Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  “It did no such thing,” Dag protested vehemently and then realized that he was being teased. “He’s cooled off now. I’ll just take him back to the beasthold above.”

  “Starting line or finishing?” Alessan asked Moreta.

  “Let’s see if we can get in a finish.”

  They moved at a leisurely pace for people wishing to see an imminent finish, but their path took them between pickets and that pleased Moreta as well.

  “I wonder why Ratoshigan didn’t come.”

  “His absence is a boon.” Moreta did not try to mask the acid edge to her voice.

  “Perhaps, but I’d’ve liked to pit Squealer against that sprinter of his.”

  “For the joy of beating Ratoshigan? Well, I’d approve of that.”

  “Southern Boll is beholden to Fort Weyr, isn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

  “Yet you’d drink that sour wine Lord Diatis makes.”

  Moreta had opened her mouth to reply when she was suddenly drenched with water. A colorful and original string of invective in Alessan’s angry voice told her that he had not escaped the slops.

  Who has distressed you? Orlith’s response was immediate and, as Moreta stood there, eyes closed against the water draining from her hair, she needed the moral support of her queen.

  “I’m only wet!” Moreta stolidly informed her queen.

  The sun is warm. You will dry fast.

  “Only wet?” Alessan roared. “You’re soaked.”

  The erring handler, belatedly discovering that he had launched a full bucket of dirty water at the Weyrwoman and the Lord Holder—who didn’t ought to be strolling along picket lines when everyone else was off watching the races-proffered Moreta a towel, but the rag had been used for many purposes and merely compounded the problem. Alessan was shouting for clean water and fresh clothes and the location of a vacant tent.

  The commotion was sufficient to attract everyone not engrossed in the race just starting. Assistance was offered, and people began running here and there on Alessan’s orders while Moreta stood, her beautiful new brown-and-gold gown plastered to her body. She tried to reassure the mortified handler that she took no offense, all the while knowing her long-awaited afternoon of racing was doomed. She might just as well summon Orlith and go back to the Weyr. She might get her death of cold going between in the soggy ruins of her Gather dress, but what choice had she now?

  “I know this is not what you’re accustomed to, Moreta,” Alessan was saying, pulling at her sleeve to get her attention. “But it’s clean and it’s dry and will do to watch the rest of the races. I can’t be sure if my mother’s ladies or my sister can get your gown and cloak dry by evening, but I am certain that suitable gowns will be displayed in the Hold for your consideration when the races are over.”

  Alessan was holding out a clean brown shift in one hand, sandals and a pretty belt of colored cords in the other. He was gesturing toward the race manager’s striped tent when the handler rushed up with clean, steaming water in his bucket and a bundle of clean towels draped over his shoulder.

  “Come, Moreta, do let us set things to rights.” The softly spoken appeal and the very real distress evident in Alessan’s eyes and manner would have swayed a character far more obdurate than Moreta’s.

  “And yourself, Alessan?” she asked courteously as she bundled her soaking skirts for the short walk to the tent. The right side of Alessan’s Gather finery was soaked.

  “You, I fear, took the brunt. I’ll dry out in the sun. While we watch the races?” His sly question was part entreaty.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  She took the fresh clothing and let the handler place the bucket and clothes in the tent; then she entered, dropping the flap.

  Her undershift was wet as well, so she was pleased that the brown shift was woven of a sturdy fabric. Her hair was gritty from the slop water, which had been used to sponge down a runner’s dusty legs. She buried her head quickly in the clean water, washed her face and arms thoroughly, making lavish use of the supply of cloths. She was dressed and outside the tent just as the cheers announced the finish of the fourth race.

  “Now I believe that you were once a holder lass,” Alessan said with a soft chuckle. He handed her a full goblet of wine. “The Benden did not get wet.”

  “Well, that’s luck!”

  The handler bobbed an approach, apologizing and bowing and generally so abasing himself that Moreta cut him short by remarking that worse things had come flying out of a picket line, and she was grateful it was no more than dirty water. Alessan escorted her toward the finish line.

  “Last one was a sprint, only five entries,” he mentioned as they walked.

  “And Squealer wasn’t entered?” She laughed as Alessan gave her a pained look, imitating Dag.

  The next races were exciting enough to make up for those she had missed and to blot out the tragedy of the second. She and Alessan, looking far less the Lord of the Hold with his fine clothes puckered and soiled, found themselves vantages near the finish and sipped wine. They made private bets about winners when Moreta refused to allow Alessan to mark her with the wagermen. She enjoyed, too, being right in the midst of the racing crowd as she had so often been as a young girl in Keroon, in the company of her childhood friend Talpan. She hadn’t thought of him in Turns.

  An enterprising baker passed among the finish-line crowds with a tray of hot spiced rolls. Moreta hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the aroma wafted over to her.

  “I’m host today,” Alessan said, noticing her reaction. He took her arm and they pushed their way through to the baker.

  The flaky pastry was stuffed with a savory mix, and Moreta quickly devoured three rolls.

  “Don’t they feed you in the Weyr on a Gather day?” Alessan asked.

  “Oh, the stew pot’s always simmering in the Cavern,” she replied, licking her fingers appreciatively. “But stew wouldn’t taste half as good as these spiced rolls do right now.”

  Alessan was eyeing her, a curious expression on his face.

  “You’re not at all what I expected in Weyrwoman Moreta,” he said in a candid tone that captured her complete attention. Wearily she wondered what Sh’gall had said of her. Alessan went on, “I got to know Leri rather well. She usually stays on for a word with the ground crews . . .”

  “I would if I could,” Moreta said, countering his tacit criticism, “but I have to return to the Weyr immediately after Fall.”

  “Have to?” Alessan’s right eye-brow quirked high.

  “Did you never wonder who takes care of dragon injuries?” She spoke more sharply than she intended because she had been able to forget that they would rise to Fall in two more days, and more dragons might be injured.

  “I’d thought that the Weyr must have the best of the healers, of course.” Alessan’s reply was so formal that Moreta regretted the quick retort. She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to restore the ease of their relationship.

  “I never realized it might be you.” He smiled and covered her hand with his. “What about another spiced roll before someone else eats them all?”

  “Lord Alessan . . .” Dag came rolling up to them. “Runel’s going on about Squealer being a sport. I tol’im the breeding, but he won’t take it from me.”

  Alessan’s expression became pained, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  “I was hoping to avoid Runel this Gather.”

  “You done pretty well with everyone else, Lord, but I can’t do this for you.”

  Alessan inhaled the breath of one resigned.

  “Who’s Runel?” Moreta asked.

  The two men regarded her with astonishment.

  “You mean, you’ve escaped Runel?” Amusement chased resignation from Alessan’s expression. “Well, you must meet him at least once.”

  Dag made a sound, half protest, half fear.

  “And the race is due to start,” Alessan reminded Dag. “Weyrwornan, that’s t
he only thing, short of Fall, that will halt Runel’s recitations.”

  By now, Moreta was intrigued.

  “He’s over there, with those cronies of his.” Dag pointed.

  Moreta noted first that the three men stood isolated by a clear space from any immediate neighbors. Two were holders by their badges, one from Fort and the other wearing Ruathan colors; the third was a wizened herdsman whose clothes reeked of his craft despite the fact that they looked well brushed. The tallest of the men, the Ruathan holder, drew himself up proudly as he noticed Alessan’s approach. He spared Moreta only a passing glance.

  “About that sprinter of mine, Runel,” Alessan began briskly, addressing himself to the herdsman. “I bred the beast myself, four Turns ago, out of the sprint mare Dextra, Lord Leef’s by Vander’s brown stallion, Evest.”

  Runel’s expression altered dramatically. He threw back his head and unfocused his eyes, wide-opened. “Alessan’s sprinter, Squealer, won the first sprint race at the Ruathan Gather, third month, forty-third Turn of the sixth Pass, bred by Alessan out of Dextra, five times winner at sprint races in the west, Leef by Vander’s Evest which was nine times winner over sprint distances. Dextra’s sire, twice winner, by Dimnal out of Tran, nineteen times winner. Dimnal by Fairex out of Crick, Fairex . . .”

  “There he goes,” Dag said to Moreta in an undertone, shaking his head ruefully.

  “He just keeps on?”

  “And on and on. He’ll recite the lineage of Squealer back to the Crossing,” Alessan murmured, standing with hands clasped in front of him and seeming to give Runel the courtesy of his attention.

  “He’s only good with western racing, though,” Dag added critically.

  “He’s eidetic? I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never heard one personally.”

  “Just give him a name of a racer and he’s away. Trouble is he has to start at the beginning.”

  “Isn’t he starting at the end with Squealer’s win today?”

  Runel’s voice had settled into the sing-song of winners, sires, and dams.

  “The latest race is his beginning, Lady Moreta.”

  “Does he go to all the Gathers?”

  “Those he can get to.” Dag shot Alessan a look.

  I would be surprised if the Lord Holder knows half the races Runel attends, Moreta thought to herself.

  “He’s not much good otherwise, that’s certain,” Alessan said, unconcerned. “My father saw that the oldest sons were well apprenticed. Runel’s memory serves a purpose—”

  “Bore you to death, it would,” Dag muttered unappreciatively, glancing over his shoulder at the race flats. “It’s starting!” Reprieve was the overwhelming emotion. “Race!” he said in a loud voice directly at Runel.

  Runel’s companions began to tug at his arms. “Race, Runel! Race is starting!”

  Runel came out of his recitation trance and looked about in surprise.

  “Race is starting, Runel,” the Fort holder said reassuringly as he began to guide the eidetic toward the finish line.

  Alessan drew Moreta to one side, and Dag scurried behind the Lord Holder while the trio marched off. Moreta could not help but see that a path cleared before Runel more quickly than if Alessan and she had wished passage.

  “You should hear him on the ‘begats.’ ”

  “As you have?”

  “Indeed and I have, at every birthfeast.” Alessan spoke with feeling and rolled his eyes upward.

  “I’d’ve thought the man would be more valuable in the Harper Hall than in a hold.”

  “My father had the good sense to prevent that.”

  “Why? With that memory . . .”

  “Because his granduncle was a harper here and remembered more than was prudent on too many occasions.” Alessan grinned with malice. “I think my grandsire made sure to turn the trait to less . . . ah, shall we say . . . remunerative topics? I believe there have always been blood relations in the Harper Hall, undoubtedly in the Records Rooms, scanning hides and committing them to memory before the ink fades completely.”

  They found a place at the line and observed the hotly contested finish of the sixth race. As they passed the wait for the next race, they overheard bits and snatches of conversations. References to the new Lord Holder and the quality of the Gather were in the main complimentary, though Moreta enjoyed Alessan’s discomfiture at some of the candid remarks. The weather dominated most discussions.

  “Too warm, too soon. We’ll melt this summer.”

  “Can’t say as I mind mild days instead of rain and blizzard, but it ain’t natural. Upsets the rhythm of the Turn.”

  “M’herds won’t settle with insects hanging on in the warm, pestering ’em. Terrible cases of sores. Beasts don’t want to eat. Don’t want to move. Muddle and moan together, they do.”

  “A bit of frost would do us the world of good. Freeze down those tunnel snakes. Breeding fierce they are this year with no cold to lay ’em.”

  “Can’t decide to shear now for a short crop and give ’em relief from the heat or let ’em lose condition panting under long hair.”

  “We needs us some snow. We needs it to kill what grubs beneath the soil, what sucks life from our good seed, and what makes a field sour. We needs frost and snow in good measure.”

  “You ought to be relieved, Alessan, that all they complain about is the weather. After all, no holder expects the Lord Holder to be able to change the weather. The Weyrs do that, you know.” She pulled her mouth down in a grimace that made him grin.

  The final race had a surprise ending, for two runners crossed the finish line, right in front of Moreta and Alessan, without so much as a nose between them. The argument over which animal won grew so heated that Alessan came forward to mediate, dragging Moreta with him. To settle what could have been a nasty situation, Alessan loudly proclaimed that he doubled the purse so that neither contender would be disappointed for the fine excitement they had provided the Gather.

  That was just the right decision to end the race meeting on a high note. Owners, riders, handlers, and spectators dispersed from the flats in the best of all spirits.

  “You’re a sensibly generous man, Alessan.”

  “I thank you, Lady Moreta. Ah, just in time,” he said, and Moreta turned as a handler led up a big-boned, long-backed runnerbeast saddled with a thick pad in Ruathan colors. “My lady, your mount.”

  “This is what your father expected you to breed?”

  “This is what I did breed for my father,” Alessan replied with a broad grin. “Squealer’s type was a bonus.” He gave her a leg up and waited while she hooked her leg on the broad pommel before he swung up behind her.

  “I think I prefer your Squealer,” she said as the beast lurched forward at Alessan’s urging.

  “There speaks the racing enthusiast, not the prudent holder.” He turned his head left as they moved off across the stubble field, and Moreta knew that Alessan had only deferred the puzzle of the empty picket lines for the duration of the races.

  “It’s not like Ratoshigan to miss a chance for Ruathan marks. They could sail right up the Ruathan River,” Alessan said, giving her a tight smile for his inattention. “Soover—you know him from Southern Boll—ought to have come, short of Fall, fire, or fog. I hadn’t realized that the weather—for all your unwillingness to change it—was of such widespread concern.”

  “There’s no lack of people at this Gather,” Moreta said. The stalls were still doing a good business despite the numbers attracted by the racing.

  People had already begun to take places at the tables about the dancing square. The aromas of roasting meats wafted enticingly on the wind, the pungency of spiced wherry dominating.

  Alessan had ridden straight up across the field and now turned their mount up the roadway. Moreta glanced up to the fire-heights, covered in sun-baking dragons. There seemed to be more, and she noticed Orlith flanked by another queen. Tamianth of the High Reaches, judging by her size and color.

  “So
me creatures like the sun and the warm,” Alessan said. “Does all the sunning help them endure the cold of between?”

  Moreta shivered involuntarily, and Alessan’s arms tightened about her. She rather enjoyed the unexpected intimacy.

  “When we fly Thread, I’m grateful to the cold of between,” she replied obliquely, her thoughts on the Fall in two days.

  Then Alessan reined the beast up the ramp to the forecourt, its heavy feet clumping hollowly and alerting the guests there. Moreta waved cheerfully at Falga, the High Reaches Weyrwoman.

  “Wasn’t your new gown ready, Moreta?” Falga asked as she walked to meet them while Alessan halted their mount.

  “A new gown?” Alessan’s startled question fell on Moreta’s ears only.

  “You’ll see it next Gather, Falga,” Moreta replied blithely. “This is my race-watching dress.”

  “Oh, you and your races!” Falga smiled tolerantly and turned back to the holders with whom she’d been talking.

  Suddenly Tolocamp appeared, his genial smile not completely masking his disapproval of Moreta’s dusty appearance.

  “I’ll just slide off, thank you, Lord Tolocamp,” she said, politely ignoring his offer of assistance.

  “If you’ll follow me, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, breaking through the press of people and taking charge.

  Relieved to be able to retire gracefully from Tolocamp’s critical gaze, Moreta followed Alessan’s mother. In the instant her eyes met Lady Oma’s, Moreta knew the woman disapproved of her as much as Tolocamp did but more for upsetting her own plans for her son’s afternoon entertainment than for Moreta’s hoyden behavior. As they proceeded through the Hall, splendidly decorated for the Gather, and up the stairs into the Hold’s private corridors, Moreta felt the weight of Lady Oma’s rebuke in her silence. In Lady Oma’s own apartments, however, a variety of gowns, skirts, and tunics had been hastily assembled, and from the bathroom drifted the moist scent of perfumed water and the giggles of the girls who were preparing it.

  “Your gown has been cleaned, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, closing the door behind Moreta. “But I doubt it will be dry before the dancing.” She cast a measuring glance at Moreta, ignoring the dusty brown shift. “You’re thinner than I’d thought. Perhaps the rust . . .” She indicated the garment, then canceled that suggestion with an impatient gesture of her hand. It was reminiscent of Alessan. “It is in no way comparable to your own gown. This green one is more suited to your rank.”