Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Oh, my, not you, too?” Dalova asked with a shaky little laugh. Tears formed in her expressive brown eyes, and now her queen licked her hand.
Without hesitation, Moreta took Dalova in her arms and the woman wept, in the quiet forlorn way of someone who has cried often without relief.
“So many, Moreta, so many. So suddenly. The shock of it when Ch’mon and Helith went. Then . . .” She could not continue for sobbing. “And L’bol is sunk in apathy. P’leen has risen with the Igen wings. That’s not out of order, but when we’re no longer consolidated, if he cannot
lead
. . . So I’m counting on Allaneth’s rising, and me! Once there’s been a good mating flight, everyone’s spirits will improve. And once the fear of this hideous plague is over, everyone will be restored.”
Dalova raised her head from Moreta’s shoulder, drying her eyes. “You know how firestone makes me sneeze, and I nearly burst myself to keep from doing it because a sneeze frightens people so! Ridiculous, but it is the truth.” Dalova sniffled, found her kerchief, and blew her nose lustily. “I must say, I do feel better because
you
know what it’s like. Now, let me have a look at our Weyr maps. Yes, I see what Master Capiam means and he’s worked so much of the detail out, it’ll be no trouble. I’ll organize Igen. Have you been to Telgar yet? Well, ask for T’grel. Then you’ll go to High Reaches? Is Falga improving? Will Tamianth really fly again? Oh, that is good news. Look, much as I’d love you to stay, you’d better go or I’ll drip tears all over you again. I try
not
to for L’bol’s sake because Timenth tattles on me and that depresses L’bol even more. You can’t imagine what a relief it is to weep all over you. Look, I’ll send Empie when we’ve decided, and I might not ask more than the queens or P’leen. I can trust them but L’bol never approves of timing it, for
any
reason, and now is not the moment to upset him on minor matters.” Dalova had been ushering Moreta to the weyr entrance, holding tightly to her arm as they walked. She smiled warmly up at M’barak, stroked Arith’s nose, and gave Moreta a leg up.
At Telgar the brown watchdnagon bugled threateningly to Arith, ordering the blue to land on the Rim instead of proceeding down to the Bowl.
“My orders, Weyrwoman,” C’ver said with no apology. “M’tani wants no strangers in the Weyr.”
“Since when are dragonriders strangers to each other?” Moreta demanded, offended by the order and insolence with which it was delivered. Arith trilled with concern over their reception and he could sense Moreta’s fury. “I’ve come in Search—”
“And left your queen alone?” C’ver was openly contemptuous.
“The eggs harden. I call M’tani to honor his promise to S’peren to send us candidates for Impression. I have vaccine with me if it is needed for the weyrfolk I seek.”
“We have all of
that
we need for those who deserve it.”
“If I were on Orlith, C’ver—”
“Even if you were on your queen, Moreta of Fort, you wouldn’t be welcome here! Take your Search into your own Holds. If there’re any holders left, of course!”
“If those are your sentiments, C’ver—”
“They are.”
“Then have a care, C’ver, when this Pass is over. Have a care!”
C’ver laughed and his brown reared to his hind legs, trumpeting derisively. Arith trembled from muzzle to tail tip.
“Get out of here, M’barak.” Moreta spoke through clenched teeth. Telgar could burn in fever and she’d never answer them. They could be down to the last sack of firestone and she’d not send them a sliver. The Weyr could be full of Thread and she—“Take us to the High Reaches.”
A Rim landing indeed! The cold of
between
did not dampen Moreta’s fury, but Arith stopped trembling only when the High Reaches watchdragon caroled a welcome.
“Ask Arith to request permission to land in the Bowl near Tamianth’s quarters. Say we come in Search.”
“I already did, Moreta,” M’barak said, his eyes still shadowed by Telgar’s rejection. “We are twice and twice times twice welcome at the High Reaches. Arith says Tamianth is warbling.”
As Arith glided past the Seven Spindles and the waving watchrider, they could indeed hear Tamianth’s intricate vocalization. B’lerion’s Nabeth answered then charged out of his weyr to its ledge. S’ligar’s Gianarth emerged as if catapulted, flapping his wings and uttering high crackling tnills as Arith made his landing.
M’barak turned to grin at Moreta, his shattered confidence restored by the spontaneous greetings and goodwill. Then Moreta saw B’lerion standing in the wide aperture to the weyrling quarters that accommodated the wounded Tamianth. He waved his right arm vigorously and then trotted out to meet her.
“Just a quick word alone,” he said, folding his good arm around her shoulders with careless ease. “I took Desdra and Oklina to the Nerat plantations late last night. We’ve all the needlethorn we could possibly require. I’ve not mentioned either of your Searches to Falga and S’ligar and there have been no awkward questions from any other source.” He raised his voice, chatting casually. “Tamianth’s wing is dripping ichor, and she’s got a tub for diving; S’ligar’s improving, the sun is shining, the Weyr is righted, and Pressan and I were just giving Falga a little walk. Pressen thinks very highly of you, my dear Moreta. Cr’not may
tell
me that Diona did it, but we know Diona, don’t we? Pressen attended the dragon injuries from yesterday’s Fall. Spends his free time badgering Falga about dragon cures, which keeps her from feeling useless. Ah, here we are, Falga, your waterbearer!”
The first thing Moreta noticed was the enormous water butt conveniently placed at Tamianth’s left, full to its brim. Then she saw the neat stack of buckets.
B’lerion chuckled. “My idea. Everyone who wants to visit Falga goes by way of the lake and brings in a full bucket. Every hour a weyrling returns the empties to the lake. If you count the current buckets, you’ll realize that Falga’s been having entirely too much company. Or Tamianth’s thirst has finally been slaked.”
Falga was propped against cushions on a wide couch that had been made of several weyrling beds tied together. Moreta was delighted to see the good color in Falga’s face and returned her embrace, almost embarrassed by the woman’s profuse thanks for saving hen queen’s life. Then, out of deference to Falga’s fervent request, Moreta checked the progress of Tamianth’s wing with Pressen while Tamianth hummed softly, watching Moreta with softly glowing eyes.
Holth says Orlith sleeps.
It was Tamianth who spoke.
Startled, Moreta glanced at Falga, who was equally surprised but smiled warmly at her.
“You’ve come on Search,” Falga began. “Surely it’s early, and even a shade unwise to assemble candidates.” Falga indicated that Moreta should sit on one end of the couch, B’lerion on the other.
Moreta hesitated, glancing at Pressen, but he was busy in the far end of the large room.
“I’ve two reasons for coming.”
“But there’s only one queen egg.” Then Falga slumped back against her pillows, resigned. “What else has gone wrong then?”
“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.