Alessan was holding out a clean brown shift in one hand, sandals and a pretty belt of colored cords in the other. He was gesturing toward the race manager's striped tent when the handler rushed up with clean, steaming water in his bucket and a bundle of clean towels draped over his shoulder.
«Come, Moreta, do let us set things to rights?» The softly spoken appeal and the very real distress evident in Alessan's eyes and manner would have swayed a character far more obdurate than Moreta's.
«And yourself, Alessan?» she asked courteously as she bundled her soaking skirts for the short walk to the tent. The right side of Alessan's Gather finery was soaked.
«You, I fear, took the brunt. I'll dry out in the sun. While we watch the races?» His sly question was part entreaty.
«I'll be quick.» She took the fresh clothing and let the handler place the bucket and cloths in the tent then she entered, dropping the flap.
Her undershift was wet as well, so she was pleased that the brown shift was woven of a sturdy fabric. Her hair was gritty from the slop water, which had been used to sponge down a runner's dusty legs. She buried her head quickly in the clean water, washed her face and arms thoroughly, making lavish use of the supply of cloths. She was dressed and outside the tent just as the cheers announced the finish of the fourth race.
«Now I believe that you were once a holder lass,» Alessan said with a soft chuckle. He handed her a full goblet of wine. «The Benden did not get wet.»
«Well, that's luck!»
The handler bobbed an approach, apologizing and bowing and generally so abasing himself that Moreta cut him short by remarking that worse things had come flying out of a picket line, and she was grateful it was no more than dirty water. Alessan escorted her toward the finish line.
«Last one was a sprint, only five entries,» he mentioned as they walked.
«And Squealer wasn't entered?» She laughed as Alessan gave her a pained look, imitating Dag.
The next races were exciting enough to make up for those she had missed and to blot out the tragedy of the second. She and Alessan, looking far less the Lord of the Hold with his fine clothes puckered and soiled, found themselves vantages near the finish and sipped wine. They made private bets about winners when Moreta refused to allow Alessan to mark her with the wagermen. She enjoyed, too, being right in the midst of the racing crowd as she had so often been as a young girl in Keroon, in the company of her childhood friend Talpan. She hadn't thought of him in Turns.
An enterprising baker passed among the finish-line crowds with a tray of hot spiced rolls. Moreta hadn't realized how hungry she was until the aroma wafted over to her.
«I'm host today,» Alessan said, noticing her reaction. He took her arm and they pushed their way through to the baker.
The flaky pastry was stuffed with a savory mix, and Moreta quickly devoured three rolls.
«Don't they feed you in the Weyr on a Gather day?» Alessan asked.
«Oh, the stew pot's always simmering in the Cavern,» she replied, licking her fingers appreciatively. «But stew wouldn't taste half as good as these spiced rolls do right now.»
Alessan was eyeing her, a curious expression on his face.
«You're not at all what I expected in Weyrwoman Moreta,» he said in a candid tone that captured her complete attention. Wearily she wondered what Sh'gall had said of her. Alessan went on, «I got to know Leri rather well. She usually stays on for a word with the ground crews …»
«I would if I could,» Moreta said, countering his tacit criticism, «but I have to return to the Weyr immediately after Fall.»
«Have to?» Alessan's right eye quirked high.
«Did you never wonder who takes care of dragon injuries?» She spoke more sharply than she intended because she had been able to forget that they would rise to Fall in two more days, and more dragons might be injured. «I'd thought that the Weyr must have the best of the healers, of course.» Alessan's reply was so formal that Moreta regretted the quick retort. She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to restore the ease of their relationship.
«I never realized it might be you.» He smiled and covered her hand with his. «What about another spiced roll before someone else eats them all?»
«Lord Alessan …» Dag came rolling up to them. «Runel's going on about Squealer being a sport. I tol'im the breeding, but he won't take it from me.» Alessan's expression became pained, and he closed his eyes briefly.
«I was hoping to avoid Runel this Gather.»
«You done pretty well with everyone else, Lord, but I can't do this for you.» Alessan inhaled the breath of one resigned.
«Who's Runel?» Moreta asked. The two men regarded her with astonishment. «You mean, you've escaped Runel?» Amusement chased resignation from Alessan's expression. «Well, you must meet him at least once.»
Dag made a sound, half protest, half fear.
«And the race is due to start,» Alessan reminded Dag. «Weyrwoman, that's the only thing, short of Fall, that will halt Runel's recitations.»
By now, Moreta was intrigued.
«He's over there, with those cronies of his.» Dag pointed.
Moreta noted first that the three men stood isolated by a clear space from any immediate neighbors. Two were holders by their badges, one from Fort and the other wearing Ruathan colors; the third was a wizened herdsman whose clothes reeked of his craft despite the fact that they looked well brushed. The tallest of the men, the Ruathan holder, drew himself up proudly as he noticed Alessan's I approach. He spared Moreta only a passing glance.
«About that sprinter of mine, Runel,» Alessan began briskly, addressing 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.
Runel's companions began to tug at his arms. «Race, Runel! Race is starting!»