«Tell them to seek me. He's not ill in any case but he was conveying Master Capiam yesterday and he's exhausted.»
Moreta left Nesso on that. By sleeping, Sh'gall would recover from the first flare of panic and be as eager as ever for the stimulation of a Fall. He was always at his best leading the Weyr's fighting wings.
Fog swirled around her as Moreta stepped out of the Lower Cavern.
«Orlith, would you please bespeak Malth for me and ask for a lift to her weyr?»
«I'll come.»
«I know you would, my love, but you are egg-heavy, the fog is thick, and by making such a request, I give them due notice of my coming.»
«Malth comes.» Something in Oriith's tone made Moreta wonder if Malth had been reluctant to obey the summons. Malth should have known that the Weyrwoman would not intrude unnecessarily.
«Malth does,» was Orlith's quick rejoinder, implying that the rider was at fault.
No sooner had the queen spoken than the fog roiled violently and the green dragon settled herself right beside Moreta so that the Weyrwoman need only to take one step.
«Express my gratitude, Orlith, and compliment her on her flying.»
«I did.»
Moreta swung her leg over Malth's neck ridge. She always felt a trifle strange when mounted on so much smaller a dragon than her great queen. It was ridiculous to think that she might be too heavy for the green, whose rider S'gor was a tall, heavily built man, but Moreta could never dispel that notion on the infrequent occasions when she rode the lesser dragons of the Weyr.
Malth waited a respectful moment to be sure that Moreta was settled and then sprang lightly upward. Diving blind into the fog disoriented Moreta despite her absolute faith in Malth.
«You would not worry on me,» Orlith said plaintively. «I'm not that egg-heavy yet.»
«I know, love!»
Malth hovered for a moment in the gray gloom, then Moreta felt the lightest of jars through the dragon's slender frame as she landed on her weyr ledge.
«Thank you, Malth!» Moreta projected her voice loudly to give further warning to the weyr occupants then dismounted and walked toward the yellow gleam spilling from the weyr into the corridor. She couldn't see her feet or the ledge. She looked behind her, at the dragon who appeared to be suspended in the fog, but Malth's eyes whirled slowly with encouragement.
«Don't come in here,» S'gor called urgently, and his figure blocked the light.
«S'gor, I really cannot stand out here in the fog. I gave you plenty of warning.» This was not the time for a rider to be coy.
«It's the illness, Moreta. Berchar's got it. He's terribly unwell and he said I mustn't let anyone in the weyr.» S'gor stepped back as he spoke, whereupon Moreta walked purposefully down the aisle and to the weyr. S'gor backed to the sleeping alcove, which he now guarded with outstretched arms.
«I must speak with him, S'gor.» Moreta continued toward the alcove.
«No, really, Moreta. It won't do you any good. He's out of his head. And don't touch me, either. I'm probably contaminated …» S'gor moved to one side rather than risk contact with his Weyrwoman. The incoherent mumbles of a feverish man grew audible during the slight pause in the conversation. «You see?» S'gor felt himself vindicated.
Moreta pushed back the curtain that separated the sleeping quarters from the weyr and stood on the threshold. Even in the dim light she could see the change sickness had made in Berchar. His features were now drawn by fever and his skin was pale and moist. Moreta saw Berchar's medicine case lay open on the table and walked over to it. «How long has he been ill?» She lifted the first bottle left on the table.
«He was feeling wretched yesterday, terrible headache, so we didn't go to either of the Gathers as we'd planned.» S'gor fiddled nervously with the bottles on the table. «He was perfectly all right at breakfast. We were going to Ista, to see that animal. Then Berch says he has this splitting headache and he'd have to lie down. I didn't believe him at first,»
«He took sweatroot for headache?»
«No. He took willow salic, of course.» S'gor held up the bottle of crystals.
«Then sweatroot?»
«Yes, for all the good it did him. He was burning up by midday and then insisted on having this,» S'gor read the label, «this aconite. I thought that very odd indeed since I have been of assistance to him several times and he told me off rather abruptly for questioning a healer. This morning, though, he asked me to make him an infusion of featherfern, which I did, and told me to add ten drops of fellis juice. He said he ached all over.»
Moreta nodded in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Aconite for a headache and fever? She could understand featherfern and fellis juice.
«Was his fever high?»
«He knew what he was doing, if that's what you mean.» S'gor sounded defensive.
«I'm sure he did, S'gor. He is a Masterhealer, and Fort Weyr's been fortunate to have him assigned to us. What else did he tell you to do?»
«To keep everyone from visiting.» He stared resentfully at Moreta. She did not blink or look away, merely waited until he had himself in control again. «Essence of featherfern undiluted every two hours until the fever abates and fellis juice every four hours, but no sooner than four hours.»
«Did he think he had contracted the fever from K'lon?»
«Berchar would never discuss his patients with me!»
«I wish he had this once.»
S'gor looked frightened. «Has K'lon taken a turn for the worst?»
«No, he's sleeping quite naturally.» Moreta wished that she could enjoy the same privilege. «I would like a few words with Berchar when his fever drops, S'gor. Do not fail to inform me. It's very important.» She looked down at the sick man with conflicting doubts. If K'lon had the same disease that Master Capiam had diagnosed as an epidemic, why had he recovered when people in southeast Pern were dying? Could it be due to the circumstances of hold life? Were overcrowding in the holds and the unseasonably warm weather promoting the spread of the disease? She realized that her pause was alarming S'gor. «Follow Berchar's instructions. I'll see that you won't be troubled further. Have Malth inform Orlith when Berchar may talk to me. And do thank Malth for conveying me. I know that she was reluctant to disobey.»
S'gor's eyes assumed the unfocused gaze that indicated he was conversing with his dragon. But he smiled as he looked down at Moreta.
«Malth says you're welcome and she'll take you down now.» Dropping back to the Bowl through the thick mist was an eerie sensation.
«Malth would not dare drop her Weyrwoman,» Orlith said stoutly.
«I sincerely trust not but I cannot see my hand in front of my nose.» Then the green dragon daintily backwinged to land Moreta in the same spot by the Lower Caverns from which she had taken off. The fog rolled in a huge spiral as Malth spurted back to her weyr.
Not sweatroot, Moreta was thinking, to bring a fever out of a body. Featherfern to reduce it. Aconite to ease the heart? That bad a fever. And fellis juice for aches. Sh'gall had not reported aches in Capiam's symptoms. She wished she'd had a chance to talk to Berchar. Maybe she should see if K'lon was awake.
«He sleeps,» Oriith said. «You should sleep awhile.»
Moreta did feel weary now that the stimulus provided by Sh'gall's startling announcement had worn off. What had begun as a mist was now an impenetrable fog. She could get lost trying to find the infirmary.
«You can always find me,» Orlith assured her. «Turn slightly to your left and all you'll have to do is walk straight toward me. I'll have you back in the weyr safely.»
«I'll just have a few hours' sleep,» Moreta said. She needed the rest that had been interrupted by Sh'gall's precipitous entry. She'd done what she could for now, and she'd check on her medicines before she went up the stairs to her weyr. She made the slight left turn.