Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  Healer Hall, Present Pass, 3.13.43; Butte Meeting and Fort Weyr, 3.14.43; Healer Hall, 3.15.43

  CAPIAM COULD NOT remain asleep, though he tried to burrow back into the crazy fever-dreams as a more acceptable alternative to the miseries total awareness brought. Something impinged on his semiconsciousness and forced him awake. Something he had to do? Yes, something he had to do. He blinked bleary, crusted eyes until he could focus on the timepiece. Nine of the clock. “Oh, it’s me. Time for my medicine.”

  A healer couldn’t even be sick without responding to his professional habits. He hauled himself up on one elbow to reach for the skin on which he was recording his progress through the disease but a coughing spasm interrupted him. The cough seemed to throw tiny knives at his throat. Such spasms were exceedingly painful, and Capiam disliked them even more than the headache, the fever, and the boneache.

  Cautiously, lest he provoke another coughing fit, he dragged the note case onto his bed and fumbled for the writing tool.

  “Only the third day?” His illness seemed to have made each twenty-four hours an eternity of minor miseries. That day was mercifully three quarters done.

  He could take little comfort in noticing that his fever had abated, that the headache was a dullness that could be endured. He placed the fingers of his right hand lightly on the arterial pulse in the left wrist. Still faster than normal, but slowing. He made an appropriate notation and added a description of the hardy, dry, unproductive cough. As if the note was the cue, he was wracked with another fit that tore at his throat and upper chest like a tunnel snake. He was forced to lie in a fetal position, knees up to his chin to relieve the muscle spasms that accompanied the cough. When it had passed, he lay back, sweating and exhausted. He roused enough to take his dose of willow salic.

  He must prescribe a cough remedy for himself. What would be the most effective suppressant? He touched his painful throat. What must the lining of his throat resemble?

  “This is most humiliating,” he told himself, his voice hoarse. He vowed to be far more sympathetic to the afflicted in the future.

  The drum tower began to throb and the message stunned him for condolences were being transmitted from Lord Tolocamp—what was he doing in Fort Hold when he should have remained at Ruatha?—to the Weyrleaders of Telgar and Igen for the deaths of . . . Capiam writhed on the bed, convulsed by coughing that left him weak and panting. He missed the names of the dead riders. Dead riders! Pern could ill afford to lose any of its dragonriders.

  Why, oh why hadn’t he been called in earlier? Surely nine people in the same Sea Hold falling sick was an unusual enough occurrence to have warrented even a courtesy report to the main Healer Hall? Would he have appreciated the significance?

  “Capiam?” Desdra’s query was low enough not to have aroused him had he been asleep.

  “I’m awake, Desdra.” His voice was a hoarse caw.

  “You heard the drums?”

  “Part of the message—”

  “The wrong part from the sound of you.”

  “Don’t come any closer! How many riders died?”

  “The toll is now fifteen at Igen, two at Ista, and eight at Telgar.”

  Capiam could think of nothing to say.

  “How many are ill, then?” His voice faltered.

  “They report recoveries,” Desdra said in a crisper voice. “Nineteen at Telgar, fourteen at Igen, five at Ista, two at Fort are all convalescing.”

  “And at Hall and Hold?” He dreaded her answer, clenching his fists to bear the staggering totals.

  “Fortine has taken charge, Boranda and Tirone are assisting.” The finality in her tone told Capiam he would not elicit any further information.

  “Why are you in my room?” he demanded testily. “You know—”

  “I know that you have reached the coughing stage and I have prepared a soothing syrup.”

  “How do you know what I would prescribe for my condition?”

  “The fool who treats himself has only a fool for a patient.”

  Capiam wanted to laugh at her impudence, but the attempt turned into one of the hideously painful, long coughs and, by the time it had passed, tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “A nice blend of comfrey, sweetener, and a touch of numbweed to deaden the throat tissues. It ought to inhibit the cough.” She deposited the steaming mug on his table and was swiftly across the room by the door.

  “You’re a brave and compassionate woman, Desdra,” he said, ignoring her sarcastic snort.

  “I am also cautious. If at all possible, I would prefer to avoid the agonies which I have observed you enduring.”

  “Am I such a difficult patient?” Capiam asked plaintively, seeking more consolation than he could find in a mug of an odd-tasting syrup.

  “What cannot be cured must be endured,” Desdra replied.

  “By which unkind words I assume that the Records have not given up either an account or a remedy.”

  “Master Tirone joined the search with all his apprentices, journeymen, and masters. They proceed backward by the decade for two hundred Turns and forward from the previous Pass.”

  Capiam’s groan quickly degenerated into a spasm that again left him gasping for breath. Each of the two hundred bones in his body conspired to ache at once. He heard Desdra rummaging among his bottles and vials.

  “I saw an aromatic salve in here. Rubbed on your chest it might relieve you, since you spilled most of that potion.”

  “I’ll rub it on myself, woman!”

  “Indeed you will. Here it is! Phew! That’ll clear your sinuses.”

  “They don’t need it.” Capiam could smell the aromatic from his bed. Odd how the olfactory senses became acute in this disease. Exhausted by the last cough spasm, he lay still.

  “Are you experiencing the severe lassitude as well as the dry cough?”

  “Lassitude?” Capiam dared not laugh but the word was totally inadequate to describe the total inertia that gripped his usually vigorous body. “Extreme lassitude! Total inertia! Complete incapacity! I can’t even drink from a mug without spilling half of it. I have never been so tired in my life—”

  “Oh, then, you’re proceeding well on the course of the disease.”

  “How consoling!” He had just enough energy for sarcasm.

  “If”—and her emphasis teased him—“your notes are correct, you should be improving by tomorrow. That is, if we can keep you in your bed and prevent secondary infections.”

  “How comforting.”

  “It should be.”

  His head was beginning to buzz again from the willow salic. He was about to commend Desdra on the efficacy of her cough mixture when a totally unprovoked tickle bent him double to cough.

  “I’ll leave you to get on with it then,” Desdra said cheerily.

  He waved urgently for her to leave the room, then put both hands on his throat as if he could find some grip to ease the pain.

  He hoped that Desdra was being careful. He didn’t want her to catch the illness. Why hadn’t those wretched seamen left that animal to drown? Look to what depths curiosity brought a man!

  Butte Meeting, 3.14.43

  Deep in the plains of Keroon and far from any hold, a granite butte had been forced to the surface during some primeval earthquake. The landmark had often been used as an objective in weyrling training flights. Just then it was the site of an unprecendented meeting of the Weyrleaders.

  The great bronze dragons arrived almost simultaneously at the site, coming out of between full lengths clear of each other’s wing tip,.utilizing their uncanny perceptions of proximity. They settled to the ground in an immense circle at the southern face of the butte. The bronze riders dismounted, closing to a slightly smaller circle, each rider keeping a wary distance from those on either side until K’dren of Benden, who had an active sense of humor under any conditions, chuckled.

  “None of us would be here if we were sickening,” he said, nodding to S’peren who had come in Sh’gall’s
place.

  “Too many of us have,” L’bol of Igen replied. His eyes were red with weeping.

  M’tani of Telgar scowled and clenched his fists.

  “We have shared each loss,” S’ligar of the High Reaches said with grave courtesy, inclining his head first to L’bol, M’tani, and F’gal of Ista. The other two bronze riders murmured their condolences. “We have gathered here to take emergency measures which discretion keeps from the drum and which our queens are unable to relay,” S’ligar went on. As the oldest of the Weyrleaders, he took command of the meeting. He was also the biggest, topping the other bronze riders by a full head, and the breadth of him through chest and shoulders would have made two of most ordinary men. He was oddly gentle, never taking advantage of his size. “As our Weyrwomen have pointed out, we cannot admit the losses and numbers of the ill that the Weyrs have sustained. There is too much anxiety in the Holds as it is. They are suffering far more than we are.”

  “That’s no consolation!” F’gal snapped. “I don’t know how many times I warned Lord Fitatric that overcrowding hold and cot would have dire consequences.”

  “None of us had this in mind,” K’dren said. “However, none of us had to run to see the curious new beastie from the sea. Or attend two Gathers in one day—”

  “Enough, K’dren,” S’ligar said. “Cause and effect are now irrelevant. Our purpose here is to discuss how best to insure that the dragonriders of Pern fulfill their purpose.”

  “That purpose is dying out, S’ligar,” L’bol cried. “What’s the purpose of flying Thread to protect empty holds? Why preserve nothing at the risk of our skins and our dragons? We can’t even defend ourselves from this plague!” L’bol’s dragon crooned and extended his head toward his distressed rider. The other bronzes rumbled comfortingly and moved restlessly on the warm sand. L’bol scrubbed at his face, leaving white runnels where tears had wet his cheeks.

  “We will fly Thread because that is the one service we can provide the sick in the Holds. They must not fear the incursions of Thread from without!” S’ligar said in his deep gentle unhurried voice. “We have labored too long as a Craft to surrender Pern now to the ravages of Thread because of a menace we can’t see. Nor do I believe that this disease, however fiercely it spreads, however ruthless it appears, can overcome us who have for hundreds of Turns defended ourselves from Thread. A disease can be cured by medicines, defeated. And one day we will fly Thread to its source and defeat it.”

  “K’lon, Rogeth’s rider, has recovered from the plague,” S’peren announced in the silence following S’ligar’s statement. “K’lon says that Master Capiam is on the mend—”

  “Two?” L’bol flung the number derisively back at S’peren. “I’ve fifteen dead, one hundred and forty sick at Igen. Some holds in the mideast no longer respond to their drum codes. And what of the holds which have no drums to make known their needs and the toll of their dead?”

  “Capiam on the mend?” S’ligar said, seizing at that hope. “I have every faith in that man’s ability to lick this. And more than those two must have recovered. Keroon Beasthold still drums, and they were the hardest hit by the plague. High Reaches and Fort Weyr have sickness, it is true, but the holds of Tillek, High Reaches, Nabol, and Crom have none.” S’ligar tried to catch L’bol’s despairing gaze. “We have only seven Turns to go before this Pass is over. I have lived under the scourge of Thread all my life.” Suddenly he straightened his shoulders, his face severe. “I haven’t fought Thread as a dragonrider for nearly fifty Turns to quit now over some fever and aches!”

  “Nor I,” K’dren added quickly, taking a step toward the High Reacher. “I made a vow, you know”—he gave a short laugh—“to Kuzuth, that we would see this Pass through.” K’dren’s tone turned brisk. “There’s Fall tomorrow at Keroon, and it has become the responsibility of all the Weyrs of Pern. Benden has twelve full wings to fly.”

  “Igen has eight!” Anger brought L’bol out of his despondency to glare fiercely at K’dren. Timenth, his dragon, bugled defiance, rearing back onto his haunches and spreading his wings. The other bronzes reacted in surprise, sounding off. Two extended their wings and gazed skyward in alarm. “Igen will rise to Fall!”

  “Of course your Weyr will rise,” S’ligar said reassuringly, raising his arm in an incomplete gesture of comfort. “But our queens know how many Igen riders are ill. Fall has become the problem of all the Weyrs, as K’dren said. And we all supply the muster from our healthy riders. Until this epidemic is over, the Weyrs must consolidate. Full wings are essential since in many places, we shall be deprived of ground crews for close encounters with Thread.”

  S’ligar took a thick roll of hide from his pouch. With a deft flick of his wrist, the roll fell into five separate sections on the sand. Mindful to make no physical contact with the other Leaders, S’ligar slid a section to each of the other bronze riders.

  “Here are the names of my wingleaders and seconds, since naming people seems to be a deficiency in our queens. I’ve listed my riders in order of their competence for assuming command of either wing or Weyr. B’lerion is my choice of a personal successor.” Then a rare and brilliant smile crossed the High Reacher’s face. “With Falga’s complete accord.”

  K’dren roared with laughter. “Didn’t she suggest him?”

  S’ligar regarded K’dren with mild reproof. “It is the wise Leader who anticipates his Weyrwoman’s mind.”

  “Enough!” M’tani called irritably. His dark eyes were angry under heavy black brows. He threw his lists down to join S’ligar’s. “T’grel has always fancied himself a Leader. He reminded me that he hadn’t been to either of the Gathers so I’ll reward his virtue.”

  “You’re fortunate,” K’dren said with no humor in his voice. He added his lists to the others. “L’vin, W’ter, and H’grave attended both Gathers. I’ve recommended M’gent. He may be young but he’s got a natural flair for leadership that one doesn’t often see. He wasn’t at the Gathers.”

  F’gal seemed unwilling to lose the sheets he unwound. “It’s all on these,” he said wearily, letting them flutter to the sand.

  “Leri suggested me,” S’peren said with a self-deprecating shrug, “though it’s likely Sh’gall will make a change when he recovers. He was too fevered to be told of this meeting so Leri drew up the lists.”

  “Leri would know.” K’dren nodded. He went down on his haunches to pick up the five slips of hide, aligning them at the top before rolling. “I shall be pleased if these can gather dust in my weyr.” He stuffed the roll in his pouch. “It is, however, a comfort to have made plans, to have considered contingencies.”

  “Saves a lot of unnecessary worry,” S’ligar agreed, bending to scoop up the scraps into his long-fingered hand. “I also recommend that we use entire wings as replacements, rather than send individuals as substitutes. Riders get used to their wingleaders and seconds.”

  The recommendation found favor with the others.

  “Full wings or substitutes is not the real worry.” L’bol glowered at the lists as he assembled them in his hand. “It’s the lack of ground crews.”

  K’dren snorted. “No worry. Not when the queens have already decided among themselves to do that job. We’ve all been informed, no doubt, that every queen who can fly will attend every Fall.”

  M’tani’s scowl was sour and neither L’bol or F’gal appeared happy, but S’ligar shrugged diffidently. “They will arrange matters to suit themselves no matter what but queens keep promises.”

  “Who suggested using weyrlings for ground crews?” M’tani asked.

  “We may have to resort to them,” S’ligar said.

  “Weyrlings don’t have enough sense—” M’tani began.

  “Depends on their Weyrlingmaster, doesn’t it?” K’dren asked.

  “The queens intend”—S’ligar put in before M’tani could take offense at K’dren’s remark—“to keep the weyrlings under control. What other choice have we in the absence of ground cre
ws?”

  “Well, I’ve never known a weyrling yet who would disobey a queen,” F’gal admitted.

  “S’peren, with Moreta ill, does Kamiana lead?”

  “No. Leri.” S’peren looked apprehensive. “After all, she’s done it before.”

  The Weyrleaders murmured in surprised protest.

  “Well, if any of your Weyrwoman can talk her out of it, we’d be very relieved.” S’peren did not hide his distress. “She’s more than done her duty by the Weyrs and Pern. On the other hand, she knows how to lead. With both Sh’gall and Moreta sick, the Weyr at least trusts her.”

  “How is Moreta?” S’ligar asked.

  “Leri says Orlith doesn’t seem worried. She carries her eggs well and she is very near clutching. It’s as well Moreta is sick or they’d be out and about Pern. You know how keen Moreta is on runners.”

  M’tani snorted with disgust. “This is not the time to lose an egg-heavy queen,” he said. “This sickness hits so fast and kills so quickly, the dragons don’t realize what’s happening. And then they’re gone between.” He caught his breath, clenching his teeth and swallowing against tears. The other riders pretended not to see his evident distress.

  “Once Orlith has clutched she won’t go until they’ve hatched,” S’ligar said gently to no one in particular. “S’peren, have you candidates safely at Fort Weyr?”

  S’peren shook his head. “We’d that yet to do and thought there was worlds of time for Search.”

  “Pick carefully before you bring anyone new into your Weyr!” L’bol advised sourly.

  “If the need arises, High Reaches has a few promising youngsters who are healthy. I’m sure an adequate number can be made up from the other Weyrs?” S’ligar waited for the murmur of assent to go round the circle. “You’ll inform Leri?”

  “Fort Weyr is grateful.”

  “Is that all?” L’bol demanded as he turned toward his dragon.

  “Not quite. One more point while we are convened.” S’ligar hitched up his belt. “I know that some of us have thought of exploring the Southern Continent once this Pass is over—”