Moreta - Dragonlady of Pern

CHAPTER V

Moreta was certain that she had only been asleep a few minutes when Orlith woke her.

«Two hours you have slept but Kadith is in a frenzy.»

«Why?» Moreta found it very difficult to lift her head from the pillow. It didn't ache, but her legs did. Whether from the dancing or from the wine, Moreta didn't know and probably would not have time to discover if Sh'gall was in one of his moods.

«A sickness in the land,» Orlith replied, sounding puzzled. «Sh'gall went first to see K'lon and woke him.»

«Woke K'lon?» Moreta was disgusted as she pulled on the first tunic she could reach. The clothing was slightly damp and her sleeping quarters were clammy. The weather must have changed.

«There is a fine mist over the Weyr,» Orlith obligingly reported.

Moreta shivered as she dressed. «Why on earth should he wake K'lon? The man's been ill and needs his rest.»

«He is convinced that K'lon has brought the illness here. Orlith sounded truly perplexed. K'lon was in Igen.»

«K'lon is often in Igen. His friend is a green rider there.»

Moreta splashed water into her face then rubbed the mint stick over her teeth, but it did little to improve the taste in her mouth. She ran her fingers through her short hair with one hand as she fumbled for a goru pear from the dish in her room. The tart fruit might neutralize the aftereffects of all that Benden wine.

«Moreta!» Sh'gall's summons resounded from the entrance to her weyr.

Moreta had time to give Orlith's muzzle a swift caress before Sh'gall burst into the chamber. The queen blinked her eyes shut, feigning sleep. Sh'gall charged ten paces into the weyr and stopped, holding his hand up as if fending off an approach.

«A sickness is all over Pern. Men are dying and nothing can be done. Runners are dying, too. No one must leave the Weyr.»

Sh'gall's eyes were wide with a genuine fear, and Moreta stared at him in surprise for a moment.

«Thread falls tomorrow, Sh'gall. The dragonriders must leave the Weyr.»

«Don't come close to me. I may have been infected, too.»

Moreta hadn't moved. «Suppose you give me some details,» she said, speaking calmly. «That animal they showed off at Ista, it was infected with a deadly disease. It's spread from Igen to Keroon Beasthold to Telgar. It's even in Southern Boll! Men are dead of it in Lord Ratoshigan's Hold. And he's been quarantined by Master Capiam. So are we!»

«Runners, you said?» Moreta's breath caught in her throat and she turned fearfully toward her dragon. «Dragons?» She'd touched that runner and if she'd contaminated Orlith …

«No, no, not dragons! Capiam said Talpan agreed they weren't affected. They had the beast killed. It hadn't looked sick to me!»

«Tell me please how men could die in Southern Boll when that feline was still in Ista?»

«Because there's an epidemic! It started when the seamen hauled that beast out of the water and brought it home. Everyone wanted to see it, so they took it to Igen Hold, then Keroon Beasthold and Ista before this Talpan fellow realized it was a carrier. Yes, that's what Capiam said, The feline was a carrier.»

«And they displayed it at Ista Gather?»

«No one knew! Not until this Talpan fellow came along and talked to Capiam. He'd been to all the infected holds.»

«Who? Talpan?»

«No, Capiam! Talpan's an animal healer.»

«Yes, I know.» Moreta held on to her patience because Sh'gall was obviously so rattled as to be incoherent. «Nothing was mentioned of this at Ruatha Gather.»

Sh'gall gave her a patient glare. «Of course, the truth wasn't known. Besides, who talks of unpleasant things at a Gather! But I just conveyed Capiam to his hall. I also had to convey Ratoshigan and Capiam to Southern Boll because Ratoshigan received an urgent drum message to return. He had deaths. He also had new runners in from Keroon; they probably brought that sickness to the west.» Sh'gall glowered and then shuddered violently. «Capiam said that if I didn't touch the feline I might not get sick. I can't get sick. I'm the Weyrleader.» He shuddered again.

Moreta looked at him apprehensively. His hair was damp, pressed in a wet ridge about his forehead by his riding helmet. His lips were slightly blue and his skin very pale. «You don't look well.»

«I'm fine! I'm fine. I bathed in the Ice Lake. Capiam said that the disease is like Thread. Cold kills Thread and so does water.»

Moreta took up her fur cloak, which lay where it had fallen from her shoulders a scant two hours before, and approached him with it.

«Don't come near me.» He stepped backward, his hands extended to fend her off.

«Sh'gall, don't be idiotic!» She flung the cloak at him. «Put that about you so you won't get sick of a chill. A chill would make you more susceptible to whatever disease is about.» She turned back to the table and poured wine, splashing it in her haste. «Drink this. Wine is also antiseptic. No, I won't come near you.» She was relieved to see him settled, the cloak about his shoulders, and stepped back from the table so he could reach the wine. «An utterly foolish thing to do, plunge yourself into the Ice Lake before the sun is up and then travel between. Now sit down and tell me again what happened at Ista Gather. And where you went with Capiam and exactly what he said.»

She listened with half her attention to Sh'gall's more orderly recounting while she mentally reviewed what precautions and measures she could take to ensure the health of the Weyr.

«No good comes from the Southern Continent!» Sh'gall commented gratuitously. «There's a very sound reason why no one is permitted there.»

«Permission has never been denied. I always understood that everything we need was taken over in the Crossing. Now, what are the symptoms of the disease that's spreading?» Moreta recalled the bloody discharge from the dead runner's nose, the only external sign of its mortal distress.

Sh'gall stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then collected his thoughts. «Fever. Yes, there's fever.» He glanced at her for approval.

«There are many kinds of fevers, Sh'gall.»

«Berchar will know, then. Fever, Capiam said, and headache and a dry cough. Why should that be enough to kill people and animals?»

«What remedies did Capiam specify?»

«How could he specify when he doesn't know what the plague is? They'll find out. They've only to search hard enough. Oh, he said to treat the symptoms empirically.»

«Did he mention an incubation period? We can't just stay quarantined in the Weyr forever, you know.»

«I know. But Capiam said we mustn't congregate. He really tore into Ratoshigan for the overcrowding in his Hold.» Sh'gall grinned unpleasantly. «We have been warning the Holders, but would they listen? They'll pay for it now.»

«Sh'gall, Capiam must have told you how long it takes the disease to incubate.»

The Weyrleader had finished the wine. He frowned and rubbed at his face. «I'm tired. I waited half the night for the Masterhealer at Ratoshigan's. He said it incubates in two to four days. He told me to find out where everyone has been and to order them not to congregate. The Weyr has its duties, too. I've got to get some sleep. Since you're up, you make sure everyone knows about this. Tell them all just what they may have caught yesterday.» He gave her a hard, warning stare. «I don't want to find out when I wake up that you've jollied people along.»

«An epidemic is a far different affair from reassuring a rider with a wing-damaged dragon.»

«And find Berchar. I want to know exactly what K'lon was ill of. K'lon didn't know, and Berchar wasn't in his quarters!» Sh'gall didn't approve of that. Fully male and hold-bred, Sh'gall had never developed any compassion or understanding of the green and blue riders and their associations.

«I'll speak to Berchar.» She had a fairly good idea she'd find him with S'gor, a green rider.

«And warn the Weyr?» He rose, groggy with fatigue and the wine he'd taken on an empty stomach. «And no one's to leave the Weyr and no one's to come in. You be sure that the watchrider passes on that order!» He waggled an admonitory finger at her.

«It's a bit late to cry Thread when the burrow's set, isn't it?» she replied bitterly. «The Gathers should have been canceled.»

«No one knew how serious this was yesterday. You transmit my orders straightaway!»

Still clutching her fur around him, Sh'gall stumbled from the weyr. Moreta watched him go, her head throbbing. Why hadn't they canceled the Gathers? All those people at Ruatha! And dragonriders from every Weyr in and out of Ista and Ruatha. What was it S'peren had told her? Sickness in Igen, Keroon, and Telgar? But he hadn't said anything about an epidemic. Or deaths. And that runner of Vander's? Had Alessan mentioned a new runner from Keroon in Vander's hold? Thinking of the long picket lines on Ruatha's race flat, Moreta groaned. And all those people! How infectious would that runner have been at the moment of his death, when anxious riders and helpful spectators had crowded around it? She shouldn't have interfered. It was not her business!

«You are distressed,» Orlith said, her eyes whirling in a soothing blue. «You should not be distressed by a runnerbeast.»

Moreta leaned against her dragon's head, stroking the near eye ridge, calming her anxiety with the soft feel of Orlith's skin.

«It's not just the runnerbeast, my love. A sickness is in the land. A very dangerous sickness. Where's Berchar?»

«With S'gor. Asleep. It is very early. And foggy.»

«And yesterday was so beautiful!» She remembered Alessan's strong arms about her in the toss dance, the challenge in his light green eyes.

«You enjoyed yourself!» Orlith said with deep satisfaction.

«Yes, indeed I did.» Moreta sighed ruefully.

«Nothing will change yesterday,» Orlith remarked philosophically. «So now you must deal with today.» As Moreta chuckled over dragon logic, the queen added, «Leri wishes to speak with you since you are awake.»

«Yes, and Leri might have heard about an epidemic like this. She might also know how I'm going to break the news to the Weyr the day before Fall.»

Since Sh'gall had gone off with her cloak, Moreta slipped into her riding jacket. Orlith had been correct, as always, about the weather. As Moreta left her weyr and started up the steps to Leri's, the fog was swirling down from the ranges. Thread would Fall tomorrow, fog or not, so she devoutly hoped the weather would clear. If the wind failed to clear the mist, the possibility of collision would be trebled. Dragons could see through fog but their riders couldn't. Sometimes riders did not heed their dragons and found themselves in one-sided arguments with bare ridges.

«Orlith, please tell the watchrider that no one, dragonrider or holder, is permitted into the Weyr today. And no one is to leave it, either. The order is to be passed to each watchrider.»

«Who would visit the Weyr in such fog?» Orlith asked. «And the day after two Gathers.»

«Orlith?»

«I have relayed the message. Balgeth is too sleepy to question why.» Orlith sounded suspiciously meek.

«Good day to you, Holth,» Moreta said courteously as she entered the old Weyrwoman's quarters.

Holth turned her head briefly in acknowledgment before closing her eyelids and snuggling her head more firmly into her forelegs. The old queen was nearly bronze with age.

Beside her, on the edge of the stone platform that was the dragon's couch, Leri sat on a heap of pillows, her body swathed in thick woven rugs. Leri said she slept beside Holth as much for the warmth the dragon had stored up in her from so much sunning over so many Turns as to save herself the bother of moving. The last few Turns, Leri's joints rebelled against too much use. Repeatedly Moreta and Master Capiam had urged the woman to take up the standing invitation to remove to the south to Ista Weyr. Leri adamantly refused, declaring that she wasn't a tunnel snake to change her skin. She'd been born in Fort Weyr and intended to live out her Turn with those few old friends who remained, and in her own familiar quarters.

«Hear you enjoyed yourself past the first watch,» Leri said. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. «Was that why Sh'gall was berating you?»

«He wasn't berating. He was bemoaning. An epidemic's loose on Pern.»

Concern wiped the amusement from Leri's face. «What? We've never had an epidemic on Pern. Not that I ever heard about. Nor read either.»

Her movement restricted by her joint ailment, Leri kept the Weyr's records to allow Moreta more time for her nursing. Leri often browsed through the older Records, for 'the gossip', she said.

«Shards! I'd hoped you'd read something somewhere. Something encouraging! Sh'gall's in a rare taking and this time with due cause.»

«Perhaps I haven't read far enough back for exciting things like epidemics.» Leri tossed Moreta a pillow from her pile and pointed imperiously at the small wooden stool set aside for visitors. «We're a healthy lot, by and large. Tend to break a lot of bones, Threadscores, occasional fevers, but nothing on a continent-wide scale. What sort of disease is it?»

«Master Capiam has not yet identified it.»

«Oh, I don't like the sound of that!» Leri rolled her eyes. «And, by the Egg, there were two Gathers yesterday, weren't there?»

«The danger was not fully appreciated. Master Capiam and Talpan,»

«The Talpan who was a friend of yours?»

«Yes, well, he's been an animal healer, you know, and he realized that the feline they had on display at Ista was the disease carrier.»

«The feline from the Southern Continent?» Leri clacked her tongue. «And some bloody fool has been taking that creature here, there, and everywhere, showing it off, so the disease is also here, there, and everywhere! With riders, including our noble Weyrleader, all going to have a little peek!»

«Sh'gall's story was a little incoherent but he'd taken Lord Ratoshigan to Ista to see the feline; Capiam had arrived from seeing what ailed Igen Sea Hold, Keroon, and Telgar,»

«Great Faranth!»

Moreta nodded. «Ista, of course. Then Ratoshigan had an urgent drum message summoning him back because of illness, so Sh'gall conveyed him and Master Capiam.»

«How did the sickness get there so fast? The beast only got as far as Ista!»

«Yes, but it was first at Keroon Beasthold to be identified by Master Sufur and no one realized that it was carrying sickness,»

«And because it's been an open winter, they've been shipping runners all over the continent!» Leri concluded, and the two women looked at each other gravely.

«Talpan told Capiam that dragons are not affected.»

«We should be grateful for small mercies, I suppose,» Leri said.

«And Fall's tomorrow. We'll have that over with before any of us fall sick. Incubation's two to four days.»

«That's not a big mercy, is it? But you weren't at Ista.» Leri frowned.

«No, Sh'gall was. However, a runner fell in the second race at Ruatha and it shouldn't have …»

Leri nodded, her comprehension complete. «And naturally you were close enough to go have a look. It died?»

«And shouldn't have. Its owner had just received some new stock from Keroon.»

«Hooooo!» Leri rolled her eyes and sighed in resignation. «So, what medication does Capiam recommend? Surely he must have some idea if he's been flipping across the continent?»

«He recommends that we treat the symptoms empirically until he finds out just what it is and what the specific medicine is.»

«And what is it we treat empirically?»

«Headache, fever, and a dry cough.»

«They don't kill.»

«Until now.»

«I don't like this at all,» Leri said, pulling her shawl across her shoulders and hunching into its warmth. «Though mind, we'd a harper here-though L'mal shooed him off for he was doleful, who used to say 'there's nothing new under the sun.' A slim hope in these circumstances, but I don't think we can ignore any avenues of exploration. You just bring me up more Records. Say the ones starting the last Pass. Fortunately I hadn't planned on going anywhere this morning.»

As Leri only left her weyr to fly with the queens' wing, Moreta offered her a smile for her attempt to lighten the bad tidings.

«Sh'gall's left it to you to tell the Weyr?»

«Those who are awake. And Nesso …»

Leri snorted. «That's the right one to start with. Be sure she gets the facts right or we'll have hysteria as well as hangovers by noontime. And since you're up, would you fix my wine for me, please, Moreta?» Leri shifted uneasily. «The change in the weather does get to my joints.» She saw Moreta's reluctance. «Look, if you fix it, then you'll know I haven't exceeded the proper amount of fellis juice.» Eyes sparkling with challenge, she cocked her head at the younger Weyrwoman. Moreta did not like Leri to use much fellis juice and contended that if Leri went south where the warmer weather would ease her condition, she wouldn't need fellis juice at all.

But Moreta did not hesitate. The clammy cold made her feel stiff so it would certainly be making Leri miserable.

«Now, tell me, did you enjoy the Gather?» Leri asked as Moreta measured the fellis juice into her tall goblet.

«Yes, I did. And I got down on the race flats and watched most of the races from a very good vantage point with Lord Alessan.»

«What? You monopolized Alessan when his mother and the mother of every eligible girl able to creep or crawl to that Gather …»

Moreta grinned. «He did his duty with the girls on the dance square. And we,» she added, smiling more broadly than ever, «managed to stay upright in a toss dance!»

Leri grinned back at Moreta. «Alessan could be quite a temptation. I assume he's got over the death of that wild one he married. Sad, that! Now, his grandfather, Leef's sire … Ah, no, you'll have heard all that.» Moreta had not, but Leri's comment meant she was unlikely to. «I always chat Alessan up while the ground crews are reporting. Always has a flask of Benden white with him.»

«He does, does he?»

Leri laughed at Moreta's alert tone.

«Don't tell me he tried it on you, too, at his own Gather?» Leri chortled and then assumed a masculine pitch to her voice, «I just happen to have one skin of Benden white …'» And she laughed all the more as Moreta reacted to the mimicry. «He's got a full cave of 'em, I'd say. However, I'm glad Leef gave him the succession. He's got more guts than that elder brother of his, never could remember the man's name. Never mind. Alessan's worth three of him. Did you know that Alessan was Searched?»

«And that Lord Leef refused.» Moreta frowned. Alessan would have made a superb bronze rider.

«Well, if the lad was to succeed, Leef was entitled to refuse. That was twelve Turns ago. Before you arrived from Ista. Alessan would have Impressed a bronze, I'm sure.» Moreta nodded, bringing Leri her fellis juice and wine. «Your health!» she said ironically, raising the cup to Moreta before she took a careful sip. «Hmmm. Do get some rest today, Moreta,» she said more briskly. «Two hours' sleep is not enough when there's Fall tomorrow and who knows how many dragonriders will do stupid things thanks to two Gathers, let alone Capiam's unidentified disease.»

«I'll get some rest once I've organized a few matters.»

«I sometimes wonder if we did right, L'mal and I, monopolizing your healing arts for the Weyr.»

«Yes!» Moreta's quick reply was echoed by Holth and Orlith.

«Well, ask a silly question!» Leri was reassured, and she patted Holth's cheek.

«Quite. Now, what Records should I send you?»

«The oldest ones you can find that are still legible.» Moreta scooped up the pillow Leri had loaned her and threw it back to the old Weyrwoman, who caught it deftly.

«And eat something!» Leri shouted as Moreta turned and left the weyr.

Wisps of fog were infiltrating the valleys, oozing toward the western rim of the Bowl, and the watchrider was standing within the forearms of his dragon, finding what protection he could from the elements. Moreta shuddered. She didn't like the northern fogs even after ten Turns, but she hadn't liked the humidity of the southern latitude at Ista any better. And it was far too late to return to the comfortable climate of the highlands of Keroon. Was the disease in the highlands, too? And Talpan diagnosing it! How strange that he had been in her mind yesterday. Would the epidemic bring them together again?

She gave herself a little shake and began the descent to the floor of the Bowl. First she would see K'lon, then find Berchar, even if it meant invading the privacy of S'gor's weyr.

K'lon was asleep when she reached the infirmary and there was not so much as a bead of fever perspiration on his brow or upper lip. His fair skin was a healthy color, wind-darkened where the eyepieces left the cheek bare. Berchar had attended K'lon during the initial days of his fever so Moreta saw no point in rousing the blue rider again.

Folk were moving about the Bowl by then, swirling fog about them as they began the preparations for the next day's Threadfall. The shouts and laughter of the weyrlings filling firestone sacks was muted by the mist. Moreta thought to check with Weyrlingmaster F'neldril to find out how many of the weyrlings had drawn convey duty the day before. A rare animal in Ista might well have attracted some of them despite their strict orders to convey and return directly.

«Put some energy into the task, lads. Here's the Weyrwoman to see the sacks are properly filled for tomorrow's Fall.»

Many Fort dragonriders insisted that F'neldril was the one rider all Fort dragons obeyed, a holdover from weyrling days under his tutelage. He did have an uncanny instinct, Moreta thought, if he could see her through the rolling fog. He appeared right beside her, a craggy-faced man with a deep Thread scar from forehead to ear, and the lobe missing, but she had always liked him and he was one other first friends at Fort Weyr.

«You're well, Weyrwoman? And Orlith thrives? She's near clutching now, isn't she?»

«More weyrlings for you to tyrannize, F'neldril?»

«Me?» He pointed his long curved thumb at his chest in mock dismay. «Me? Tyrannize?»

But the old established exchange did not lift her spirits. «There's trouble, F'neldril …»

«Which one?» he demanded.

«No, not your weyrlings. There's a disease of epidemic proportion spreading over the southeast and coming west. I'll want to know how many of the weyrlings were on convey duty yesterday and where they took their passengers, and how long they stayed on the ground at Ista. The entire Weyr will be answering the same questions. If we are to prevent the epidemic's spreading here, we'll need to know.»

«I'll find out exactly. Never fear on that count, Moreta!»

«I don't, but we must avoid panic even though the situation is very serious. And Leri would like to have some of the oldest Records, the still legible ones, brought to her weyr.»

«What's the Masterhealer doing then with his time, and all those apprentices of his, that we have to do his job for him?»

«The more to look the quicker to find; the sooner the better,» Moreta replied. F'neldril could be so parochial.

«Leri'll have her Records as soon as the lads have finished sacking firestone and had a bit of a wash. Wouldn't do to have stone-dust messing up our Records. You there, M'barak, that sack's not what I'd call full. Top it off.»

Another of F'neldril's quirks was to finish one job before starting the next. But Moreta moved off, secure in the knowledge that Leri would not have a long wait for her Records.

She went on to the Lower Caverns and stood for a moment in the entrance, noting how few people occupied the tables, most of those few obviously nursing wineheads. How awkward and inconvenient it all was, Moreta thought with a rush of distressed exasperation, for an epidemic to break out the day after two Gathers, when half the riders would consider the news a bad joke and the rest wouldn't be sober enough to understand what was happening. And Fall tomorrow! How could she tell the Weyr if they weren't available to tell?

«If you eat, you'll think of something,» came the calm imperturbable voice of her dragon.

«An excellent notion.» Moreta went to the small breakfast hearth and poured herself a cup of klah, added a huge spoonful of sweetener, took a fresh roll from the warming oven and looked around for a place to sit and think. Then she saw Peterpar, the Weyr herdsman, sharpening his hoof knife. His hair was rumpled and his face sleep creased. He was not really attending to the job at hand, which was honing an edge against the strop.

«Don't cut yourself,» she said quietly, sitting down.

Peterpar winced at the sound of her voice but he kept on stropping.

«Were you at Ista or Ruatha?»

«Both, for my folly. Beer at Ista. That foully acid Tillek wine at Ruatha.»

«Did you see the feline at Ista?» Moreta thought that it would be kinder to break the news gently to a man in Peterpar's fragile state.

«Aye.» Peterpar frowned. «Master Talpan was there. He told me not to get too close though it was caged and all. He sent you his regards, by the way. Afterward,» Peterpar's frown deepened as if he didn't quite trust his memory of events, «they put the animal down.»

«For a good reason.» Moreta told him why.

Peterpar held the knife suspended, midstrop, shocked. By the time she had finished, he had recovered his equanimity.

«If it's to come, it'll come.» He went on stropping.

«That last drove of runnerbeasts we received in tithe,» she asked, «from which hold did it come?» She sipped at the klah, grateful for its warmth and stimulation.

«Part of Tillek's contribution.» Peterpar's expression reflected the relief he felt. «Heard tell at Ista that there's been an illness among runners at Keroon. Same thing?» The tone in Peterpar's voice begged Moreta to deny it.

She nodded. «Now, how can a feline that came from the Southern Continent give us, man and runnerbeast, a sickness?»

«Master Talpan decided that it did. Apparently neither man nor runnerbeast has any immunity from the infection that feline brought with it.» Peterpar cocked his head to one side, contorting his face. «Then that runnerbeast that dropped dead at Ruatha races had it?»

«Quite possibly.»

«Tillek doesn't get breeding stock from Keroon. Just as well. But soon's I finish my klah, I'll check the herds.» He returned his hoof knife to its case, rolled up his strop and shoved it into his tunic pocket. «Dragons don't get this, do they?»

«No, Master Talpan didn't believe they could.» Moreta rose to her feet. «But riders can.»

«Oh, we're a hardy lot, we weyrfolk,» Peterpar said pridefully, shaking his head that she would doubt it. «We'll be careful now. You wait and see. Won't be many of us coming down sick. Don't you worry about that now, Moreta. Not with Fall tomorrow.»

One was offered reassurance from unlikely sources, Moreta thought. Yet his advice reminded her that one of the reasons weyrfolk were so hardy was because they ate well and sensibly. Many illnesses could be prevented, or diminished, by proper diet. One of her most important duties as Weyrwoman was altering that diet from season to season. Moreta looked about the Cavern, to see if Nesso was up. She had better not be laggard with the tidings to Nesso who would relish disseminating information of such caliber.

«Nesso, I'd like you to add spearleek and white bulb to your stews for a while, please.»

Nesso gave one of her little offended sniffs. «I've already planned to do so and there's citron in the morning rolls. If you'd had one, you'd know. A pinch of prevention's worth a pound of cure.»

«You'd already planned to? You've heard of the sickness?»

Nesso sniffed again. «Being waked up at the crack of dawn,»

«Sh'gall told you?»

«No, he didn't tell me. He was banging around the night hearth muttering to himself half-demented, without a thought or a consideration for those of us sleeping nearby.»

Moreta knew very well why Nesso imposed on herself the nighthearth duty on a Gather night. The prying woman loved to catch people sneaking in or out; that knowledge gave her a feeling of power.

«Who else in the Weyr knows?»

«Whoever you've been telling before you came to me.» And she cast a dark look over her shoulder at Peterpar, who was trudging out of the Cavern.

«What did you actually hear Sh'gall saying?» Moreta knew Nesso's penchant for gossip and also her fallibility in repeating it correctly.

«That there's an epidemic on Pern and everyone will die.» Nesso gave Moreta a look of pure indignation. «Which is downright foolish.»

«Master Capiam has declared that there is.»

«Well, we haven't got one here!» Nesso pointed her ladle at the floor. «K'lon's fine and healthy, sleeping like a babe for all he was woke up and questioned sharp. Holders die of epidemics.» Nesso was contemptuous of anyone not connected intimately with Weyrs. «What else could be expected when so many people are crammed into living space that wouldn't suit a watchwher!» All of Nesso's indignation drained out of her as she looked up and saw Moreta's expression. «You're serious?» Her eyes widened. «I thought Sh'gall just had too much wine! Oh! And everyone here was either to Ista or Ruatha!» Nesso might love to gossip but she was not stupid, and she was quite able to see the enormity of the situation. She gave herself a little shake, picked up the ladle, wiped it off with her clout, and gave the porridge such a stirring that globs fell to the burning blackstone. «What're the signs?»

«Headache, fever, chills, a dry cough.»

«That's exactly what put K'lon in his bed.»

«You're sure?»

«Of course I'm sure. And for that matter, K'lon's fine. Weyrfolk are healthy folk!» Nesso's assertion was as prideful as Peterpar's and a matter of some consolation to Moreta. «And, saving your look-in on him yesterday afternoon, only Berchar tended him, but he was recovered by then. Mind you, I shouldn't go telling everyone suddenlike about the symptoms, as we'll have enough sore heads this morning and it's an epidemic of wine they had last night, that'll be all.» She gave the porridge a final decisive poke and turned fully toward Moreta. «How long does it take this sickness to come on people?»

«Capiam says two to four days.»

«Well, at least the riders can concentrate on Fall tomorrow with a clear mind.»

«There's to be no congregating. No visitors into the Weyr and none to go out. I've told the watchrider so.»

«Visitor's aren't likely today in any case, with Gathers yesterday and the fog so thick you can't hardly see the other side of the Bowl. You'll find Berchar in S'gor's weyr, you know.»

«I thought that likely. Sh'gall's not to be disturbed.»

«Oh?» Nesso's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. «Does he fancy he's already got this disease? And Thread Falling tomorrow? What do I tell the wingleaders if they ask for him?»

«Tell them to seek me. He's not ill in any case but he was conveying Master Capiam yesterday and he's exhausted.»

Moreta left Nesso on that. By sleeping, Sh'gall would recover from the first flare of panic and be as eager as ever for the stimulation of a Fall. He was always at his best leading the Weyr's fighting wings.

Fog swirled around her as Moreta stepped out of the Lower Cavern.

«Orlith, would you please bespeak Malth for me and ask for a lift to her weyr?»

«I'll come.»

«I know you would, my love, but you are egg-heavy, the fog is thick, and by making such a request, I give them due notice of my coming.»

«Malth comes.» Something in Oriith's tone made Moreta wonder if Malth had been reluctant to obey the summons. Malth should have known that the Weyrwoman would not intrude unnecessarily.

«Malth does,» was Orlith's quick rejoinder, implying that the rider was at fault.

No sooner had the queen spoken than the fog roiled violently and the green dragon settled herself right beside Moreta so that the Weyrwoman need only to take one step.

«Express my gratitude, Orlith, and compliment her on her flying.»

«I did.»

Moreta swung her leg over Malth's neck ridge. She always felt a trifle strange when mounted on so much smaller a dragon than her great queen. It was ridiculous to think that she might be too heavy for the green, whose rider S'gor was a tall, heavily built man, but Moreta could never dispel that notion on the infrequent occasions when she rode the lesser dragons of the Weyr.

Malth waited a respectful moment to be sure that Moreta was settled and then sprang lightly upward. Diving blind into the fog disoriented Moreta despite her absolute faith in Malth.

«You would not worry on me,» Orlith said plaintively. «I'm not that egg-heavy yet.»

«I know, love!»

Malth hovered for a moment in the gray gloom, then Moreta felt the lightest of jars through the dragon's slender frame as she landed on her weyr ledge.

«Thank you, Malth!» Moreta projected her voice loudly to give further warning to the weyr occupants then dismounted and walked toward the yellow gleam spilling from the weyr into the corridor. She couldn't see her feet or the ledge. She looked behind her, at the dragon who appeared to be suspended in the fog, but Malth's eyes whirled slowly with encouragement.

«Don't come in here,» S'gor called urgently, and his figure blocked the light.

«S'gor, I really cannot stand out here in the fog. I gave you plenty of warning.» This was not the time for a rider to be coy.

«It's the illness, Moreta. Berchar's got it. He's terribly unwell and he said I mustn't let anyone in the weyr.» S'gor stepped back as he spoke, whereupon Moreta walked purposefully down the aisle and to the weyr. S'gor backed to the sleeping alcove, which he now guarded with outstretched arms.

«I must speak with him, S'gor.» Moreta continued toward the alcove.

«No, really, Moreta. It won't do you any good. He's out of his head. And don't touch me, either. I'm probably contaminated …» S'gor moved to one side rather than risk contact with his Weyrwoman. The incoherent mumbles of a feverish man grew audible during the slight pause in the conversation. «You see?» S'gor felt himself vindicated.

Moreta pushed back the curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from the weyr and stood on the threshold. Even in the dim light she could see the change sickness had made in Berchar. His features were now drawn by fever and his skin was pale and moist. Moreta saw Berchar's medicine case lay open on the table and walked over to it. «How long has he been ill?» She lifted the first bottle left on the table.

«He was feeling wretched yesterday, terrible headache, so we didn't go to either of the Gathers as we'd planned.» S'gor fiddled nervously with the bottles on the table. «He was perfectly all right at breakfast. We were going to Ista, to see that animal. Then Berch says he has this splitting headache and he'd have to lie down. I didn't believe him at first,»

«He took sweatroot for headache?»

«No. He took willow salic, of course.» S'gor held up the bottle of crystals.

«Then sweatroot?»

«Yes, for all the good it did him. He was burning up by midday and then insisted on having this,» S'gor read the label, «this aconite. I thought that very odd indeed since I have been of assistance to him several times and he told me off rather abruptly for questioning a healer. This morning, though, he asked me to make him an infusion of featherfern, which I did, and told me to add ten drops of fellis juice. He said he ached all over.»

Moreta nodded in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Aconite for a headache and fever? She could understand featherfern and fellis juice.

«Was his fever high?»

«He knew what he was doing, if that's what you mean.» S'gor sounded defensive.

«I'm sure he did, S'gor. He is a Masterhealer, and Fort Weyr's been fortunate to have him assigned to us. What else did he tell you to do?»

«To keep everyone from visiting.» He stared resentfully at Moreta. She did not blink or look away, merely waited until he had himself in control again. «Essence of featherfern undiluted every two hours until the fever abates and fellis juice every four hours, but no sooner than four hours.»

«Did he think he had contracted the fever from K'lon?»

«Berchar would never discuss his patients with me!»

«I wish he had this once.»

S'gor looked frightened. «Has K'lon taken a turn for the worst?»

«No, he's sleeping quite naturally.» Moreta wished that she could enjoy the same privilege. «I would like a few words with Berchar when his fever drops, S'gor. Do not fail to inform me. It's very important.» She looked down at the sick man with conflicting doubts. If K'lon had the same disease that Master Capiam had diagnosed as an epidemic, why had he recovered when people in southeast Pern were dying? Could it be due to the circumstances of hold life? Were overcrowding in the holds and the unseasonably warm weather promoting the spread of the disease? She realized that her pause was alarming S'gor. «Follow Berchar's instructions. I'll see that you won't be troubled further. Have Malth inform Orlith when Berchar may talk to me. And do thank Malth for conveying me. I know that she was reluctant to disobey.»

S'gor's eyes assumed the unfocused gaze that indicated he was conversing with his dragon. But he smiled as he looked down at Moreta.

«Malth says you're welcome and she'll take you down now.» Dropping back to the Bowl through the thick mist was an eerie sensation.

«Malth would not dare drop her Weyrwoman,» Orlith said stoutly.

«I sincerely trust not but I cannot see my hand in front of my nose.» Then the green dragon daintily backwinged to land Moreta in the same spot by the Lower Caverns from which she had taken off. The fog rolled in a huge spiral as Malth spurted back to her weyr.

Not sweatroot, Moreta was thinking, to bring a fever out of a body. Featherfern to reduce it. Aconite to ease the heart? That bad a fever. And fellis juice for aches. Sh'gall had not reported aches in Capiam's symptoms. She wished she'd had a chance to talk to Berchar. Maybe she should see if K'lon was awake.

«He sleeps,» Oriith said. «You should sleep awhile.»

Moreta did feel weary now that the stimulus provided by Sh'gall's startling announcement had worn off. What had begun as a mist was now an impenetrable fog. She could get lost trying to find the infirmary.

«You can always find me,» Orlith assured her. «Turn slightly to your left and all you'll have to do is walk straight toward me. I'll have you back in the weyr safely.»

«I'll just have a few hours' sleep,» Moreta said. She needed the rest that had been interrupted by Sh'gall's precipitous entry. She'd done what she could for now, and she'd check on her medicines before she went up the stairs to her weyr. She made the slight left turn.

Now just walk straight,» Orlith advised her.

That was far easier for the dragon to say than for Moreta to do. In a few steps she couldn't even distinguish the bright yellow light from the Lower Caverns; then Orlith's mental touch steadied her and she walked on confidently, the mist swirling in behind her and pushing away before each time she raised a knee.

K'lon had recovered; her mind dwelled on that thought. Even if holders died, K'lon the dragonrider had survived. Sh'gall had been very tired, hadn't slept when he burst in on her, perhaps he had not got all his facts straight. No, S'peren had said something about illness. Fall was tomorrow and she'd had such a good day, with the exception of the runnerbeast's collapse.

«Don't fret so,» Orlith advised. «You have done all you can with so few people awake to tell. There is sure to be something in the Records. Leri will find it.»

«It's the fog, silly. It's depressing. I feel as if I'm moving nowhere forever.»

«You are near me now. You are almost at the steps.»

And soon enough for Moreta to be wary. She kicked the bottom step with her right foot. Behind her the mist surged. She found the wall with one hand and then the frame to the storeroom. The tumblers of the lock were so old that Moreta often wondered why they bothered to use it. When the Pass was over, she'd speak to one of the mastersmiths. Now she didn't even need light for there was a click as the tumblers fell into place. She heaved at the massive door to start it swinging on its hinges. Even the fog could not mask the compound odors released by its opening. Moreta reached up and nipped open the glowbasket, her senses pleasantly assailed and reassured by the pungent spicyness of stored herbs. As she moved farther into the room, she could identify the subtler fragrances and smells. She didn't need to uncover the central light; she knew where the febrifuges were stored. To her eyes, the well-filled shelves and the bundles of featherfern drying on the rack looked more than adequate even if everyone in the Weyr were to come down with illness. She could very faintly hear the furtive slither of tunnel snakes. The pests had their own ways in and out of solid rock. She must get Nesso to put down more poison. Aconite was to the right, a square glass container full of the powdered root. Plenty of willow salic, and four large jars of fellis juice. Sh'gall had mentioned a cough. Moreta turned to those remedies: tussilago, comfrey, hyssop, thymus, ezob, borrago. More than enough. When the Ancients had made the Crossing, they had brought with them all the medicinal herbs and trees with which they had eased illness and discomfort. Surely some would answer the problem of the new disease.

She walked back to the door, closed the glow, resting her hand a moment on the door frame, smooth from generations of hands resting just as she did. Generations! Yes, generations that had survived all kinds of bizarre happenings and unusual illnesses, and would survive this one!

The fog had not abated, and she could see the staircase as only a darker shadow. Her foot kicked the first riser.

«Be easeful,» Oriith said.

«I will.» Moreta's right hand crept along the wall as she ascended. She seemed to be walking upward into nothing until her lead foot discovered the safety of the next step and the mist churned about her. But Orlith kept murmuring encouragement until Moreta laughed, saying she was only a few steps from her weyr and her bed. For all of that, she nearly missed her step at the landing for the light from her weyr was diminished to a feeble glow.

The weyr was noticeably warmer. The golden dragon's eyes gleamed as Moreta crossed to caress her, scratching Orlith's eye ridges. She leaned gratefully against Orlith's head, thinking that Orlith exuded an odor that was a combination of all the best herbs and spices.

«You are tired. You must get some sleep now.»

«Ordering me about again, huh?» But Moreta was on her way to her sleeping quarters. She pulled off tunic and trousers and, sliding into the furs, arranged them around her shoulders and was very quickly asleep.