Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“You couldn’t—you wouldn’t take his sister from Alessan . . .” Leri was astounded.
“I wouldn’t, but the queen might. Alessan said he’d be agreeable if any children she bears are allowed to go back to Ruatha.”
“Well!” Leri’s exclamation was complimentary. “You accomplished rather a lot in one hour, didn’t you?”
“B’lerion insisted that we sleep six hours in Ista in
that
time, but we did have to leave an hour’s leeway before appearing back at Ruatha!”
“So you skited back to Ruatha Hold bearing nets full of needlethorn and no explanations tendered?”
Moreta began to relax. Once Leri got over her shocks, she’d begin to see the humor of the whole adventure, that the sheer reckless momentum had worked to their advantage.
“B’lerion dropped off Alessan, Oklina, and me, and took off to the Healer Hall with Capiam and Desdra. The dust hadn’t settled before M’barak arrived with more glass bottles and volunteers and . . . Besides, who will ask the Lord of Ruatha to explain an hour’s absence or inquire of Master Capiam where he got needlethorn? He has it! That’s all anyone needs to know!”
“A point to remember.” Leri’s humor had been restored enough for her to be witty.
“So,” Moreta said, having achieved another minor miracle in soothing Leri, “tomorrow I have only to approach the other Weyrs to ask for aid in distributing the vaccine. I promised Capiam.”
“My dear girl, you can skite out of here for an hour on a mysterious time-consuming errand, but what excuse could you possibly find to go Weyr-hopping?”
“The best. There’s a queen egg in front of us. I can visit them on Search. Even Orlith would agree to the necessity for that! And if I remember correctly, the Weyrleaders promised at that historic Butte meeting of theirs that they would supply candidates for Orlith’s clutch.”
“Ah, but that was
then,
” Leri pointed out sardonically. “This is now. You have surely been aware of M’tani’s disaffection. He’s unlikely to part with the dullest wit in his Cavern.”
“I thought of that. Remember the lists the Weyrleaders gave S’peren? Or did you give them to Sh’gall?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re safe in my weyr.”
“We can figure out which of the bronze riders at Telgar are likely to time it. I can’t imagine that Benden or High Reaches would renege on the offer of candidates—”
“Of course
they
wouldn’t. T’grel would be the bronze rider you should see at Telgar. And you
could
apply to Dalova at Igen. She may tend to babble but she’s basically rather a sensible person. You
have
thought this all out, haven’t you?” Leri gave a little chuckle at Moreta’s cunning. “My dear, you’ve the makings of a superior Weyrwoman. Just shuck that bronze rider and get someone you’re happy with. And I do not mean that light-eyed Lord Holder, with his convenient stashes of Benden white. Though mind you, he’s a handsome lad!”
Outside, the bronze voice of Kadith called the fighting wings to the Rim.
CHAPTER XV
Fort, Benden, Ista, Igen, Telgar, and High Reaches Weyrs, Present Pass, 3.21.43
“O
NE DAY,
M’B
ARAK
, and not too distant at that,” Moreta told the slim young weyrling the next morning, “we’ll all have nothing to do but lounge in the sun.”
“I don’t mind conveying, Moreta. It’s such good training for Arith.” Then M’barak averted his eyes and she could see the color staining his neck and cheek. “F’neldril explained to me last night the responsibility of Search dragons and why Arith’s been so discourteous.”
“It isn’t discourtesy, M’barak.”
“Well, it’s not proper dragon behavior and it doesn’t
look
right for him to be doing such things to people like Lady Oklina.”
“M’barak, she understands, too. And it is an instinct that we want very much to encourage in Arith. He’s a fine sensitive blue, and you’ve been of great assistance to Weyr, hall, and hold! Now, today we must Search first at Benden. The Weyrleaders promised us candidates—”
“Ones who’ve been vaccinated—” M’barak added hastily.
Moreta gripped him by the arm, amused by his conditioned qualification. Then they mounted Arith and left Fort Weyr.
“You are always welcome at Benden,” Levalla said when Moreta was ushered into the queen’s weyr, “as long as you arrive without Orlith to plague Tuzuth.” The Benden Weyrwoman cast a sly glance at K’dren. “I trust she is welded to the Hatching Ground.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here.” Moreta was alone with K’dren and Levalla since she had been able to recommend to M’barak that he remain in the Bowl with Arith. Both Weyrleaders looked tired and she wished that she did not have to tax their resources further, but there was no way one Weyr could manage to distribute the vaccine.
“Orlith’s a reason for coming here?” K’dren grinned. “Ah, yes, of course. Candidates for your Hatching. Never fear that I will go back on that pledge. There are some promising fosterlings in our caverns.
All
have now been vaccinated—”
“That’s the other reason I’m here.” Moreta had to blurt out her real mission at the first opportunity he gave her.
K’dren and Levalla heard her out in weary silence, K’dren scratching at his sideburns, Levalla sliding a worry-wood piece through her fingers, its surface smooth from long use.
“What we don’t need is another epidemic. I quite see that,” Levalla said when Moreta had fmished outlining the plan. “We didn’t lose that many runnerherds here in the east but I’m sure Lord Shadder would be glad of the vaccine. Imagine Alessan being able to produce it with all he’s been through!”
“I don’t like asking riders to time it, Levalla.”
“Nonsense, K’dren, we’ll only ask those who do it. Only last Turn, Oribeth had to discipline V’mul, and he’s only a brown rider. Bone lazy, the pair of them. You know how brown riders can be, Moreta. And you know perfectly well, K’dren, that M’gent makes time whenever it suits him.”
“Then we’ll put him in charge of the Benden riders assisting the Healer Hall,” K’dren said with a snap of his fingers. “Just the sort of challenge to keep him out of mischief. He was annoyed, you know”—and he winked at Moreta—“that I recovered from the plague so quickly. He enjoyed Leading to Fall. He’ll make Weyrleader soon enough, won’t he, mate?” He cast such a ludicrously suspicious look at his beautiful Levalla that it was obvious he had no anxieties on that score.
Levalla laughed. “As if I had time for any dallying these days. You’re looking exceedingly well, Moreta. Any injuries in your Weyr from yesterday’s Fall?”
“A few Threadscores and another dislocated shoulder. I’d say that this consolidation puts each wing on its mettle.”
“My thoughts, too,” K’dren said, “but I shall be eternally grateful when we can resume our traditional regions. It isn’t Sh’gall, I’ll have you know—he’s a bloody fine leader; it’s that sour excrescence from Telgar—”
“K’dren . . .” Levalla spoke in firm remonstrance.
“Moreta’s discreet, but that man . . .” K’dren balled his fists, setting his jaw as his eyes flashed with antipathy for the Telgar Leader. “He won’t assist in either of your requests, you know, Moreta!”
“He
might not.” Moreta took out the lists. K’dren exclaimed in surprise at seeing them.
“So they will serve a purpose after all. Let me have a glance.” He flipped the sheets till he came to the angular backhanded scrawl of M’tani’s. “T’grel would be the man to contact at Telgar. Even if he weren’t a responsible rider, he’d do it in reprisal for some of M’tani’s tricks. And you must have riders from each Weyr, ones who know how to find the hole-in-the-hill cots that aren’t well marked. Well, you
can
be sure of Benden support. I wondered why our healer was bloodletting again!” He rubbed his arm with a rueful smile.
“And Capiam’s sure about this vaccination of his?” Levalla asked. Her fingers betrayed her anxiety by the speed with which-she flipped her worry-wood.
“He likens it to Thread. If it can’t get a grip, it can’t last.”
“About your Hatching, now. We do have a very keen young man from a Lemos highlands minehold whom we found on Search two Turns ago,” Levalla said, reverting to Moreta’s ostensible errand. “I don’t know why he didn’t take, but we’ll have him back if he doesn’t find a mate on your Ground. Dannell’s his name, and he’s eager to keep up with his mining craft if he can.”
“Are you Searching more among the crafts than the holds these days?”
“With the end of Pass in sight, it’s best to have men who can occupy their spare time profitably for the Weyr.”
“We receive the tithe whether there’s Pass or not,” Moreta said with a frown.
K’dren looked up from his perusal of the names. “To be sure, but once a Pass is over, the Lords may not be quite so generous.” K’dren’s expression indicated that his Lords had better sustain the quality of their tithes. “I’ve underlined the riders who I suspect do time.” His grin was raffish. “It’s not something anyone admits to but T’grel must
have
to use it to cope with M’tani. Don’t bother with L’bol at Igen. He’s useless. Go directly to Dalova, Allaneth’s rider. She lost a lot of bloodkin at Igen Sea Hold. She’d know who among her riders time it. And Igen has all those little cotholds stashed in the desert and on the riverbanks. Surely you’ve got a few good friends left at Ista. You were there ten Turns. Have you heard that F’gal’s bad with kidney chill?”
“Yes, I’d planned to speak to Wimmia out of courtesy. Or D’say, Kritith’s rider.”
“You have a son by him, don’t you?” Levalla said with a tolerant smile. “Such ties seem to help at the most unexpected times, don’t they?”
“D’say is a steady man and the boy Impressed a brown from Torenth’s last clutch,” Moreta said with quiet pride. She rose. She would have liked to stay longer with the Benden Leaders but she had a long day ahead of her.
“We’ll give Dannell time to pack up and send him on to you at Fort tomorrow, with M’gent. You can use the opportunity to go over any details with him. Shall I have a discreet word with my Lords?”
“Master Tirone is supposed to be sweetening them but your endorsement would be a boon.”
As K’dren escorted Moreta to the stairs, Levalla waved an idolent farewell, still worrying the wood in her left hand.
The encouragement that Moreta received from the Benden Weyrleaders did much to sustain her during her next three visits. At Ista, F’gal and Wimmia were in her weyr, bronze Timenth on the ledge, the tacit signal for privacy. So Moreta directed M’barak to land Arith at D’say’s weyr, where Kritith greeted Moreta with shining blue spinning eyes, rearing to his hindquarters and extending his wings. He peered out to the ledge, patently disappointed that Moreta had arrived on a blue instead of with her queen. Then D’say emerged from his sleeping quarters. To her chagrin she had obviously awakened him from a much-needed sleep. He was one of the few who had not succumbed to the first wave of illness, and he had ridden Fall continuously, nursed other sick riders, and tried to bolster F’gal’s leadership during the latter’s kidney ailment.
As she argued with D’say on the necessity of once again cooperating with the Healer Hall, she wished that he had had the plague; then he would not be so slow to comply. D’say resisted her presentation in such a glum silence that she was becoming depressed when their son M’ray suddenly charged up the steps.
“I beg your pardon, D’say, but my Quoarth told me that Moreta is here.” The boy—in his height he was more manly than boyish—paused just long enough in the threshold to receive permission to enter. Then he rushed to Moreta, embracing her with a charming enthusiasm. He peered anxiously into her face with eyes the color of her own, set in a head with the same deep sockets and arching brows. Yet he was far more D’say’s child in build and coloring. “I knew you were ill. It’s very good to see you well.”
“Orlith has clutched. I’ve had little to do except repair scored riders and dragons.”
M’ray opened his arms, looking from sire to dam, hopeful of answers to his unspoken questions.
“Moreta needs help, which I don’t think she’ll get from F’gal in his state of health,” D’say replied noncommittally. He refilled Moreta’s cup with klah, tacitly giving her permission to tell their son.
She did, and the boy’s eyes widened with apprehension and a growing eagerness that answered the challenge.
“Wimmia would agree, D’say—you know she would. We only have to present the urgency to her. She’s not a passive person, like F’gal. He’s—he’s changed a lot recently.” As M’ray blurted out his opinion, he eyed D’say to see if the bronze rider would try to refute him. D’say shrugged. “Anyway,
I’d
like to help and my wingleader, T’lonneg, is hold-bred. If there’s anyone who’d know the rainforest holds, it’s him. He caught the plague, too, and lost family. He should
know
about this, D’say, really he should. This isn’t the sort of request you can deny, is it? No more than we can stop rising to Fall.” M’ray faced his sire, shoulders back, jaw forward, a pose she remembered striking when she had acted on her own initiative in treating a runner in her family’s hold. “I rose with Ista’s wings at every Fall. Haven’t got so much as char in my face.”
“Keep it that way,” D’say remarked in a flat voice that masked the pride he had for his lad. “T’lonneg says they fly well, M’ray and Quoarth.”
“What we’d expect,” Moreta said fondly, smiling all the more warmly at the lad. It was a pity that she hadn’t been able to give him more time but she’d had to go on to Fort Weyr, and D’say had remained at Ista. “K’dnen thought that six or seven riders would be needed from each Weyr.”
D’say rose to stand beside his son; there wasn’t a hair’s difference in height between them. Moreta had never been motherly toward her children; as a queen rider, she’d had to foster them immediately. She could be proud of M’ray, though, of his eager enthusiasm. Though he was committed to the Weyr, it suddenly occurred to her that she had other children and her bloodline could be sustained in Keroon.
“We will recruit riders who are adequate to the task and will discharge this duty to the Hall,” D’say assured her. “I’ll speak to Wimmia as soon as she’s free. She’ll review the fosterlings for your queen’s clutch, though I must remind you that we had heavy losses among the weyr and hold folk. Everyone wanted to see that peculiar beast when it passed through here on its way to the Gather.”
“I grieved to know you had such heavy losses.” Moreta looked up at the fine lad, grateful he had been spared. “When you’ve arranged the matter, send a messenger to Master Capiam. He has all the details worked out.”
“I’ll see you at the Hatching?” M’ray winked impudently at her.
“Of course!” Moreta laughed, and he embraced her again, a little more certain of where his arms should go and not quite so fierce with his strong arms.
Both riders walked her to the weyr entrance.
“You’re off to Igen now?” D’say asked. “See Dalova. She’ll agree.” D’say’s smile showed some of the charm that had once attracted her. The bronze rider had always been slow to make up his mind, but his loyalty never faltered after he had. “Don’t try to talk to M’tani at Telgar. Ask for T’grel. He’s sensible.”
Then the bronze and brown rider locked fingers to give Moreta a lift to Arith’s back, warning M’barak in a jocular fashion that he’d better be careful with that conveyance. M’barak replied solemnly that it was his sworn obligation.
Then they were above Igen Weyn, the brilliance of the sun glancing off the distant lake painful to eyes
between
blinded; but the heat, the dry intense desert heat, was welcome to chilled bodies as Arith bugled his request to the watchrider.
Dalova was at her weyr ledge to greet Moreta, her tanned face wreathed in delighted smiles for her visitor.
“You come in Search?” she cried, embracing Moreta and drawing her into the cool of her quarters. Dalova had a demonstrative and affectionate nature, though the strains of the recent past were apparent in her nervous gestures and grimaces, the way she constantly shifted her position by hen queen, often tapping her fingers on Allaneth’s forearm as she listened to Moreta’s explanation of her double Search.
“There’s no question of my refusing help, Moreta. Silga, Empie, and Namurra won’t refuse either. Six, you say Capiam’ll need? I’d wager any amount”—she laughed, a high nervous laugh—“that P’leen times it. You
do
get to know, you know. As I’m sure you do.” She grimaced, causing the sun-lines around her sad brown eyes to crease. “If only L’bol were not so terribly depressed. He feels that if he hadn’t let our riders convey that dreadful beast about—” She broke off and threw her arms out as if she could scatter all the unpleasantness and misery. Absently she patted her dragon’s face, and Allaneth regarded her fondly. “I can help you distribute the vaccines but I cannot, in conscience, give you any candidates. We have so few young people to present to hatchlings, much less a queen. Besides, Allaneth should rise soon; I’m counting on it.” A flash of desperation crossed Dalova’s mobile face.
“There’s nothing like a good mating flight to buoy the spirits of the entire Weyr,” Moreta said, thinking ahead to Orlith’s next flight with increasing anticipation.