Anne McCaffrey Pern 07 Moreta Dragonlady of Pern

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his shoulder at the race flats. "It's starting!" Reprieve was the overwhelming
emotion. "Race!" he said in a loud voice directly at Runel.
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 always been blood relations in the
Harper Hall, undoubtedly in the Records Rooms, scanning hides and committing
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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, pestering
'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 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 'em 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 her a tight smile for his
inattention. "Soover, you know him from Southern Boll, ought to have come
short of Fall, fire, or fog. I hadn't realized that the weather, for all your
unwillingness to change it, was 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.
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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 Orlith 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.
Suddenly Tolocamp appeared, his genial smile not completely masking his
disapproval of Moreta's dusty appearance.
"I'll just slide off, thank you. Lord Tolocamp," she said, politely ignoring
his offer of assistance.
"If you'll follow me, Lady Moreta," Lady Oma said, breaking through the press
of people and taking charge.
Relieved to be able to retire gracefully from Tolocamp's critical gaze, Moreta
followed Alessan's mother. In the instant her eyes met Lady Oma's, Moreta knew
the woman disapproved of her as much as Tolocamp did but more for upsetting
her own plans for her son's afternoon entertainment than for
Moreta's hoyden behavior. As they proceeded through the Hall, splendidly
decorated for the Gather, and up the stairs into the Hold's private corridors,
Moreta felt the weight of Lady Oma's rebuke in her silence. In Lady Oma's own
apartments, however, a variety of gowns, skirts, and tunics had been hastily
assembled, and from the bathroom drifted the moist scent of perfumed water and
the giggles of the girls who were preparing it.
"Your gown has been cleaned, Lady Moreta," Lady Oma said, closing the door
behind Moreta. "But I doubt it will be dry before the dancing." She cast a
measuring glance at Moreta, ignoring the dusty brown shift. "You're thinner
than I'd thought. Perhaps the rust ..." She indicated the garment, then
canceled that suggestion with an impatient gesture of her other hand. It was
reminiscent of Alessan. "It is in no way comparable to your own gown. This
green one is more suited to your rank."
Moreta went to the rust dress, fingering the texture of the plain but soft [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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