«The more to look the quicker to find; the sooner the better,» Moreta replied. F'neldril could be so parochial.
«Leri'll have her Records as soon as the lads have finished sacking firestone and had a bit of a wash. Wouldn't do to have stone-dust messing up our Records. You there, M'barak, that sack's not what I'd call full. Top it off.»
Another of F'neldril's quirks was to finish one job before starting the next. But Moreta moved off, secure in the knowledge that Leri would not have a long wait for her Records.
She went on to the Lower Caverns and stood for a moment in the entrance, noting how few people occupied the tables, most of those few obviously nursing wineheads. How awkward and inconvenient it all was, Moreta thought with a rush of distressed exasperation, for an epidemic to break out the day after two Gathers, when half the riders would consider the news a bad joke and the rest wouldn't be sober enough to understand what was happening. And Fall tomorrow! How could she tell the Weyr if they weren't available to tell?
«If you eat, you'll think of something,» came the calm imperturbable voice of her dragon.
«An excellent notion.» Moreta went to the small breakfast hearth and poured herself a cup of klah, added a huge spoonful of sweetener, took a fresh roll from the warming oven and looked around for a place to sit and think. Then she saw Peterpar, the Weyr herdsman, sharpening his hoof knife. His hair was rumpled and his face sleep creased. He was not really attending to the job at hand, which was honing an edge against the strop.
«Don't cut yourself,» she said quietly, sitting down.
Peterpar winced at the sound of her voice but he kept on stropping.
«Were you at Ista or Ruatha?»
«Both, for my folly. Beer at Ista. That foully acid Tillek wine at Ruatha.»
«Did you see the feline at Ista?» Moreta thought that it would be kinder to break the news gently to a man in Peterpar's fragile state.
«Aye.» Peterpar frowned. «Master Talpan was there. He told me not to get too close though it was caged and all. He sent you his regards, by the way. Afterward,» Peterpar's frown deepened as if he didn't quite trust his memory of events, «they put the animal down.»
«For a good reason.» Moreta told him why.
Peterpar held the knife suspended, midstrop, shocked. By the time she had finished, he had recovered his equanimity.
«If it's to come, it'll come.» He went on stropping.
«That last drove of runnerbeasts we received in tithe,» she asked, «from which hold did it come?» She sipped at the klah, grateful for its warmth and stimulation.
«Part of Tillek's contribution.» Peterpar's expression reflected the relief he felt. «Heard tell at Ista that there's been an illness among runners at Keroon. Same thing?» The tone in Peterpar's voice begged Moreta to deny it.
She nodded. «Now, how can a feline that came from the Southern Continent give us, man and runnerbeast, a sickness?»
«Master Talpan decided that it did. Apparently neither man nor runnerbeast has any immunity from the infection that feline brought with it.» Peterpar cocked his head to one side, contorting his face. «Then that runnerbeast that dropped dead at Ruatha races had it?»
«Quite possibly.»
«Tillek doesn't get breeding stock from Keroon. Just as well. But soon's I finish my klah, I'll check the herds.» He returned his hoof knife to its case, rolled up his strop and shoved it into his tunic pocket. «Dragons don't get this, do they?»
«No, Master Talpan didn't believe they could.» Moreta rose to her feet. «But riders can.»
«Oh, we're a hardy lot, we weyrfolk,» Peterpar said pridefully, shaking his head that she would doubt it. «We'll be careful now. You wait and see. Won't be many of us coming down sick. Don't you worry about that now, Moreta. Not with Fall tomorrow.»
One was offered reassurance from unlikely sources, Moreta thought. Yet his advice reminded her that one of the reasons weyrfolk were so hardy was because they ate well and sensibly. Many illnesses could be prevented, or diminished, by proper diet. One of her most important duties as Weyrwoman was altering that diet from season to season. Moreta looked about the Cavern, to see if Nesso was up. She had better not be laggard with the tidings to Nesso who would relish disseminating information of such caliber.
«Nesso, I'd like you to add spearleek and white bulb to your stews for a while, please.»
Nesso gave one of her little offended sniffs. «I've already planned to do so and there's citron in the morning rolls. If you'd had one, you'd know. A pinch of prevention's worth a pound of cure.»
«You'd already planned to? You've heard of the sickness?»
Nesso sniffed again. «Being waked up at the crack of dawn,»
«Sh'gall told you?»
«No, he didn't tell me. He was banging around the night hearth muttering to himself half-demented, without a thought or a consideration for those of us sleeping nearby.»
Moreta knew very well why Nesso imposed on herself the nighthearth duty on a Gather night. The prying woman loved to catch people sneaking in or out; that knowledge gave her a feeling of power.
«Who else in the Weyr knows?»
«Whoever you've been telling before you came to me.» And she cast a dark look over her shoulder at Peterpar, who was trudging out of the Cavern.
«What did you actually hear Sh'gall saying?» Moreta knew Nesso's penchant for gossip and also her fallibility in repeating it correctly.
«That there's an epidemic on Pern and everyone will die.» Nesso gave Moreta a look of pure indignation. «Which is downright foolish.»
«Master Capiam has declared that there is.»
«Well, we haven't got one here!» Nesso pointed her ladle at the floor. «K'lon's fine and healthy, sleeping like a babe for all he was woke up and questioned sharp. Holders die of epidemics.» Nesso was contemptuous of anyone not connected intimately with Weyrs. «What else could be expected when so many people are crammed into living space that wouldn't suit a watchwher!» All of Nesso's indignation drained out of her as she looked up and saw Moreta's expression. «You're serious?» Her eyes widened. «I thought Sh'gall just had too much wine! Oh! And everyone here was either to Ista or Ruatha!» Nesso might love to gossip but she was not stupid, and she was quite able to see the enormity of the situation. She gave herself a little shake, picked up the ladle, wiped it off with her clout, and gave the porridge such a stirring that globs fell to the burning blackstone. «What're the signs?»
«Headache, fever, chills, a dry cough.»
«That's exactly what put K'lon in his bed.»
«You're sure?»
«Of course I'm sure. And for that matter, K'lon's fine. Weyrfolk are healthy folk!» Nesso's assertion was as prideful as Peterpar's and a matter of some consolation to Moreta. «And, saving your look-in on him yesterday afternoon, only Berchar tended him, but he was recovered by then. Mind you, I shouldn't go telling everyone suddenlike about the symptoms, as we'll have enough sore heads this morning and it's an epidemic of wine they had last night, that'll be all.» She gave the porridge a final decisive poke and turned fully toward Moreta. «How long does it take this sickness to come on people?»
«Capiam says two to four days.»
«Well, at least the riders can concentrate on Fall tomorrow with a clear mind.»
«There's to be no congregating. No visitors into the Weyr and none to go out. I've told the watchrider so.»
«Visitor's aren't likely today in any case, with Gathers yesterday and the fog so thick you can't hardly see the other side of the Bowl. You'll find Berchar in S'gor's weyr, you know.»
«I thought that likely. Sh'gall's not to be disturbed.»
«Oh?» Nesso's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. «Does he fancy he's already got this disease? And Thread Falling tomorrow? What do I tell the wingleaders if they ask for him?»