Anne McCaffrey: Moreta - Dragon Lady Of Pern

«Of course, as befits my rank. L'mal didn't like me to roam the picket lines.»

«Which was where I generally was.» Alessan grinned.

«Learning how to breed winners?»

«Of course not.» Alessan feigned shocked innocence. «I was supposed to breed stamina, not speed. My Gather duties were to assist our race-course manager, Norman.»

Moreta lifted her goblet again. «To the man who persevered and won the race!»

Alessan was quick-witted and grinned at her subtlety. Their eyes met in a candid gaze. Moreta felt a growing affinity for the new Lord Holder and not only because of their mutual interest in race runners. His mind was unpredictable, certainly not in the pattern of the usual Lord Holder, if she compared him to Tolocamp, Ratoshigan, or Diatis. He was good company, with a fine sense of humor; if he danced as well as he did everything else, she might just monopolize him this evening.

Two more dragons arrived midair as she glanced up, away from Alessan's light-green, compelling gaze. Then her eyes dropped slightly to admire Orlith, ensconced right above the main hold door, and she thought how well Orlith's golden hide complimented the window hangings on the top tier. Embarrassed, she looked away, aware that Alessan had been watching her.

«A habit, really,» she said with a self-conscious shrug.

«Surely after twenty Turns as partners?»

«Are you already accustomed to being Lord of Ruatha Hold?»

«Not yet. I've only been,» Alessan broke off, his eyes on her face, noting her fond smile. «Even after twenty Turns?»

«Ah, look. The flag for the next race!» She diverted his attention. One could never explain the bond to someone who wasn't a dragonrider. Impression was a private miracle, a very private miracle.

The second race was over a greater length, the winning poles having been moved down the field and farther apart to accommodate the larger number of middle-distance runners.

«Have you an entry in this race, too?» she asked Alessan as the runners charged away from the start.

«No. I got either spindly sprinters or massive carters from my crosses. But one of my holders has a strong contestant, blue with red hatching are the colors. Not that you can distinguish them.»

The field had already begun to stretch out when suddenly an animal in the middle of the pack fell, tripping two others. Moreta could never watch a bad tangle without apprehension. She was holding her breath as she silently urged each animal to its feet. Two rose, one groggily shaking its head, the second running on down the field, riderless. The third made no effort to rise.

Moreta picked up her skirts and began to run toward the fallen runner.

«It shouldn't've fallen.»

«Close-packed field. Tripped.» Alessan kept pace with her, caught up in her concern.

«Not that close, and it wasn't a trip fall.» She saved her breath for running even when she had seen that the two riders were examining the fallen beast and that handlers were running up from the starting line. «Orlith, what's wrong? Why doesn't it get up?»

As she got closer, Moreta could see the sprawled beast's sides heaving. Its nose touched the ground yet it made no effort to rise. That was unusual enough. Runners preferred to stand.

«Did it break a leg, Orlith?»

«It can't get its breath,» one rider was saying to the other. «It's got a bloody nose.»

«Probably ruptured a vein falling. Just get it to its feet. Here, I'll help.» The second rider begun to tug at the bridle.

«Orlith, wake up! I need you.»

«It should've got to its feet. Lord Alessan! Lady Moreta!» The first rider turned anxiously to them, and Moreta recognized the man as Helly, a capable herdsman and racer.

«It cannot breathe,» Orlith responded sleepily. She sounded a bit grumpy at being roused. «It's lungs are full of liquid.»

Moreta knelt at the animal's head, noticing the distressed flare of the nostrils, the bloody discharge. She felt for the pulse in its throat, weak and far too erratic for an animal that had only run a few dragon-lengths before falling.

Around her men were shouting that the runner should be assisted to its feet. Several positioned themselves to heave. Moreta waved them off imperiously.

«It can't breathe. No air is getting into its lungs.»

«Cut into its windpipe. Who's got a sharp blade?»

«It's too late,» Moreta said as she peeled back the upper lip, exposing the whitened gums.

The onlookers knew, as she did, that the animal was dying. From the finishing line the sound of cheering drifted back to those circling the taller. It gave one final sigh, almost apologetic, and the head rolled to the side.

«Ain't seen nothing like this before,» the second rider said. «And I been riding since I could tighten a girth.»

«You were riding it, Helly?» Alessan asked.

«Yes, doing a favor for Vander. His jock was sick. I've never ridden it before. Seemed quiet.» Helly stopped, considered. «Too quiet, now I think about it. Rode in the first race, and this one was all ready for me … Broke well at the start as if it wanted to work!» Helly's tone was a mixture of despair, anger, and surprise.

«Could've been the heart,» one of the onlookers suggested in a tone of broad experience. «That takes 'em sudden. No way of telling. Runner in good spirit one moment, dead the next. Takes people that way, too.»

Not, Moreta thought, with a bloody nasal discharge.

«Here now,» a loud voice cried. «What's the matter here? Why isn't this animal … Oh, Lord Alessan. Didn't know you were here!» The race manager had pushed his way into the circle. «It's dead? Excuse me. Lord Alessan, but we do have to clear the track for the next race.»

Alessan took the shaken Helly by the arm. Moreta stepped to the man's other side, leading him through the pathway courteously made by the crowd.

«I don't understand it. No, I don't.» Helly was obviously in shock.

Moreta realized that she still had the wine goblet and held it up to Alessan, who quickly unslung the wineskin and poured a full cup. Moreta gave it to Helly. The racer drank the contents in one gulp.

«Helly, what happened? Did it plait its legs or something?»

The stocky man, dressed in Ruathan colors, staggered as he realized who was assisting Helly. While trying to hold a pad of wet toweling to his forehead, he also attempted to bow to Alessan and Moreta. And staggered again.

«Helly, what happened? Oh, shards!» The last was said in a low voice as a cart bearing the dead animal off the track rumbled into view.

«Vander, are you all right?» Helly demanded. He handed Moreta her goblet and went to the stunned holder. Helly supported Vander in the wake of the cart.

Moreta, Alessan by her side, watched the activity of Gather races swirl and close behind the sad procession. Men, laden with tack or blankets or buckets of water, briskly moved toward the picket lines. The sound of urgent conversations and shouts was occasionally punctuated by the squeal of excited runners.

«I cannot remember a respiratory illness that would result in such a remarkably swift death,» Moreta said.

«I'd've said the animal was only stunned by the fall and would have gotten it to its feet,» Alessan remarked. «How did you know what ailed it so fast?»

«My family has always raised runners,» she explained quickly, for it was not common knowledge outside the Weyrs that she and Orlith worked together in healing.

«Your early training must have been remarkable. I thought I'd learned a thing or two about runners.»

«If you bred that sprinter while looking for endurance stock, you have.»

Just then two runners, long-distance racers by the look of them, were led past, and Moreta kept her eyes on them until they mixed into the crowd.