Moreta (5 page)

“I expect he wouldn’t have named you successor on your merits as a breeder alone. What else have you been up to?”

Alessan winked at her. “The Weyr commands my services, Lady, not my secrets.”

“I’ve found
one
out. Shall I—” Moreta paused, suddenly aware that their laughing exchanges were being closely observed. Why shouldn’t she laugh at a Gather? She gave R’limeak a stern glare, and the blue rider looked away.

Noting her change of expression, Alessan glanced about them and swore under his breath. “Not even on a half-built wall in full sight of a Gather!” he said acidly. He swore again as he saw Lord Tolocamp and the women moving purposefully toward the wall.

“Shards!” Moreta said. “I will not have the racing spoiled by chitchat and courtship. Look, we’ll be able to see just as well from over there!” She pointed to a slight rise in the field below the roadway. Then she gathered her skirts and started to pick a careful path down the pile of stones waiting to be set into the wall. “And do collect that skin of white wine.”

“Be careful, you’ll break your neck!” Alessan urgently signaled the servitor to hand over the wineskin, then he was following her before anyone was aware of their intentions.

Rocks shifting under their feet, Moreta and Alessan reached the roadway without mishap, then hurried behind the stalls and down the open field to the rise. When Moreta felt burrs pulling at her full skirts, she bundled them higher.

“No propriety in you at all today.” Alessan shook his head at her undignified lope, though he was placing his elegantly booted feet with a care for rough ground.

“This is a Gather. An informal occasion.”

“You are not dressed informally.” He caught her by the elbow as she tripped. “That gown was not designed for cross-country scrambles: Ah! Here we are”—he came to an abrupt halt—“an unimpeded view of the start and finish lines. Let me fill your goblet.”

“Please.” Moreta held it up.

“Why didn’t I know that the Fort Weyrwoman liked racing enough to desert the forecourt and its pleasures?”

“I’ve been at all Ruatha’s Gathers the past ten Turns—”

“Up
there,
though.” He gestured back to the forecourt.

“Of course, as befits my rank. L’mal didn’t like me to roam the picket lines.”

“Which was where I generally was.” Alessan grinned.

“Learning how to breed winners?”

“Of course not.” Alessan feigned shocked innocence. “I was supposed to breed stamina, not speed.
My
Gather duties were to assist our race-course manager, Norman.”

Moreta lifted her goblet again. “To the man who perservered and won the race!”

Alessan was quick-witted and grinned at her subtlety. Their eyes met in a candid gaze. Moreta felt a growing affinity for the new Lord Holder and not only because of their mutual interest in race runners. His mind was unpredictable, certainly not in the pattern of the usual Lord Holder, if she compared him to Tolocamp, Ratoshigan, or Diatis. He was good company, with a fine sense of humor; if he danced as well as he did everything else, she might just monopolize him this evening.

Two more dragons arrived midair as she glanced up, away from Alessan’s light-green, compelling gaze. Then her eyes dropped slightly to admire Orlith, ensconced right above the main hold door, and she thought how well Orlith’s golden hide complimented the window hangings on the top tier. Embarrassed, she looked away, aware that Alessan had been watching her.

“A habit, really,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.

“Surely after twenty Turns as partners—”

“Are you already accustomed to being Lord of Ruatha Hold?”

“Not yet. I’ve only been—” Alessan broke off, his eyes on her face, noting her fond smile. “Even after twenty Turns?”

“Ah
,
look. The flag for the next race!” She diverted his attention. One could never explain the bond to someone who wasn’t a dragonrider. Impression was a private miracle, a very private miracle.

CHAPTER II

Ruatha Hold, Present Pass, 3.10.43

T
HE SECOND RACE
was over a greater length, the winning poles having been moved down the field and farther apart to accommodate the larger number of middle-distance runners.

“Have you an entry in this race, too?” she asked Alessan as the runners charged away from the start.

“No. I got either spindly sprinters or massive carters from my crosses. But one of my holders has a strong contestant-blue with red hatching are the colors. Not that you can distinguish them.”

The field had already begun to stretch out when suddenly an animal in the middle of the pack fell, tripping two others. Moreta could never watch a bad tangle without apprehension. She was holding her breath as she silently urged each animal to its feet. Two rose, one groggily shaking its head, the second running on down the field, riderless. The third made no effort to rise.

Moreta picked up her skirts and began to run toward the fallen runner.

“It shouldn’t’ve fallen.”
Orlith!

“Close-packed field. Tripped.” Alessan kept pace with her, caught up in her concern.

“Not that close, and it wasn’t a trip fall.” She saved her breath for running even when she had seen that the two riders were examining the fallen beast and that handlers were running up from the starting line.
Orlith, what’s wrong? Why doesn’t it get up?

As she got closer, Moreta could see the sprawled beast’s sides heaving. Its nose touched the ground yet it made no effort to rise. That was unusual enough. Runners preferred to stand.

Did it break a leg, Orlith?

“It can’t get its breath,” one rider was saying to the other. “It’s got a bloody nose.”

“Probably ruptured a vein falling. Just get it to its feet. Here, I’ll help.” The second rider began to tug at the bridle.

Orlith, wake up! I need you.

“It should’ve got to its feet. Lord Alessan! Lady Moreta!” The first rider turned anxiously to them, and Moreta recognized the man as Helly, a capable herdsman and racer.

It cannot breathe,
Orlith responded sleepily. She sounded a bit grumpy at being roused.
Its lungs are full of liquid.

Moreta knelt at the animal’s head, noticing the distressed flare of the nostrils, the bloody discharge. She felt for the pulse in its throat, weak and far too erratic for an animal that had only run a few dragon-lengths before falling.

Around her men were shouting that the runner should be assisted to its feet. Several positioned themselves to heave. Moreta waved them off imperiously.

“It can’t breathe. No air is getting into its lungs.”

“Cut into its windpipe. Who’s got a sharp blade?”

“It’s too late,” Moreta said as she peeled back the upper lip, exposing the whitened gums.

The onlookers knew, as she did, that the animal was dying. From the finish line the sound of cheering drifted back to those circling the faller. It gave one final sigh, almost apologetic, and the head rolled to the side.

“Ain’t seen nothing like this before,” the second rider said. “And I been riding since I could tighten a girth.”

“You were riding it, Helly?” Alessan asked.

“Yes, doing a favor for Vander. His jock was sick. I’ve never ridden it before. Seemed quiet.” Helly stopped, considered. “Too quiet, now I think about it. Rode in the first race, and this one was all ready for me . . . Broke well at the start as if it wanted to work!” Helly’s tone was a mixture of despair, anger, and surprise.

“Could’ve been the heart,” one of the onlookers suggested in a tone of broad experience. “That takes ’em sudden. No way of telling. Runner in good spirit one moment, dead the next. Takes people that way, too.”

Not, Moreta thought, with a bloody nasal discharge.

“Here now,” a loud voice cried. “What’s the matter here? Why isn’t this animal . . . Oh, Lord Alessan. Didn’t know you were here!” The race manager had pushed his way into the circle. “It’s dead? Excuse me, Lord Alessan, but we do have to clear the track for the next race.”

Alessan took the shaken Helly by the arm. Moreta stepped to the man’s other side, leading him through the pathway courteously made by the crowd.

“I don’t understand it. No, I don’t.” Helly was obviously in shock.

Moreta realized that she still had the wine goblet and held it up to Alessan, who quickly unslung the wineskin and poured a full cup. Moreta gave it to Helly. The racer drank the contents in one gulp.

“Helly, what happened? Did it plait its legs or something?”

The stocky man, dressed in Ruathan colors, staggered as he realized who was assisting Helly. While trying to hold a pad of wet toweling to his forehead, he also attempted to bow to Alessan and Moreta. And staggered again.

“Helly, what happened? Oh, shards!” The last was said in a low voice as a cart bearing the dead animal off the track rumbled into view.

“Vander, are you all right?” Helly demanded. He handed Moreta her goblet and went to the stunned holder. Helly supported Vander in the wake of the cart.

Moreta, Alessan by her side, watched the activity of Gather races swirl and close behind the sad procession. Men, laden with tack or blankets or buckets of water, briskly moved toward the picket lines. The sound of urgent conversations and shouts was occasionally punctuated by the squeal of excited runners.

“I
cannot
remember a respiratory illness that would result in such a remarkably swift death,” Moreta said.

“I’d’ve said the animal was only stunned by the fall and would have gotten it to its feet,” Alessan remarked. “How did you know what ailed it so fast?”

“My family has always raised runners,” she explained quickly, for it was not common knowledge outside the Weyrs that she and Orlith worked together in healing.

“Your early training must have been remarkable. I thought I’d learned a thing or two about runners.”

“If you bred that sprinter while looking for endurance stock, you do.”

Just then two runners, long-distance racers by the look of them, were led past, and Moreta kept her eyes on them until they mixed into the crowd.

“Nothing wrong with them, is there?”

“Oh, no. They look racing fit. Not so much as a nervous sweat on them.”

“Has it been crossing your mind that Vander’s runner dropped dead of an illness?”

“It crossed my mind,” Moreta agreed, “but it’s highly unlikely. Helly said the runner
wanted
to race. A sick one wouldn’t. Could have been the heart.”

“Well, I’m not looking for trouble. Not today, at my first Gather.” Alessan frowned and turned slowly on his right heel, casting his eyes down the rows of picketed runners. “It has to be a fluke. I know Vander. His hold’s a good day’s ride south. He’s been saving that particular runner for this race.” Alessan sighed. “We can have a look at the rest of his string. They’d be picketed over here if I recall the assignments.” Alessan took Moreta’s arm, guiding her to the right.

If the beast had been fit, Moreta thought, how could its lungs have filled so quickly? She considered asking Orlith but she sensed that the queen had returned to sleep. Runners did not have the same priority with the dragon as they did with the rider.

Alessan pulled Moreta to him suddenly as a rangy beast plunged past them, its eyes wild as it anticipated its race, the rider barely able to stay in the pad. Two handlers jogged along, at a distance respectful of the kicking range of an excited runner. Moreta watched its progress to the starting line.

“Well?” Alessan’s tenor voice asked in her ear.

She was abruptly aware that she was still in his loose protective embrace.

“No, that one seemed far from ill.” She moved away from him.

“And here’s Vander’s picket.” Messan counted them. “As I recall he’d entered seven. Did you say you were from Keroon? This is a runner he bought from Keroon last Turn.”

Moreta laughed as she let the runner sniff her hand. She stroked its head until it accepted her touch then she felt its warm ear for the breed tattoo.

“No, it didn’t come from my family’s hold.”

Alessan grinned at her whimsy as he examined the other animals. “They’re in good shape. Vander got here two days ago to rest them well before the races. I’ll have a word with him later. Shall we get back to the races—Shells!” The shouts and movements of the crowd indicated that the next race had started. Alessan looked abashed. “Now you’ve missed
another
race.”

“I watch the racing because, in my exalted position as Weyrwoman, that is much more dignified than scrambling around the pickets. Which is what I would rather do. Now that we’re here, could I see your winner? I’ve a suspicion that only a sense of duty to your guest has kept you from checking it.”

The relief and delight in Alessan’s eyes confirmed her guess. He had just indicated the proper direction when a short man with the heavy chest, well-developed arms, and thin shanks of a rider trotted toward them, his face wearing the broadest of smiles.

“Lord Alessan? Have you been looking for Squealer?”

“I have indeed, Dag. Well done! Well done!” Alessan shook Dag by the hand and thumped him across the shoulders. “A fine race. Perfect!”

Dag gave Moreta a stiffly correct bow.

“You are to be congratulated on training a winner,” Moreta said. Then she couldn’t resist adding, “It’s few people could contrive against Lord Leef.”

Dag’s expression was one of shock, betrayal, and consternation. “Lady Moreta, I wouldn’t . . . I didn’t.”

Alessan laughed and gave Dag a reassuring clout on the shoulder. “Lady Moreta’s runnerhold bred. She approves.”

“Where is this Squealer of yours, Dag? I very much want a closer look at such a success.”

“This way, Lady. And now he’s not all that much to look at close on, mind you,” Dag began in the deprecating way of all devoted handlers. “Over to the right, if you would. I walked him cool, Lord Alessan, and washed him down with tepid water. Race didn’t take a thing out of him. He could go again . . .” Dag caught himself short with a startled glance at the Lord Holder and the Weyrwoman.

“It’s a full male then?” Moreta asked, rescuing Dag from indiscretion.

“That he is. On account of him looking so weedy, I always managed to convince the herdmaster that he was too young yet to be gelded, or too sickly, and shouldn’t we wait awhile. Then I’d sneak him off to another field.”

“Turn after Turn?” Moreta was impressed by such devotion.

“Squealer doesn’t have any distinguishing marks to set him in a man’s mind,” Alessan said. “There he is.”

Suddenly Moreta faced a scrawny, thin-legged, big-kneed, mid-brown runner, standing all by itself at the end of a half-empty picket line. In a pause during which she wracked her brain to find something creditable to say about the beast, all she could see was the length of empty pickets.

“He has a kind eye,” she said, blurting it out. “Well placed in the head.”

As if Squealer knew he was under discussion, he turned his head and regarded her.

“Intelligence, too. Heart. Calm.”

Squealer ducked his head, seemingly agreeing with her points so that all three laughed.

“There really isn’t much good you can say about Squealer,” Alessan said, absolving her from further comment. He swatted the runner affectionately on the neck.

“Squealer won his first race, Lord Alessan. That’s all that needs to be said of him. May he win many more. But not,” Moreta added slyly, “all on the same day.”

Dag groaned and turned away with embarrassed mortification.

“Lord Alessan, had you expected many more entries?” Moreta asked, gesturing toward the unused pickets.

“Dag, you were assisting Norman . . .”

“Well, we did expect a fair turnout, what with fine weather over the past sevendays and plenty of holds to shelter strings on the road. Come to think on it, I’d expected Lord Ratoshigan to sail his sprinter up—that one he’s been winning with all season. That herdsman of his was boasting at their Gather—”

“I’m not sorry that we didn’t get to pit Squealer against the best in the west, but perhaps Ratoshigan’s absence ensured his win.”

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

“Starting line or finishing?” Alessan asked Moreta.

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

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

“I wonder why Ratoshigan didn’t come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun is warm. You will dry fast.

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

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

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