tunnel snakes. Breeding fierce they are this year with no cold to lay em.”
“Can’t decide to shear now for a short crop and give ‘cm relief from the heat or let ‘em lose condition panting under long hair.”
“We needs us some snow. We needs it to kill what grubs beneath the soil, what sucks life from our good seed, and what makes a field sour. We needs frost and snow in good measure.”
“You ought to be relieved, Alessan, that all they complain about is the weather. After all, no holder expects the Lord Holder to be able to change the weather. The Weyrs do that, you know.” She pulled her mouth down in a grimace that made him grin.
The final race had a surprise ending for two runners crossed the finish line, right in front of Moreta and Alessan, without so much as a nose between them. The argument over which animal won grew so heated that Alessan came forward to mediate, dragging Moreta with him. To settle what could have been a nasty situation, Alessan loudly proclaimed that he doubled the purse so that neither contender would be disappointed for the fine excitement they had provided the Gather.
That was just the right decision to end the race meeting on a high note. Owners, riders, handlers, and spectators dispersed from the flats in the best of all spirits.
“You’re a sensibly generous man, Alessan.”
“I thank you. Lady Moreta. Ah, just in time,” he said, and Moreta turned as a handler led up a big-boned, long-backed runnerbeast saddled with a thick pad in Ruathan colors. “My lady, your mount.”
“This is what your father expected you to breed?”
“This is what I did breed for my father,” Alessan replied with a broad grin. “Squealer’s type was a bonus.” He gave her a leg up and waited while she hooked her leg on the broad pommel before he swung up behind her.
“I think I prefer your Squealer,” she said as the beast lurched forward at Alessan’s urging.
“There speaks the racing enthusiast, not the prudent holder.” He turned his head left as they moved off across the stubble field, and Moreta knew that Alessan had only deferred the puzzle of the empty picket lines for the duration of the races.
“It’s not like Ratoshigan to miss a chance for Ruathan marks. They could sail right up the Ruathan River,” Alessan said, giving
36
More/a.’ Dragonlady of Pern
her a tight smile for his inattention. “Sooveryou know him from Southern Bollought to have come short of Fall, fire, or fog. I hadn’t realized that the weatherfor all your unwillingness to change itwas of such widespread concern.”
“There’s no lack of people at this Gather,” Moreta said. The stalls were still doing a good business despite the numbers attracted by the
racing.
People had already begun to take places at the tables about the dancing square. The aromas of roasting meats wafted enticingly on the wind, the pungency of spiced wherry dominating.
Alessan had ridden straight up across the field and now turned their mount up the roadway. Moreta glanced up to the fire-heights, covered in sun-baking dragons. There seemed to be more, and she noticed Oriith flanked by another queen. Tamianth of the High Reaches, judging by her size and color.
“Some creatures like the sun and the warm,” Alessan said. “Does all the sunning help them endure the cold of between?”
Moreta shivered involuntarily, and Alessan’s arms tightened about her. She rather enjoyed the unexpected intimacy.
“When we fly Thread, I’m grateful to the cold of between,” she replied obliquely, her thoughts on the Fall in two days.
Then Alessan reined the beast up the ramp to the forecourt, its heavy feet clumping hollowly and alerting the guests there. Moreta waved cheerfully at Falga, the High Reaches Weyrwoman.
“Wasn’t your new gown ready, Moreta?” Falga asked as she walked to meet them while Alessan halted their mount.
“A new gown?” Alessan’s startled question fell on Moreta’s ears
only.
“You’ll see it next Gather, Falga,” Moreta replied blithely. “This is my race-watching dress.”
“Oh, you and your races!” Falga smiled tolerantly and turned back to the holders with whom she’d been talking.