of the fourth race.
“Now I believe that you were once a holder lass,” Alessan said with a soft chuckle. He handed her a full goblet of wine. “The Benden did not get wet.”
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern 31
“Well, that’s luck!”
The handler bobbed an approach, apologizing and bowing and generally so abasing himself that Moreta cut him short by remarking that worse things had come flying out of a picket line, and she was grateful it was no more than dirty water. Alessan escorted her to-ward the finish line.
“Last one was a sprint, only five entries,” he mentioned as they walked.
“And Squealer wasn’t entered?” She laughed as Alessan gave her a pained look, imitating Dag.
The next races were exciting enough to make up for those she had missed and to blot out the tragedy of the second. She and Alessan, looking far less the Lord of the Hold with his fine clothes puckered and soiled, found themselves vantages near the finish and sipped wine. They made private bets about winners when Moreta refused to allow Alessan to mark her with the wagermen. She enjoyed, too, being right in the midst of the racing crowd as she had so often been as a young girl in Keroon, in the company of her childhood friend Talpan. She hadn’t thought of him in Turns.
An enterprising baker passed among the finish-line crowds with a tray of hot spiced rolls. Moreta hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the aroma wafted over to her.
“I’m host today,” Alessan said, noticing her reaction. He took her arm and they pushed their way through to the baker.
The flaky pastry was stuffed with a savory mix, and Moreta quickly devoured three rolls.
“Don’t they feed you in the Weyr on a Gather day?” Alessan asked.
“Oh, the stew pot’s always simmering in the Cavern,” she replied, licking her fingers appreciatively. “But stew wouldn’t taste half as good as these spiced rolls do right now.”
Alessan was eyeing her, a curious expression on his face.
“You’re not at all what I expected in Weyrwoman Moreta,” he said in a candid tone that captured her complete attention. Wearily she wondered what Sh’gall had said of her. Alessan went on, “I got to know Leri rather well. She usually stays on for a word with the ground crews …”
“I would if I could,” Moreta said, countering his tacit criticism, “but I have to return to the Weyr immediately after Fall.”
32
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern
“Have to?” Alessan’s right eye quirked high.
“Did you never wonder who takes care of dragon injuries?” She spoke more sharply than she intended because she had been able to forget that they would rise to Fall in two more days, and more
dragons might be injured. “I’d thought that the Weyr must have the best of the healers, of
course.” Alessan’s reply was so formal that Moreta regretted the quick retort. She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to restore the ease
of their relationship.
“I never realized it might be you.” He smiled and covered her hand with his. “What about another spiced roll before someone else
eats them all?”
“Lord Alessan …” Dag came rolling up to them. “Runel’s go-ing on about Squealer being a sport. I tol’im the breeding, but he
won’t take it from me.” Alessan’s expression became pained, and he closed his eyes briefly.
“I was hoping to avoid Runel this Gather.” “You done pretty well with everyone else, Lord, but I can’t do this
for you.” Alessan inhaled the breath of one resigned.
“Who’s Runel?” Moreta asked. The two men regarded her with astonishment. “You mean, you’ve escaped Runel?” Amusement chased resignation from Alessan’s expression. “Well, you must meet him at least
once.”
Dag made a sound, half protest, half fear.
“And the race is due to start,” Alessan reminded Dag. “Weyrwoman, that’s the only thing, short of Fall, that will halt Runel’s
recitations.”
By now, Moreta was intrigued.
“He’s over there, with those cronies of his.” Dag pointed.
Moreta noted first that the three men stood isolated by a clear space from any immediate neighbors. Two were holders by their badges, one from Fort and the other wearing Ruathan colors; the third was a wizened herdsman whose clothes reeked of his craft despite the fact that they looked well brushed. The tallest of the men, the Ruathan holder, drew himself up proudly as he noticed Alessan’s I approach. He spared Moreta only a passing glance. \