“About that sprinter of mine, Runel,” Alessan began briskly, ad-
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dressing himself to the herdsman. “I bred the beast myself, four Turns ago, out of the sprint mare Dextra, Lord Leef’s by Vander’s brown stallion, Evest.”
Runel’s expression altered dramatically. He threw back his head and unfocused his eyes, wide-opened. “Alessan’s sprinter, Squealer, won the first sprint race at the Ruathan Gather, third month, forty-third Turn of the sixth Pass, bred by Alessan out of Dextra, five times winner at sprint races in the west, Leef by Vander’s Evest which was nine times winner over sprint distances. Dextra’s sire, twice winner, by Dimnal out of Tran, nineteen times winner. Dimnal by Fairex out of Crick, Fairex …”
“There he goes,” Dag said to Moreta in an undertone, shaking his head ruefully.
“He just keeps on?”
“And on and on. He’ll recite the lineage of Squealer back to the Crossing,” Alessan murmured, standing with hands clasped in front of him and seeming to give Runel the courtesy of his attention.
“He’s only good with western racing, though,” Dag added critically.
“He’s eidetic? I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never heard one personally.”
“Just give him a name of a racer and he’s away. Trouble is he has to start at the beginning.”
“Isn’t he starting at the end with Squealer’s win today?”
Runel’s voice had settled into the sing-song of winners, sires, and dams.
“The latest race is his beginning, Lady Moreta.”
“Does he go to all the Gathers?”
“Those he can get to.” Dag shot Alessan a look.
I would be surprised if the Lord Holder knows half the races Runel attends, Moreta thought to herself.
“He’s not much good otherwise, that’s certain,” Alessan said, unconcerned. “My father saw that the oldest sons were well apprenticed. Runel’s memory serves a purpose”
“Bore you to death, it would,” Dag muttered unappreciatively, glancing over his shoulder at the race flats. “It’s starting!” Reprieve was the overwhelming emotion. “Race!” he said in a loud voice directly at Runel.
34 Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern
Runel’s companions began to tug at his arms. “Race, Runel! Race
is starting!”
Runel came out of his recitation trance and looked about in surprise.
“Race is starting, Runel,” the Fort holder said reassuringly as he
began to guide the eidetic toward the finish line.
Alessan drew Moreta to one side, and Dag scurried behind the Lord Holder while the trio marched off. Moreta could not help but see that a path cleared before Runel more quickly than if Alessan and she had wished passage.
“You should hear him on the ‘begats.’”
“As you have?”
“Indeed and I have, at every birthfeast.” Alessan spoke with feeling and rolled his eyes upward.
“I’d’ve thought the man would be more valuable in the Harper Hall than in a hold.”
“My father had the good sense to prevent that.”
“Why? With that memory …”
“Because his granduncle was a harper here and remembered more than was prudent on too many occasions.” Alessan grinned with malice. “I think my grandsire made sure to turn the trait to less … ah, shall we say … remunerative topics? I believe there have al-ways been blood relations in the Harper Hall, undoubtedly in the Records Rooms, scanning hides and committing them to memory before the ink fades completely.”
They found a place at the line and observed the hotly contested finish of the sixth race. As they passed the wait for the next race, they overheard bits and snatches of conversations. References to the new Lord Holder and the quality of the Gather were in the main complimentary, though Moreta enjoyed Alessan’s discomfiture at some of the candid remarks. The weather dominated most discussions.
“Too warm, too soon. We’ll melt this summer.”
“Can’t say as I mind mild days instead of rain and blizzard, but it ain’t natural. Upsets the rhythm of the Turn.”
“M’herds won’t settle with insects hanging on in the warm, pester-ing ‘em. Terrible cases of sores. Beasts don’t want to eat. Don’t want to move. Muddle and moan together, they do.” “A bit of frost would do us the world of good. Freeze down those
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Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern