“That’s all she says.” Diona was wringing her hands.
Pressen, the bright-eyed healer, ran to Falga’s side and offered her water, but she pushed it away before falling back into her restless tossing.
Muttering an oath, Moreta strode to the queen, picked up a fold of hide on the neck, and cursed. The dragon was dehydrated, her skin parched.
“Water. Of course, it’s
Tamianth
who needs the water! Has no one offered the queen water?” Moreta looked about for a water tank, for anything resembling a container.
“Oh, I never thought of that!” Diona snatched her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay. “Kilanath kept telling me about water but we all thought Falga . . .” She waved feebly at the fevered woman.
“Then, by the Egg of Faranth, get some!”
“Please, water. Water!” Falga moaned, restlessly trying to rise.
“Don’t stand there, Diona. Are there weyrlings in the next building? Well, rout them out! Use a cauldron from the kitchen but get water for this poor beast. It’s a wonder she’s not dead! Of all the irresponsible, ineffectual, dithering idiots I have ever encountered—” Moreta saw the startled expression on Pressen’s face as he rose from Falga’s side. She pulled herself together, breathing deeply to dispel the impotent anger and dismay that boiled within her. “I
can’t
keep coming here for oversights!”
“No, no, of course not!” Pressen’s reply was conciliatory, anxious.
The poor beast was too weak to reach farther than her rider who had, even in her pain-wracked daze, tried to communicate! Fuming at Diona’s ineptitude, Moreta snatched down the nearest glowbasket to examine Tamianth’s wing. Two days without any lubrication and the wing fragments might not reconstruct. The glowlight glistened ominously on a stain on the floor, under Tamianth’s injured side. With a muffled cry of despair, Moreta dropped to one knee, dipped her fingers in the moisture, sniffing it.
“Pressen! Bring me your kit—redwort and oil! This dragon’s bleeding to death!”
“What?”
Pressen stumbled toward her and she held the basket high, at Tamianth’s side. Grimly she recalled the instructions she had given Pressen, unused to dragon injuries: Keep the side wound covered with numbweed. Why hadn’t she checked it? How could she have assumed, given the chaotic conditions at High Reaches, the inexperienced healers, and the tired riders, that the wound had been properly attended? Instead she had blithely flitted off, smugly pleased with her wing repair.
“The fault is mine, Pressen. I ought to have seen to the side as well. What has happened is that Threadscore ruptured veins along the side and shoulders. Numbweed covered the ooze. Ichor isn’t reaching the wing. We’ll need to repair the veins. The surgery is much the same sort you’d do on a human. Color is the main difference.”
“Surgery is not my speciality, Lady, but,” he added, seeing her desperate expression, “I have assisted and can do so now.”
“I’ll need surgical clamps, oil, redwort, threaded needle . . .”
Pressen was pouring oil and redwort into bowls. “I have all the instruments we’d need. Barly’s effects were handed over to me when I arrived.”
Dreading what she might find, Moreta examined the injured wing. Some ichor beaded the joints but far less than was required. Tamianth would have to be very lucky; stupidity had already worked against the poor beast. Possibly, with application of Kilanath’s ichor at crucial points, the damage could still be reversed. Liberal and frequent dressings of numbweed had, at least, kept the fragments moist. Once Tamianth’s veins had been mended and water brought the poor thirsty beast . . .
Moreta scrubbed her hands in the redwort, hissing at the sting in half-healed scratches. Then she oiled her hands thoroughly while Pressen made the same preparation.
“First we must clean the numbweed away from the wound. I’d say the stoppage is here . . . and here, and perhaps, even down here near the hearts.” She lightly indicated the areas, then with oil-soaked pads, she and Pressen cleaned away the numbweed. Tamianth shuddered. “With all this numbweed, she can’t
feel
any pain. Here! See where the ichor is oozing . . .” Her father had always talked as he worked on injured runners. Much of what she had heard from her earliest years she had been able to apply to dragons. She oughtn’t to think of her father at a time like this, but his habit would help her teach Pressen. Someone in the Weyr had to know. “Ah, here’s the first one. Just below your left hand, Pressen, should be another. Yes, and a third, a major vein leading to the hearts, and the belly vein.” Moreta reached for the fine needle and the treated thread Pressen had made ready.