Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  The two Lords Holder moved to intercept Master Scand before he reached the forecourt. The man’s usually placid round face was nearly purple with his exertions, his mouth thinned by annoyance. He was sweating copiously and blotting his face and neck with a none-too-clean cloth. Alessan had always thought Scand merely an adequate healer, suitable to attend the Hold’s large number of pregnancies and treat occasional accidents, but not up to a major emergency.

  “Lord Alessan, Lord Tolocamp,” Scand panted, his chest heaving, “I came as soon as I received your summons. Did I not hear drums? Did I not recognize the healer code? Is something the matter?”

  “What ails Vander?”

  The sharpness of Alessan’s question put Scand on his guard. He cleared his throat and mopped his face, reluctant to commit himself. “Well, now, as to that I am perplexed for he has not responded to the draught of sweatroot which I prepared for him last night. A dose, I might add, that would have made a dragon perspire. It was ineffectual.” Scand blotted his face again. “The man complains of terrible heart palpitations and of a headache that has nothing to do with wine because I was assured that he didn’t indulge—he felt unwell yesterday even before the races.”

  “And the other two men? His handlers?”

  “They, too, are legitimately ill.” Scand’s pompous speech had always irritated Alessan. Today he brandished his sweaty cloth in his affected pauses. “Legitimately ill, I fear, with severe headaches that render them unable to rise from their pallets, as well as the palpitations of which Holder Vander complains. Indeed, I am inclined to treat them for those two symptoms, rather than sweat them, although that is the specific treatment for unidentified sudden fevers. Now, may I inquire if that message from the Healer Hall in any way concerns me?” Scand cocked his head inquisitively.

  “Master Capiam has called a quarantine.”

  “Quarantine? For three men?”

  “Lord Alessan,” said a tall lean man, wearing harper blue. He had grizzled hair and a nose that had suffered from many an unexpected adjustment to its direction. His glance was direct and his manner quietly capable. “I’m Tuero, journeyman harper. I can give Master Scand the full text so that you can get on.” Tuero jerked his head to the people milling excitedly in the forecourt.

  Just then Ruatha’s drummer began to relay the news onward to the large northerly and western holds, the instruments’ deep reverberations adding to the general atmosphere of apprehension. Lady Oma emerged from the Hall with Lady Pendra and her daughters. Lady Oma listened intently to the drum then gave Alessan one long steady look. She and the Fort Hold women converged on Harper Tuero and the healer, who was now dithering, his face cloth hanging from his limp hand.

  For the first time in his life, Alessan had cause to be grateful for the unquestioning support of his bloodkin and even for the officiousness of Lord Tolocamp. A rider galloped back to request aid in bringing in one of the more aggressive holders with whom Alessan had already had trouble. Then Makfar’s family wagon thundered in, scattering folk in the roadway. Alessan put him in charge of improvising shelters from Gather stalls and travel wagons. It was one thing to doss down in a corridor for a night or grab a few hours’ sleep in the Hall, but quite another matter to be so cramped for four nights. Tolocamp was not the only one who failed to see the irony of that as he countered Makfar’s suggestions with some of his own. Alessan left the two to solve the housing problem so that he could accompany Norman to the race flats and survey the sick runners. People were already making small camps in the first of the fields.

  Despite his errand, it was a relief to Alessan to get away from the turmoil about the forecourt.

  “Never saw anything bring down so many so fast, Lord Alessan.” Norman had almost to run to keep up with Alessan’s long-legged stride. “And I can’t think what to do for ’em. If there is anything. Healer’s message didn’t say much about animals, did it?” His voice was bleak. “A runner can’t tell you if it ails.”

  “It goes off feed and water.”

  “Not wagon beasts. They go till they drop.”

  Both men looked across the fields where the Hold’s sturdy cart and wagon runnerbeasts grazed—the ones Alessan had bred to his sire’s specifications.

  “Set up a buffer area. Keep racers and wagoners well separated.”

  “I will, Lord Alessan, but the racers have been drinking upriver of them!”

  “It’s a wide river, Norman. Hope for the best.”

  The first thing Alessan noticed at the flats was that the manager had utilized the entire spread of picket lines. The healthy beasts were on the outside, well away from the cleared circle surrounding the sick ones. The coughing of the infected beasts was audible on the still, slightly chill air. They coughed, necks extended, mouths gaping, in hard painful-sounding barks. Their legs were swollen, their hides dull and starring.

  “Add featherfern and thymus to their water. If they’ll drink, Norman. Use a syringe to get fluid into them before they dehydrate completely. We might offer nettleweed, too. Some runners are smart enough to know what’s good for them. Nettles, at least, are in plentiful supply.” Alessan gazed out over the meadows where the annual battle to reduce the perennial had not yet started. “Any coughs among the herdbeasts?” He swung in the other direction.

  “Truth to tell, I’ve had little time to think about them.” Norman had the dedicated racer’s almost contemptuous disdain for the placid herd creatures. “Harper told me the drums only mentioned runners.”

  “Well, we’ll have to slaughter herdbeasts to feed our unexpected guests. I don’t have enough fresh meat left after the Gather.”

  “Lord Alessan, did Dag . . .” Norman began tentatively, with a half-gesture toward the cliff, to the great apertures where the Hold’s animals were normally sheltered during Threadfall.

  Alessan gave Norman a shrewd glance.

  “So, you were in on that?”

  “Sir, I was,” Norman replied staunchly. “Dag and I got worried when the cough started to spread. Didn’t want to interrupt your dancing, but as the bloodstock had no contact with these—Look at that!”

  “Shards!”

  They watched as the leader in a team of four hitched to a big wagon collapsed in the traces, pulling its harness mate to its knees.

  “Right, Norman. Get some men up to take charge of that team. Use them as long as they last to haul carcasses. Burn the dead animals down there.” Alessan pointed to a dip in the far fields, out of sight from the forecourt and downwind. “Keep track of the dead beasts. Reparation should be made.”

  “I’ve no recorder.”

  “I’ll send down one of the fosterlings. I’ll also want to know how many people stayed the night down here.”

  “Most of the handlers stayed, and some keen ones like old Runel and his two cronies. Some of the breeders were in and out, not caring much for the dancing after you were thoughtful enough to send a few kegs down here.”

  “I wish we knew more about this illness. ‘Medicate the symptoms,’ the drums said.” Alessan looked back at the lines of coughing animals.

  “Then we give ’em thymus and featherfern, and nettles. Maybe we’ll get a message from the Masterherdsman. Could be on its way from the east right now.” Norman looked confidently in that direction.

  Help didn’t usually come from the east, Alessan thought, but he clapped Norman reassuringly on the shoulder. “Just do the best you can!”

  “You can count on me, Lord Alessan.”

  Norman’s quietly issued assurance heartened Alessan as he took the shorter way across the stubble field to the hold. Was it only the day before that he and Moreta had paused on the rise to watch the racing? She had touched Vander’s dying runner! Alessan’s stride faltered. The Weyr would have received the drum message before Ruatha did. She would know by now the consequences of her act. She would also probably know better how to prevent falling ill herself.

  As did everyone of Ruatha Hold, he knew the Fort Weyrwoman by sight, but
Alessan had always been on the fringes of such Hold gatherings as she had attended since achieving her senior position in the Weyr. So he had thought her a distant, self-contained person, totally immersed in Weyr culture. The discovery that her fascination with racing was as keen as his own had been an unexpected delight. Lady Oma had rebuked him firmly at one point in the early evening for taking so much of Moreta’s time. Alessan knew perfectly well that she meant that he was not making the most of the chance to meet eligible girls. He knew, too, that he must soon secure his bloodline and so he had tried to be properly receptive until he saw Moreta slip behind the harpers’ dais. By then he had had enough of stammering insipidity and timorousness. He had acquitted his duty as Lord Holder but he was also going to enjoy himself at his first Gather. In Moreta’s company. And he had. Alessan had been raised to anticipate both just reward and just punishment. Momentarily the thought that today’s trials balanced yesterday’s pleasures sprang to his mind but was quickly rejected as juvenile.

  The situation at the racing flats observed, Alessan decided the next priority would be to send messages to those expecting the return of the Gatherers to those holds outside the message-drum system. Otherwise he would have anxious people coming to the Hold. Next he’d have to discover who else had brought in new stock from Keroon as Vander had done, whether the beasts were in holds or fields, and destroy them. He would also have to figure out how to deal with dissidents. The Hold’s one small cell might secure a small boy like Fergal but not an aggressive holder.

  Tolocamp, who had been directing those spreading a tent over the half-walled southern addition, intercepted Alessan.

  “Lord Alessan,” the older man said, stiffly formal, his face expressionless, jaw clenched, “while I realize that the quarantine affects me as well, I must return to Fort Hold. I will keep to myself in my apartment, making contact with no one. If this”—Tolocamp gestured toward the confusion in the roadway and Gather fields—“is occurring here, think of the turmoil caused by my absence from Fort Hold.”

  “My Lord Tolocamp, I have always been under the impression that your sons were superbly trained to take over any Hold duties and perform them flawlessly.”

  “So they are.” Tolocamp stood even more stiffly erect. “So they are. I put Campen in charge when I left for your Gather. To give him experience in assuming leadership—”

  “Good. This quarantine should afford him an unparalleled opportunity.”

  “My dear Alessan, this emergency is outside his experience, too.”

  Alessan gritted his teeth, wondering if he had underestimated Tolocamp’s perception.

  “Lord Tolocamp, you are more familiar than I with a double-urgent code sent by a Mastercraftsman. Would you permit anyone to disobey it?”

  “No, no, of course not. But this is an unusual circumstance—”

  “Quite. Your son has no Gather guests to deal with.” Both men could see a group being shepherded back by two of Alessan’s brothers and six men with drawn swords. “Campen has the Healer Hall as well as the Masterharper to instruct him in the emergency.” Alessan moderated his harsh tone. He must not alienate Tolocamp. He’d need Tolocamp’s support with some of the older men in his Hold who were not yet accustomed to taking orders from someone as young and untried in Holding. “As the drum message said, two to four days’ incubation. You’ve been here a day already,” he added persuasively, glancing up at the noon-high sun. “In another day, if you show no signs of discomfort yourself, you could discreetly return to Fort Hold. Meanwhile, you should set an example.”

  “Yes, well. Hold one, hold all.” Tolocamp’s expression mellowed. “It is true that it would be very poor discipline for me to break a quarantine.” He became noticeably more amenable. “This outbreak is probably confined to the racing flats. I never have followed the sport.” A disdainful wave of his hand dismissed one of the major pastimes of Pern.

  Alessan did not take umbrage because a party of men now bore purposefully down on the two Lords Holder, their expressions determined and anxious.

  “Lord Alessan . . .”

  “Yes, Turvine,” Alessan replied to the man, a crop holder in the southeastern corner of Ruatha. His companions were herdsmen.

  “We’ve no drums near us and we’re expected back. I’m not one to go against Healer’s advice but there are other considerations. We can’t bide here . . .

  Makfar had noticed the deputation and, although Alessan gave Turvine his complete attention, he was aware that his brother had signaled several armed holders to converge.

  “You’ll bide here! That’s my order!” Alessan spoke forcefully and the men backed off, looking uncertainly for support from Tolocamp. The Fort Holder stiffened, ignoring their tacit plea. Alessan raised his voice, projecting it beyond the group to those watching and listening from the roadway and the forecourt. “The drums have decreed the quarantine! I am your Lord Holder. As surely as if Thread were Falling, you are under my orders. No one, no animal leaves here until that drum”—Alessan jabbed his arm at the tower—“tells us that the quarantine is lifted!”

  In the silence that ensued, Alessan strode rapidly toward the hall door, Tolocamp in step beside him.

  “You will have to get messages out to prevent people coming in,” Tolocamp said in a low voice when they were inside the Hall.

  “I know that. I just have to figure out how. Without exposing animals or people.” Alessan swung to the left, into the Hold’s office where the bloody Records he did not have time to peruse were stacked in accusing ranks. Although the office had been put to use as sleeping space during the Gather, it was vacant but sleeping furs were scattered about, their owners apparently having left them in haste. Alessan kicked several aside to reach his maps. He finally located the small-scale chart of the Holding on which the roads were marked in different colors for trail, track, or path, and the holds similarly differentiated.

  Tolocamp exclaimed in surprise at the fine quality of the map. “I’d no idea you were so well equipped,” he said with a want of tact.

  “As the harpers are fond of telling us,” Alessan said, with a slight smile to sweeten his words, “Fort Hold happened, but Ruatha was planned.” He traced a forefinger up the northern trail, to the dividing tracks that went northwest, west, and northeast, reaching twenty holds, large and small, and three mineholds. The main western trail through the mountains wandered with occasional hazards into the plateau.

  “Lord Alessan . . .”

  He turned and saw Tuero at the door, the other harpers behind him in the corridor.

  “I thought we might volunteer as messengers.” Tuero grinned, which made his long, crooked nose slant even more dramatically to the left. “That’s the subject of rather heated discussions outside. The harpers of Pern are at your disposal.”

  “I thank you, but you’ve been as exposed as anyone else here. It’s the disease I wish to contain, not the people.”

  “Lord Alessan”—Tuero was smilingly insistent—“a message can be relayed.” Tuero mimed putting something down quickly with one hand and taking it up in the other with a sharp pull. He walked quickly to the map. “Someone in this hold”—he stabbed at the first one of the northern track—“could take a message to the next one, and so on, relaying instructions as well as the drum call.”

  Alessan stared at the map, mentally reviewing the inhabitants of the holds and cots. Even the farthest settlement, the iron minehold, was no more than three days’ hard riding. Dag would have taken the fastest runners, Squealer’s ilk, with him, but there would be beasts to make the first leg of the relay, and no risk to other stock if the runner returned to Ruatha. If the runner returned . . .

  “And as none of us has any reason to stay away from your bountiful hospitality, you can depend on us to return. Besides, this sort of thing is our duty.”

  “A very good point,” Tolocamp murmured.

  “I concur. So, may I leave it to you, Thero, to organize the contents of the messages and instructions to be for
warded by this relay system of yours? Drum messages went here, here, here, and here.” Alessan tapped the cardinal holds. “I doubt if they would have thought of communicating the bad news to the smaller places. Seven holds are capable of supplying runners for the relay, each covering outlying cotholds.”

  “How fortunate that we are seven!”

  Alessan grinned. “Indeed, Tuero. Let the harpers spread the news that heralds are available. Our drummer is still in the drum tower, I take it—well, then, his supplies are in those cupboards: ink and hide and pen. Let me know when you’re available. I’ve travel maps. I’ll arrange mounts. You’ll want to be quick about this business or risk sleeping out.”

  “That’s no novelty for harpers, I assure you.”

  “And you might discover, if you can, who else brought in animals from Keroon over the past few weeks.”

  “Oh?” Both Tuero’s eyebrows lifted expressing surprise.

  “Vander picked up new runners from a ship out of Keroon—”

  “The drum mentioned Keroon, didn’t it? We’ll find out. This winter’s lack of ice is not the blessing it seemed, eh?”

  “Not at all!”

  “Ah, well, it’s not ended yet!” With a quick courteous bow of his head, Tuero led his craftfellows off to the main hall.

  “Alessan, there is so much to be done, too, at Fort—” Tolocamp pleaded.

  “Tolocamp, Farelly is in the drum tower and at your disposal.” Alessan waved him courteously toward the tower steps and then left the office. Lord Leef had once confided that the way to avoid arguments was to keep them from starting. Tactful withdrawal, he had called it.

  Alessan paused briefly in the shadow of the Hall doors, observing the activity in the forecourt, along the roadway, and beyond. Tents had been raised, small fires had tripods, kettles hung above the flames, a new fire had been started in the roasting pit and the spit reset. From the east a party of mounted riders and a string of runners were slowly walking up the road, the leader flanked by Alessan’s next oldest brother, Dangel, and two Ruathan cotholders, all three men with drawn swords. He’d asked Dangel where to put Baid, the reluctant cropholder. Above the dip where he’d told Norman to burn the dead beasts, a thin gout of black smoke hovered. Yes, anyone apprehended leaving the hold proper could serve on the burial detail.