Nerilka's Story by Anne McCaffrey Page B

had laid a fine clutch of twenty-five eggs, including a queen egg. I’ll bet there was considerable jubilation at Fort Weyr on that score. And it was certainly heartening news, though suddenly I could hear my father’s mournful tones. Was he displeased with twenty-five and a queen? In ordinary times he would have called for wine to celebrate.
    There was no one in the Hall, and at this hour in the morning most would be about their duties in or outside the Hold. I stepped close to the door and, by putting my ear to the wood, was able to hear most of what was said. Both Capiam and Tirone had good strong voices, and as they became more annoyed, their voices rose. It was my father who mumbled.
    “Twenty-five with a queen egg is a superb clutch this late in a Pass,” Capiam was saying.
    “Moreta . . . mumble . . . Kadith . . . Sh’gall so ill.”
    “That is not
our
business,” I heard Master Tirone remark. “Not that the illness of the rider has any effect on the performance of the dragon. Anyway, Sh’gall is flying Fall at Nerat, so he’s evidently fully recovered.”
    I had known that both Fort Weyrleaders had been ill and had recovered, for Jallora had been hastily dispatched from the Healer Hall when the Weyr healer had died. Why Sh’gall was flying at Nerat was beyond my source of information.
    “I wish they would inform us of the status of each Weyr,” my father said. “I worry so.”
    “The
Weyrs
”—Tirone spoke with emphasis —”have been discharging their traditional duties to their Holds!”
    “Did
I
bring the illness to the Weyrs?” my father demanded, more loudly and quite petulantly, I thought. “Or the Holds? If the dragonriders were not too quick to fly here and there—”
    “And Lords Holder not so eager to fill every nook and cranny of their—” Capiam was angry, too.
    “This is
not
the time for recriminations!” Tirone interrupted them quickly. “You know as well as, if not better than, most people, Tolocamp, that seamen introduced that abomination onto the continent!” The Masterharper’s voice dripped with disapproval. I hoped my father was fully aware of it. “Let us resume the discussion interrupted by such good news. I have men seriously ill in that camp of yours. There is not enough vaccine to mitigate the disease, but they could at least have the benefit of decent quarters and practical nursing.”
    So I had been correct in my assumption that my father’s parsimonious attitude extended to the two Halls that Fort had traditionally supplied generously whenever approached.
    “Healers are among them,” my father countered in a sullen tone. “Or so you tell me!”
    “Healers are not immune to the viral influence and they cannot work without medicines,” Capiam said urgently. “You have a great storehouse of medicinal supplies—”
    “Garnered and prepared by my lost Lady—” How dare he speak in that maudlin fashion of my mother!
    “Lord Tolocamp,” and I could hear the irritation in Master Capiam’s voice, “we
need
those supplies—”
    “For Ruatha, eh?”
    Surely my father didn’t blame Ruatha for the tragedy?
    “Other holds besides Ruatha have needs!” Capiam replied, as if Ruatha was indeed the very last one on his list.
    “Supplies are the responsibility of the individual holder. Not mine. I cannot further deplete resources that might be needed by my own people.”
    “If the Weyrs,” and Tirone’s deep voice rang with feeling as he took up the argument, “stricken as they are, can extend
their
responsibilities in the magnificent way they have, beyond the areas beholden to them, then how can you refuse?”

    I was stunned at my father’s insensitive reply. “Very easily. By saying no. No one may pass the perimeter into the Hold from any outlying area. If they don’t have the plague, they have other, equally infectious, diseases. I shall not risk more of my people. I shall make no further contributions from my stores.”
    Had my father not