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 himbut he was recovered by then. Mind you, I shouldn’t go telling everyone sudden-like about the symptoms, as we’ll have enough sore heads this mom-ing 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
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern 77
Malth had been reluctant to obey the summons. Malth should have known that the Weyrwoman would not intrude unnecessarily.
Malth does, was Oriith’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 dispell 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 Wo the weyr. S’gor backed to the sleeping alcove, which he now guarded with outstretched arms.