Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20

by Dragon Harper

  Kindan shook his head.

  “Not that it’ll help if we don’t get people to tend to the herds soon,” Neesa said. “Or check that the grain silos aren’t infested.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Kindan said.

  “Well, I think you should get some rest,” Neesa told him firmly. “I’ve said the same thing to the Lord Holder as well.” She shook her head grimly. “I know I’m exhausted and I’ve heard that it was only the two of you tending the whole Hold for days on end—you must be beyond beyond.”

  “There’s still work to be done,” Kindan replied, clutching the sack against his chest.

  “And how do you plan to do that?” Neesa demanded tartly.

  “Step by step, moment by moment,” Kindan told her, making a silent salutation to Vaxoram’s spirit. “Right now, I need a place to read.”

  “You’d want to go upstairs then, to the Lord Holder’s quarters,” Neesa told him. “Jelir said they’ve cleared it out, it’s fit to live in. Lord Bemin himself said you’re to take the first room on the right.” She directed him to the end of the Great Hall and pointed to the stairs as she returned to the kitchen. “You get off your feet while you’re reading and don’t worry if you fall asleep.”

  “No time for that,” Kindan told her as he began his way up the long winding stairs.

  “No time!” Neesa swore, shaking her head as he vanished out of sight. “Just like the Lord Holder.”

  The moment Kindan set foot on the rich carpeting of the corridor leading down the Lord Holder’s quarters, he felt an eerie presence. It wasn’t just the essence of Lady Sannora, or that of Bannor and Semin; it felt more like he was in the presence of hundreds of Turns of Lord and Lady Holders. Over the Turns how many lives had been lived here, how many laughs laughed, how many tears shed? It was a palpable thing, not quite a weight, certainly not oppressive, but there all the same.

  The first door on the right was open, inviting. Kindan stepped through the doorway and stopped dead. It was her room.

  Decorated in floral pinks and golds, the room showed signs of Lady Sannora’s touch, as well as small pebbles and polished stones that were obviously Koriana’s. There was a large workdesk. Sheets of paper lay on it, many with barely legible writing—Koriana had been sent to the Harper Hall to improve her writing, among other things.

  He pulled back the padded chair, suddenly uncomfortable in his worn and dirty clothing. He looked around and found a small hand towel near a freshly filled washbasin and set it on the padded seat before settling into the chair.

  Slowly, carefully, gently, reverently, he set Koriana’s papers to one side. With equal care, he opened the sack and retrieved Lenner’s notes.

  The light in the room was good, reflected cleverly through from the hallway and from the ceiling above. A glowbasket lay near to hand, the glows turned over to preserve their energy, ready to use when night came.

  Kindan organized Lenner’s notes in chronological order and began to read. At first they were the common everyday notes of a healer working his craft, notes on cuts and prescriptions, decoctions. Then worried references to the various flu decoctions that had worked in the past, and finally the first mention of deaths.

  Kindan never knew when he started crying, only that the tears were smearing the ink on the page and he couldn’t have that. He wiped his eyes with his hands, and turned back to work only to discover that his eyes wouldn’t focus. He tried again, focused, and began once more.

  He wasn’t aware of falling asleep. He never heard Bemin enter the room and never woke as the Lord Holder changed his clothes and slipped him into the bed.

  He dreamed of Koriana, the scent of her hair in his nostrils. He thought that they were once again lying together in the apprentice dormitory at the Harper Hall. He would wake up in a moment—

  His eyes opened. It was night. Koriana was not at his side. He was in a bed much larger and softer than he’d ever been in. And then he remembered. Koriana was dead, he was in her room, the scent of her hair must have come from her pillows.

  Nervously he shifted, tensed, ready to spring out of the bed. How had he gotten here? What would Lord Bemin say?

  “The sheets can be cleaned,” Bemin’s voice called from the doorway. Kindan saw him illuminated by a dim glow. “Go back to sleep.”

  “But—”

  “It’s little and poor hospitality for all you’ve done,” Bemin told him. His voice softened as he added wistfully, “Besides, it reminded me of putting Bannor in bed when he’d been up late.” He started to leave, then turned back. “So please humor me.”

  Kindan nodded and turned over in the bed. It was a long while before he drifted back to sleep but when he did, he dreamed of Koriana laughing and dancing in a summer field.

  Koriana’s laughter faded and the scent of her hair was replaced by a sharper, more pungent odor that woke Kindan up. Klah.

  “It’s midday,” Bemin called from the door, a tray in his hands. “I’d prefer to let you sleep longer, but—” he cut himself off, placed the tray on a bedside table, and dragged up a chair for himself.

  “What, my lord?” Kindan asked, sitting up and feeling strange to be in a bed when the Lord Holder had clearly been awake for hours, and also feeling strange that he felt no discomfort lying in Koriana’s bed in Bemin’s presence. It wasn’t just that the Lord Holder had put him there; it was that Kindan felt Bemin welcomed him there.

  “Drink and eat, while I talk,” Bemin said, handing Kindan a mug of klah. Kindan took the mug and nodded in thanks. Bemin took a breath before continuing, “Fort Hold was home to more than ten thousand holders before this plague.” He gestured toward the grave below. “I figure we’ve buried over a thousand and there are probably as many bodies we haven’t yet discovered.” Kindan nodded gravely. “That means that we’ll have about six thousand left—”

  “My lord? Surely you mean eight. Two from ten leaves eight,” Kindan said respectfully.

  “There are easily two thousand who will starve or die from illness resulting from the plague,” Bemin replied. “We need at least three thousand healthy people to supply our basic needs and we need them every day. More than half the hold is still recovering from this illness—there aren’t enough hands to keep things running until the rest recover.”

  Kindan paled; he hadn’t realized the peril that remained. He didn’t question Bemin’s numbers; he had only a vague understanding of the workings of a major Hold, Bemin had Turns of practical experience.

  “The fruit?”

  “Enough for a few days yet,” Bemin agreed. Bleakly he continued, “But not enough to get our coal brought down, get the infested apartments cleaned, set up the kitchen, bring up the stored meats, clear the silos, check on the livestock.”

  “If not, what will happen?”

  Bemin shook his head. “I’m certain that the Hold will survive, I just can’t be certain that thousands more won’t die before winter’s end.” He paused before adding, “And this is not just Fort Hold; every Hold on Pern must be in about the same state.”

  The Lord Holder rose up irritably and started pacing the room. “I’m sorry I told you,” he apologized to Kindan. “It’s just that, after we’ve come so far, I felt you had to know.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Kindan replied. “And thank you.”

  “For what?” Bemin asked, surprised.

  “For treating me like a son.”

  The Lord Holder stopped in his tracks, turned to Kindan, flushed, and nodded mutely. For a moment, they needed no words: Kindan understanding Bemin’s trust and faith in him; Bemin knowing that Kindan accepted both the privileges and responsibilities of his offer.

  After a moment, Kindan rose from the bed, gently smoothing the covers and looked around for his clothing.

  “I’ve sent it to be washed,” Bemin said. “Although you might want to have your clothes destroyed.” He glanced at a bundle laid out at the end of the bed. “Bannor was much bigger than you, but Koriana liked to
dress man-style whenever she could, so I thought you might fit in her clothes.” His mouth twitched. “Only Fort Hold colors, I’m afraid, not harper blue.”

  Kindan ran his hand reverently over the fabric. “I’d be honored,” he told the Lord Holder. He glanced around. “But I would soil the clothes.”

  “There’s a bath beyond there,” Bemin told him, waving at a doorway. “The water’s only warm, however.”

  “Warm will be enough,” Kindan said cheerfully, carefully picking up the clothes and heading to the bathroom.

  It took him longer than he would have liked to get clean and, as the water soon ran colder, he took less time than he would have hoped for the first shower in many sevendays. In the end, however, he was clean and refreshed in a way that only a person who has been so long without bathing could be. He finished his toilet and was pleased to discover that Koriana’s old clothes were nearly a good fit on him.

  Lord Bemin was still waiting for him when he returned, only now he was seated once more and eating a roll. He invited Kindan to sit with him and they ate and drank in a companionable silence. At last, Bemin gestured to the Records on the table and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “I fell asleep before I could finish them,” Kindan explained ruefully.

  “Do you think there’s any point?” Bemin asked politely, although his body language made his own view clear.

  “I won’t know until I’m done, my lord,” Kindan replied.

  “Very well,” Bemin said with a nod. “Please don’t be too long, they’re clamoring for you downstairs.” He smiled. “It seems most of my Hold believes that I can’t operate without your presence.”

  “A vile lie, I assure you,” Kindan answered with a grin of his own.

  Bemin surprised him with a hearty guffaw. He rose and strode to the door, turning back to say, “All the same, don’t be too long, if you can. All vile lies aside, I appreciate your wisdom and your company.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished,” Kindan promised.

  Bemin nodded, serious again, and strode away briskly down the hall. His steps on the great circular staircase died away slowly, leaving Kindan alone with the eerie presence once more.

  He returned to the writing desk and bent to his reading, intent on catching every word of the late Masterhealer’s writings.

  Two hours later he had more questions than answers. He rooted around the table, looking for a scrap of paper and finally, in desperation, turned over one of Koriana’s old scratch pieces and began to make notes.

  The first symptoms. The first illness. The first death. The second patient. The third patient. He filled in names and dates, brows furrowed as he tried to discern a pattern.

  “Must establish incubation period,” Lenner had scrawled on one Record.

  “Yes, I know that,” Kindan murmured. “But what is it?”

  He dredged his memory, trying to recall what Lenner had said about diseases. First there was the latent period when there were no symptoms, then the infectious period when the illness could be spread, and finally, the—Kindan couldn’t remember what it was called—it was the time after between being infectious and either recovering or dying.

  People who were infected and recovered had immunity from the disease, Kindan was certain. But some vague memory from his conversations with Mikal led him to believe that sometimes the same disease could reinfect a recovered person. If that were the case, however, then Kindan would certainly have been infected again. But he could still be in the latent period, not yet infectious himself.

  “No, once I know the latent period, I can tell if I might still be infected and not infectious,” he said out loud, hoping that hearing the words would help him remember them. They certainly sounded like something he’d heard once from either Mikal or Lenner.

  First, figure out the latent period, Kindan told himself. He remembered his trip to Benden Weyr. He and the others had been gone nearly a sevenday. When they’d come back everyone was falling ill.

  A sevenday. He looked back over his notes. That seemed right. Maybe less, maybe only five days. But a sevenday, not more. Kindan realized with a sense of relief that it had been more than a sevenday since he’d felt ill. He probably hadn’t been reinfected. He couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be certain until he remained free of infection for the life span of the disease: the total of the latent, infectious, and terminal phases.

  His instinct told him that the disease lasted no more than three sevendays, that the infectious phase was four to six days, maybe a sevenday but no more, and that the final phase was probably about the same, less than seven days before a person was clear of infection.

  So if a person showed no symptoms for three sevendays, they were unlikely to be contagious, unlikely to have this killer flu.

  He got up from the writing desk, bringing his scrap paper with him, and headed down to the Great Hall.

  “Kindan!” Merila called as she saw him. “Great, can you take over? I’m exhausted.”

  “Yes,” Kindan said, seeing in one glance the extent of the midwife’s fatigue, her stumbling gait, the dark rings under her eyes, the way she more jittered than moved. “Don’t get up until you wake up on your own.”

  “Morning, then,” Merila said. She gestured to a group of cots set off by themselves. “Maybe your friends will feel better by then.”

  Kindan nodded, but his eyes lingered on the cots in the distance. He headed for them first.

  “Kindan,” Verilan exclaimed when he caught sight of him, “I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not,” Kindan told him cheerfully. “It’s good to see you, too.” He examined the moodpaste dabbed on Verilan’s head and was relieved to note that it was nearly green, only a hint of red showing. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A bedpan would be nice,” Kelsa chimed from the other cot. “Or permission to use the necessary.”

  “No,” Kindan said immediately, waving down one of the holders and signing for a bedpan with his hands. The holder nodded in understanding and sped off. “Wait a bit, we’ve got one coming.”

  “I never thought I’d pee again,” Kelsa said. “And now I’ve got to go.”

  Kindan, who had heard and dealt with much more horrific bodily functions in the past several sevendays, had no reaction to this admission, except to tell her acerbically, “Hold it.”

  He checked her forehead and wasn’t surprised to see that the moodpaste was a comforting green: He had already guessed that Kelsa was well on her way to recovery by the tone of her voice and the directness of her speech.

  “Verilan,” Kindan began, remembering his notes, “do you know if Lenner had determined the illness’s duration?”

  “It seemed like forever,” Nonala murmured from her cot. “But I guess it wasn’t that long.”

  “We all got fevers within a sevenday of your leaving,” Verilan informed him. He made a thoughtful face. “It seemed like the fever lasted a sevenday, maybe less.”

  “Mmm,” Kindan murmured, wishing he had more evidence for his theory. Not that it mattered much. If he was right, the holders who survived wouldn’t spread the illness or get infected again but, according to Bemin, another quarter of them or more would die of starvation before winter’s end.

  There had to be something he could do. Some way to get more help. But everyone on Pern was too sick—and suddenly Kindan had the answer. All that was required was to risk the dragons and riders of Pern.

  “Valla!” he called, sending his thoughts to the bronze fire-lizard. He had images of writing a long note, describing his theories, and then he had a better idea. “Get J’trel, Valla, get the blue rider!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Step by step

  Moment by moment

  We live through

  Another day.

  IGEN WEYR

  STAR STONES

  A dry, warm wind—warm even in winter—blew across the top of the abandoned Weyr. Drought had ruined Igen Hold and deprived Igen Weyr of tithe.
Disaster had finished the Weyr off. The dragonriders were all gone now, having moved north to merge with Telgar Weyr. Once proud and bold, the Igen riders had instilled their values into the hardy Telgar folk, and an Igen rider was now Telgar’s Weyrleader.

  But the old Weyr remained, colored slightly by wind-borne dust from the desert, deserted but not forgotten, a relic of better days, glories of past Turns.

  A bronze dragon burst from between over Igen’s mighty Star Stones. Shortly thereafter a blue dragon with two riders appeared a short way off. The dragons landed long enough to disembark their passengers, then found perches in the high warm walls of Igen Bowl.

  The riders arranged themselves so that the bronze rider was upwind of the blue rider and his passenger, so that the steady winds of Igen kept any possible infection from the bronze rider.

  Those same winds made it difficult to talk, so that the down-wind portion of the conversation was conducted at just below a yell.

  “Kindan, it’s good to see you,” M’tal began, grinning broadly at the young harper. The lad looked much aged, but M’tal was not surprised; the plague had made old men out of boys well before their time.

  “And you,” Kindan called back.

  “You wanted to speak with me,” M’tal said.

  “With all the Weyrleaders, actually,” Kindan replied. “But I’ll settle for you at first.”

  M’tal could not bear to tell the youngster that none of the other Weyrleaders had agreed to this meeting.

  “How are things at Fort?”

  “Better,” Kindan called back. “But not for long.”

  M’tal took the news gravely.

  “Bemin figures that two thousand died, and another two thousand or more will starve unless help comes.”

  “What sort of help?” M’tal asked. “We can only keep the fruit supplies going for another day or two at the best.”

  “Help setting the Holds back up,” Kindan told him. “Bemin says that normally three thousand are needed to keep the Hold going.”