Moreta (35 page)

“Now it’s my turn to pick,” Moreta said, nibbling at his ear and running her hands through his thick hair. “Someone must be able to give you a trim,” she murmured solicitously. Alessan was beginning to look like his former shaggy self, and that annoyed her.

“I’ll trim you if you don’t get to work, Moreta.”

“I work faster than you.” She allowed herself to sound peevish as she snapped quick handfuls off the nearest bush, piling them for him to pack.

“Can’t you two get along together?” B’lerion demanded, bursting suddenly from around a bend of the ravine.

“She’ll learn!” “He’ll learn!” they said in chorus, waving cheerfully. B’lerion looked at them for a long moment then stalked off.

“Work now, play later,” Moreta said, continuing to strip the needlethorns down.

“It’s as easy to combine work and play.” Alessan drew a gentle finger from her ear to her shoulder.

They worked steadily, but each utilized every opportunity for a quick caress or a kiss exchanged as deft hands folded
ging
over a pile of needlethorns. They knelt by the bushes, knees or thighs touching. Moreta felt the light hairs of her arms rising toward his, she was becoming so sensitized to the delightful friction of his proximity. She had an idiotic desire to giggle and saw that Alessan, too, wore a rather foolish grin on his face most of the time. They were scarcely conscious of the others and almost forgot their existence until B’lerion and Oklina crashed to the top of the ravine.

“You have been busy,” B’lerion said with grudging approval. “Haven’t you noticed the heat?” He had stripped to the waist, and Oklina had tied her shirt up under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. She carried four nets of packaged needlethorns. “I’m hungry, too, even if you aren’t.” He swung his shirt by the sleeves so that its burden was discernible. “Found some ripe fruit and chopped down one of those palms for the edible heart. You can’t keep on at the pace you’ve been going”—he gestured to the filled nets—“without sustenance and a bit of a rest in this humidity. Capiam! Desdra! Let’s eat!”

Capiam and Desdra were arguing about the astringent properties of the
ging
sap when they sauntered up to join the others. Capiam, too, had stripped off his tunic, which was now draped over his shoulders. He was very thin, his ribs showing plainly.

“I know it’s hot,” Moreta began adroitly, “but none of us can return to Ruatha suffering from sunburn.”

Capiam exhibited a leaf he was using as a fan. “Or heat prostration.” He raised his eyebrows in satisfaction with the filled nets. “We left ours back a bit. I rather thought we should rest, as is the custom on this hot island, during the hottest part of the day.”

Everyone agreed that that was a sensible idea.

“I found some melons and the red roots that Istans are so fond of,” Desdra said, producing her contribution.

“There’re clusters of softnuts on all the trees, Alessan. That is, if you can climb at all,” Moreta said.

“I climb, you catch.”

Alessan took off his shirt to keep it from being torn. Moreta used it as a receptacle for the softnuts. He was a dexterous climber and a swift picker. When finished, he sought his reward in a close embrace, his hands slipping up the back of her tunic, caressing her shoulders as she found, to her surprise, that his skin was as soft as Orlith’s and the smell of him almost spicy in his maleness.

They recalled themselves to the task, not wishing to take too long for what was a simple enough operation. Moreta decided that her flush would be attributed to an incipient sunburn.

“Sun’s rays at this latitude are too strong for winter-white skins,” Desdra said, lounging on some
ging
fronds that she and Capiam cut just for that purpose. “And that heat’s enough to drain anyone,” she added, making use of Capiam’s fan.

They relaxed during the meal. The red roots were succulent, the softnuts just ripe, and the melons so close to fermentation that the juice had a winey tang to it. The palm heart was crisply cool and crunchy, a nice texture to complement the others. Throughout the meal, B’lerion kept up a stream of quip and comment about his being one-handed in a venture that was destined to save the continent. Would he receive full marks for his participation or just half for the hand that had worked?

“Is he always like this?” Alessan asked quietly after B’lerion had told an extravagantly funny tale at the expense of Lord Diatis’s reputation. “He’s better than most harpers.”

“He sings a good descant, but B’lerion’s always seemed to be the epitome of a bronze rider.”

“Why, then, is he not your Weyrmate?”

“Orlith chose Kadith.”

“Do
you
not have any say in the matter?” Alessan was irritated for her sake. From remarks he had made during their morning’s work, she knew that Alessan didn’t like Sh’gall and wondered just how much their new relationship would strain Ruatha’s dependence on Fort’s Weyrleader. She was struggling to find an honest reply to a question she had evaded in her own heart, when Alessan contritely covered her hand, his expression pleading with her to forgive his rash remarks. “I’m sorry, Moreta. That is a Weyr matter.”

“To answer you in part, B’lerion
is
always like that,” she said. “Charming, amusing. But Sh’gall
leads
men well, and he has an instinct about Fall which his predecessor, old L’mal, considered uncanny.”

“Well, well, B’lerion, I’d never heard that particular narrative.” Capiam was still chuckling as he hoisted himself to his feet. “I suppose harpers must be discreet in circulating their tales.” He extended his hand to Desdra. “Can you remember exactly where you saw those astringent plants, Desdra? I know we’re here for needlethorn, but the Hall’s supplies are dreadfully short.”

“We’ll look at the plants but, my dear Master Capiam, you are also going to rest through the heat of the day.” Neither healer looked back as they disappeared up the ravine and around the first bend.

“Well, I suppose that one must allow an older man some rest,” B’lerion said. “Come, Oklina, there’s plenty of shade in our patch of needlethorn, and a smart breeze. We shall put our time to the use intended!”

Smiling affably, B’lerion made a running leap up the ravine, turning only to lend a long arm to Oklina. They disappeared from view, and the thick foliage settled to stillness in the thick noontime heat.

“If he expects me to believe that . . .” Alessan finished his sentence with a chuckle. Then, taking a deep breath, he pulled Moreta against him and kissed her deeply and sensually, his hand deftly stroking her to arousal. “Come on, Moreta, I’m not chancing another attack by those needlethorns.” He led her from the ravine toward the cliff. “What I’d like to understand is why that blue dragon of M’barak’s is sniffing around Oklina. I could understand Nabeth with B’lerion entranced by her, but Arith . . . Would it have anything to do with that queen egg on the Hatching Ground as Tuero suggested?”

“It might, but Fort Weyr would not deplete your bloodline by Searching Oklina, Alessan.”

“This will do. Let’s just throw down some
ging
fronds,” Alessan said, hauling on the nearest at hand. “I won’t have you bruised, either. That would be almost as hard to explain as a sunburn or heat prostration.” Moreta helped him arrange a bower, all her senses suddenly awake, wishing that Orlith, not Nabeth, were on the Istan ledge. “About Oklina, now, since I’ve been reliably informed”—Alessan paused to grin at her, his light eyes vividly sparkling with merriment—“that she already has dragonrider blood in her . . .” Then he turned briefly serious. “If it could be understood that her children would return to Ruatha, I would not stand in Oklina’s way if she had the chance to Impress a dragon.” He dumped his last handful of frond on the ground with a decisive gesture and pulled Moreta into his arms. “I’m not my father, you know.”

“I wouldn’t
be
in a rainforest with your father.”

“Why not? He was a lusty man. And I intend to prove that I’m a suitable heir to his reputation!”

She was laughing as he laid her down on the sun-dappled frond bed. And he proved himself as lusty—and tender—as any woman could wish a man. For a shining moment at the height of their passion, Moreta forgot everything but Alessan.

The heat of the day did overcome them briefly, and they slumbered in each other’s arms until tiny insects sought the moisture of their bodies and made them uncomfortable enough to wake.

“I’m eaten alive!” Alessan cried, pinning one of the biting insects to his forearm.

“Take some of that broad-leafed vine, the one climbing the tree by your side,” Moreta said. “Bruise its leaves. It’ll neutralize the sting.”

“How d’you know so much?”

“I did Impress at Ista. I know its hazards.”

They spent considerably more time neutralizing one another’s insect bites than was necessary. When Alessan, trying to kiss her, got too much of the astringent liquid on his lips and his mouth began to pucker, they laughed and were still laughing about that when they returned to the ravine, slightly cooler now that the westering sun no longer shone directly above it.

When the tropical dusk had made work impossible, the six of them gathered on the ledge where Nabeth lounged somnolently and began to stack filled nets.

“Nabeth says”—B’lerion thudded the bronze dragon affectionately on the cheek—“that the only moving things he saw were fire-lizards fishing! He’s got a good sense of humor, my bronze lad. I hope we’ve got enough for your purpose, Master Capiam, because I’m telling you, this single hand of mine”—he held it out to display the tracery of thorn scratches—“has done enough today!”

Capiam and Desdra gazed speculatively at the nets and then at each other. Desdra covered her mouth and turned away. Capiam looked distressed.

“Did anyone remember to count?” he asked, beseeching each one in turn.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” B’lerion said firmly, “I’m not going to count ’em now.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it!”

“However, I would gladly return to this secluded spot to pluck whatever number you find you lack.”

Moreta tapped him on the shoulder. “Not here, B’lerion. If, by any possible chance, we did not pick enough today, go to Nerat. Not here.”

“Oh, yes. That would prevent a time paradox. And the moons would be in roughly the same alignment on Nerat tip.”

“Well, if that’s settled, I expect we’d best return,” Capiam said wearily.

“On the contrary, my dear Master Capiam, that would be a sure clue to our day’s employment.” B’lerion clucked his tongue. “We leave Ruatha energetic and in great spirit and arrive, an hour later, exhausted, reddened, hungry. Oklina, which one is the dinner net? Oh, here we are. Just settle yourselves. Use Nabeth as a backrest. There’s more than enough of him to go round.”

Oklina handed him a net of tied vines, which he hoisted so that all could see balls of hard-baked mud.

“Did a bit of fishing during my rest,” B’lerion said, his broad grin daring anyone to challenge the truth of his statement, “and Oklina found the tubers. So we baked them. On the rocks in the ravine this noon it was hot enough to fry a dragon egg—begging your pardon, Moreta. A good meal would go down now without a struggle, wouldn’t it? And while there’s light enough, Alessan, if you and Moreta could find a few more of those ripe melons, why, we’d have a feast fit for a—Hatching!” B’lerion caught himself so quickly that only Moreta knew that he had quickly substituted one festive occasion for another less painful one.

She had distracted Alessan by pulling him after her to find the melons. They knew exactly where to find more, since they’d raided the patch several times in the afternoon to slake their thirst.

Hunger was part of the fatigue they all felt, and Moreta was glad to take her share from Oklina and thank the girl for such foresight.

“It was B’lerion’s idea, you know,” Oklina said. “He actually tickled the fish to catch them.”

“Did he teach you how?” Alessan asked.

“No,” Oklina replied with admirable composure. “Dag did. The same principal works in our rivers as Ista’s.”

Moreta could not resist chuckling at Alessan’s expression as he sank beside her.

“On mature reflection, I think she deserves to be in a Weyr,” Alessan said in a severe undertone. Then he realized that he was leaning against a bronze dragon and jerked forward apprehensively.

“Nabeth won’t mind. He’s an old friend of mine, too.”

With a mutter of mock discontent, Alessan cracked the mud to produce a long slender tuber, then Moreta broke one open to prize out the fish, and they shared bits of the contents, keeping the second course warm.

“What a clever fellow you are,” Capiam said, his mouth half full. He and Desdra had arranged themselves in the curve of Nabeth’s tail. Desdra nodded agreement, too busy licking her fingers to speak.

“I have a few talents,” B’lerion said with a becoming show of modesty. “Eating is one of my few bad habits. Fruit is all very well in the heat of the day but something warms soothes the belly before sleep . . .”

“Sleep!” Capiam and Moreta protested simultaneously.

B’lerion held up a restraining hand. “Sleep”—he pointed his finger sternly at Moreta—“for you have to mend dragons after Fall in another four hours. You can’t do that effectively after the day you just put in.” He flipped his hand toward the carry-nets lying in the shadows. “You, Alessan, will have to vaccinate and escort those priceless brood mares and foals of yours down from the meadows. I do not see you permitting anyone else to head that expedition. Desdra and Capiam, you will be returning to the pressures of expanding this vaccination program of yours to include runnerbeasts. So we shall finish our meal and then we shall sleep.” He allowed the sibilance of the word to emphasize his meaning. “When Belior has risen, Nabeth will rouse us, won’t you, my fine fellow?” B’lerion thumped his dragon’s neck. “And we’ll all be the better for the time spent
here.
”

“B’lerion,” Moreta protested vigorously, “I really should get back to Orlith.”

“Orlith’s fine, my dear girl. Fine! You’re only going to be gone an hour in real time. And frankly, dear friend, you look dead right now!” B’lerion leaned over to ruffle her hair in a proprietary gesture that made Alessan tense beside her. Moreta quickly checked him with a hand on his thigh. “And anyway,” B’lerion continued affably, “you’ve no choice, Moreta.” And his grin widened with keen amusement. “You can’t leave here except on Nabeth and he follows
my
orders.”