Anne McCaffrey - Moreta - Dragon Lady Of Pern

«Nothing wrong with them, is there?»

«Oh, no. They look racing fit. Not so much as a nervous sweat on them.»

«Has it been crossing your mind that Vander's runner dropped dead of an illness?»

«It crossed my mind,» Moreta agreed, «but it's highly unlikely. Helly said the runner wanted to race. A sick one wouldn't. Could have been the heart.»

«Well, I'm not looking for trouble. Not today, at my first Gather.» Alessan frowned and turned slowly on his right heel, casting his eyes down the rows of picketed runners. «It has to be a fluke. I know Vander. His hold's a good day's ride south. He's been saving that particular runner for this race.» Alessan sighed. «We can have a look at the rest of his string. They'd be picketed over here if I recall the assignments.» Alessan took Moreta's arm, guiding her to the right.

If the beast had been fit, Moreta thought, how could its lungs have filled so quickly? She considered asking Orlith but she sensed that the queen had returned to sleep. Runners did not have the same priority with the dragon as they did with the rider.

Alessan pulled Moreta to him suddenly as a rangy beast plunged past them, its eyes wild as it anticipated its race, the rider barely able to stay in the pad. Two handlers jogged along, at a distance respectful of the kicking range of an excited runner. Moreta watched its progress to the starting line.

«Well?» Alcssan's tenor voice asked in her ear.

She was abruptly aware that she was still in his loose protective embrace.

«No, that one seemed far from ill.» She moved away from him.

«And here's Vander's picket.» Alessan counted them. «As I recall he'd entered seven. Did you say you were from Keroon? This is a runner he bought from Keroon last Turn.»

Moreta laughed as she let the runner sniff her hand. She stroked its head until it accepted her touch then she felt its warm ear for the breed tattoo.

«No, it didn't come from my family's hold.»

Alessan grinned at her whimsy as he examined the other animals. «They're in good shape. Vander got here two days ago to rest them well before the races. I'll have a word with him later. Shall we get back to the races, Shells!» The shouts and movements of the crowd indicated that the next race had started. Alessan looked abashed. «Now you've missed another race.»

«I watch the racing because, in my exalted position as Weyrwoman, that is much more dignified than scrambling around the pickets. Which is what I would rather do. Now that we're here, could I see your winner? I've a suspicion that only a sense of duty to your guest has kept you from checking it.»

The relief and delight in Alessan's eyes confirmed her guess. He had just indicated the proper direction when a short man with the heavy chest, well-developed arms, and thin shanks of a rider trotted toward them, his face wearing the broadest of smiles.

«Lord Alessan? Have you been looking for Squealer?»

«I have indeed, Dag. Well done! Well done!» Alessan shook Dag by the hand and thumped him across the shoulders. «A fine race. Perfect!»

Dag gave Moreta a stiffly correct bow.

«You are to be congratulated on training a winner,» Moreta said. Then she couldn't resist adding, «It's a few people could contrive against Lord Leef.»

Dag's expression was one of shock, betrayal, and consternation. «Lady Moreta, I wouldn't … I didn't.»

Alessan laughed and gave Dag a reassuring clout on the shoulder. «Lady Moreta's runnerhold bred. She approves.»

«Where is this Squealer of yours, Dag? I very much want a closer look at such a success.»

«This way, Lady. And now he's not all that much to look at close on, mind you,» Dag began in the deprecating way of all devoted handlers. «Over to the right, if you would. I walked him cool. Lord Alessan, and washed him down with tepid water. Race didn't take a thing out of him. He could go again …» Dag caught himself short with a startled glance at the Lord Holder and the Weyrwoman.

«It's a full male then?» Moreta asked, rescuing Dag from indiscretion.

«That he is. On account of him looking so weedy, I always managed to convince the herdmaster that he was too young yet to be gelded, or too sickly, and shouldn't we wait awhile. Then I'd sneak him off to another field.»

«Turn after Turn?» Moreta was impressed by such devotion.

«Squealer doesn't have any distinguishing marks to set him in a man's mind,» Alessan said. «There he is.»

Suddenly Moreta faced a scrawny, thin-legged, big-kneed, midbrown runner, standing all by itself at the end of a half-empty picket line. In a pause during which she wracked her brain to find something creditable to say about the beast, all she could see was the length of empty pickets. «He has a kind eye,» she said, blurting it out. «Well placed in the head.» As if Squealer knew he was under discussion, he turned his head and regarded her.

«Intelligence, too. Heart. Calm.» Squealer ducked his head, seemingly agreeing with her points so that all three laughed.

«There really isn't much good you can say about Squealer,» Alessan said, absolving her from further comment. He swatted the runner affectionately on the neck.

«Squealer won his first race, Lord Alessan. That's all that needs to be said of him. May he win many more. But not,» Moreta added slyly, «all on the same day.»

Dag groaned and turned away with embarrassed mortification.

«Lord Alessan, had you expected many more entries?» Moreta asked, gesturing toward the unused pickets.

«Dag, you were assisting Norman …»

«Well, we did expect a fair turnout, what with fine weather over the past sevendays and plenty of holds to shelter strings on the road. Come to think on it, I'd expected Lord Ratoshigan to sail his sprinter up, that one he's been winning with all season. That herdsman of his was boasting at their Gather.»

«I'm not sorry that we didn't get to pit Squealer against the best in the west, but perhaps Ratoshigan's absence ensured his win.»

«It did no such thing,» Dag protested vehemently and then realized that he was being teased. «He's cooled off now. I'll just take him back to the beasthold above.»

«Starting line or finishing?» Alessan asked Moreta.

«Let's see if we can get in a finish.»

They moved at a leisurely pace for people wishing to see an imminent finish, but their path took them between pickets and that pleased Moreta as well.

«I wonder why Ratoshigan didn't come.»

«His absence is a boon.» Moreta did not try to mask the acid edge to her voice.

«Perhaps, but I'd've liked to pit Squealer against that sprinter of his.»

«For the joy of beating Ratoshigan? Well, I'd approve of that.»

«Southern Boll is beholden to Fort Weyr, isn't it?»

«That doesn't mean I have to like him.»

«Yet you'd drink that sour wine Lord Diatis makes.»

Moreta had opened her mouth to reply when she was suddenly drenched with water. A colorful and original string of invective in Alessan's angry voice told her that he had not escaped the slops.

«Who has distressed you?» Orlith's response was immediate and, as Moreta stood there, eyes closed against the water draining from her hair, she needed the moral support of her queen.

«I'm only wet!» Moreta stolidly informed her queen.

«The sun is warm. You will dry fast.»

«Only wet?» Alessan roared. «You're soaked.»

The erring handler, belatedly discovering that he had launched a full bucket of dirty water at the Weyrwoman and the Lord Holder, who didn't ought to be strolling along picket lines when everyone else was off watching the races, proffered Moreta a towel, but the rag had been used for many purposes and merely compounded the problem. Alessan was shouting for clean water and fresh clothes and the location of a vacant tent.