K'dren roared with laughter. «Didn't she suggest him?»
S'ligar regarded K'dren with mild reproof. «It is the wise Leader who anticipates his Weyrwoman's mind.»
«Enough!» M'tani called irritably. His dark eyes were angry under heavy black brows. He threw his lists down to join S'ligar's. «T'grel has always fancied himself a Leader. He reminded me that he hadn't been to either of the Gathers so I'll reward his virtue.»
«You're fortunate,» K'dren said with no humor in his voice. He added his lists to the others. «L'vin, W'ter, and H'grave attended both Gathers. I've recommended M'gent. He may be young but he's got a natural flair for leadership that one doesn't often see. He wasn't at the Gathers.»
F'gal seemed unwilling to lose the sheets he unwound. «It's all on these,» he said wearily, letting them flutter to the sand.
«Leri suggested me,» S'peren said with a self-deprecating shrug, «though it's likely Sh'gall will make a change when he recovers. He was too fevered to be told of this meeting so Leri drew up the lists.»
«Leri would know.» K'dren nodded. He went down on his haunches to pick up the five slips of hide, aligning them at the top before rolling. «I shall be pleased if these can gather dust in my weyr.» He stuffed the roll in his pouch. «It is, however, a comfort to have made plans, to have considered contingencies.»
«Saves a lot of unnecessary worry,» S'ligar agreed, bending to scoop up the scraps into his long-fingered hand. «I also recommend that we use entire wings as replacements, rather than send individuals as substitutes. Riders get used to their wingleaders and seconds.» The recommendation found favor with the others. «Full wings or substitutes is not the real worry.» L'bol glowered at the lists as he assembled them in his hand. «It's the lack of ground crews.»
K'dren snorted. «No worry. Not when the queens have already decided among themselves to do that job. We've all been informed, no doubt, that every queen who can fly will attend every Fall.»
M'tani's scowl was sour and neither L'bol or F'gal appeared happy, but S'ligar shrugged diffidently. «They will arrange matters to suit themselves no matter what, but queens keep promises.»
«Who suggested using weyrlings for ground crews?» M'tani asked.
«We may have to resort to them,» S'ligar said.
«Weyrlings don't have enough sense » M'tani began.
«Depends on their Weyrlingmaster, doesn't it?» K'dren asked.
«The queens intend,» S'ligar put in before M'tani could take offense at K'dren's remark, «to keep the weyrlings under control. What other choice have we in the absence of ground crews?»
«Well, I've never known a weyriing yet who would disobey a queen,» F'gal admitted.
«S'peren, with Moreta ill, does Kamiana lead?»
«No. Leri.» S'peren looked apprehensive. «After all, she's done it before.»
The Weyrleaders murmured in surprised protest. «Well, if any of your Weyrwomen can talk her out of it, we'd be very relieved.» S'peren did not hide his distress. «She's more than done her duty by the Weyrs and Pern. On the other hand, she knows how to lead. With both Sh'gall and Moreta sick, the Weyr at least trusts her.»
«How is Moreta?» S'ligar asked.
«Leri says Orlith doesn't seem worried. She carries her eggs well and she is very near clutching. It's as well Moreta is sick or they'd be out and about Pern. You know how keen Moreta is on runners.»
M'tani snorted with disgust. «This is not the time to lose an eggheavy queen,» he said. «This sickness hits so fast and kills so quickly, the dragons don't realize what's happening. And then they're gone between.» He caught his breath, clenching his teeth and swallowing against tears. The other riders pretended not to see his evident distress.
«Once Orlith has clutched she won't go until they've hatched,» S'ligar said gently to no one in particular. «S'peren, have you candidates safely at Fort Weyr?»
S'peren shook his head. «We'd that yet to do and thought there was worlds of time for Search.»
«Pick carefully before you bring anyone new into your Weyr!» L'bol advised sourly.
«If the need arises. High Reaches has a few promising youngsters who are healthy. I'm sure an adequate number can be made up from the other Weyrs?» S'ligar waited for the murmur of assent to go round the circle. «You'll inform Leri?»
«Fort Weyr is grateful.»
«Is that all?» L'bol demanded as he stirred toward his dragon.
«Not quite. One more point while we are convened.» S'ligar hitched up his belt. «I know that some of us have thought of exploring the Southern Continent once this Pass is over.»
«After this?» L'bol stared at S'ligar in total disbelief.
«My point. In spite of the instructions left to us, we cannot risk further contagions. Southern must be left alone!» S'ligar made a cutting gesture with the flat of his huge hand. He looked to the Benden Weyrleader for comment.
«An eminently sensible prohibition,» K'dren said.
M'tani flourished his hand curtly to show agreement and turned to S'peren.
«Of course, I cannot speak for Sh'gall but I cannot conceive why Fort would disagree.»
«The continent will be interdicted by my Weyr, I assure you,» F'gal said in a loud, strained voice.
«Then we shall leave it to the queens to communicate how many wings each Weyr supplies for Fall until this emergency is over. We've all the details we need to go on.» S'ligar brandished his roll before he shoved it in his tunic. «Very well then, my friends. Good flying! May your Weyrs.» He caught himself, a flicker of uncertainty for his glib use of a courteous salutation not entirely appropriate.
«The Weyrs will prosper, S'ligar,» K'dren said as he smiled confidently at the big man. «They always have!»
The bronze riders turned to their dragons, mounting with the ease and grace of long practice. Almost as one, the six dragons wheeled to the left and right of the red butte, to spring agilely into the air. Again, as if the unique maneuver had been many times rehearsed, on the third downstroke of six pairs of great wings, the dragons went between.
Fort Weyr, 3.14.43
At about the time the bronze dragonriders were meeting at the Butte, Capiam had discovered that if he timed a fit of coughing, he could miss some of the incoming, more painful messages. Even after the thrumming of the great drums in the tower had ceased, the cadences played ring-a-round in his head and inhibited the sleep he yearned for. Not that sleep brought any rest. He would feel more tired when he roused from such brief naps as the drums permitted. And the nightmares! He was forever being harried by that tawny, speckle-coated, tuft-eared monster that had carried its peculiar germs to a vulnerable continent. The irony was that the Ancients had probably created the agency that threatened to exterminate their descendants.
If only those seamen had let the animal die on its tree trunk in the Eastern Current. If only it had died on the ship, succumbing to thirst and exhaustion, as Capiam felt he was likely to do at any moment, before it had contaminated more than the seamen. If only the nearby holders hadn't been so bloody curious to relieve the winter's tedium. If! If! If? If wishes were dragons, all Pern would fly!
And if I, Capiam had any energy, he would apply it to finding a concoction that would relieve and, preferably, inhibit the disease. Surely the Ancients had had to cope with epidemics. There were, indeed, grand paragraphs in the oldest Records, boasting that the ailments that had plagued mankind before the Crossing had been totally eliminated on Pern, which statement, Capiam maintained, meant that there had been two Crossings, not one, as many people, including Tirone, believed. The Ancients had brought many animals with them in that first Crossing, the equine from which runners originated; the bovine for the herdbeasts; the ovine, smaller, herdbeasts; the canine; and a smaller variety of the dratted feline plague carrier. The creatures had been brought, in ova (or so the Record put it, from the Ancients' planet of origin which was not the planet Pern, or why had that one point been made so specifically and repeated so often? Pern, not simply the Southern Continent. And the second Crossing had been from south to north. Probably, Capiam contemplated bitterly, to escape feline plague carriers that secreted themselves in dark lairs to nourish their fell disease until unwary humans took them off tree trunks, days from land. Couldn't the Ancients have stopped bragging about their achievements long enough to state how they had eradicated plague and pandemic? Their success was meaningless without the process.
Capiam plucked feebly at the sleeping furs. They smelled. They needed to be aired. He smelled. He didn't dare leave his room. «What can't be cured must be endured.» Desdra's taunt returned to him often.
He was a healer. He would heal himself first and thus prove to others that one could recover from this miserable disease. He need only apply his trained mind and considerable willpower to the problem. On cue, a coughing spell wracked him. When he had recovered sufficiently, he reached for the syrup Desdra left on the bedside table. He wished she would look in on him.
Fortine had, conferring three times from the doorway, seeking authority on matters Capiam could not now recall. He hoped that his responses had been sensible. Tirone had appeared, very briefly, more to assure himself and to report to the world that Capiam was still part of it than to comfort or cheer the sick man.
Fort Hold proper had not been sullied by the plague, even though healers, master, journeyman, and apprentice, had journeyed to the stricken areas. Four of Fort's seaside holds and two coastal cropholds had succumbed.
The syrup eased Capiam's raw throat. He could even taste it. Thymus was the principal ingredient, and he approved of its use on his person. If the disease ran the same course in him as it had in the cases he had studied, the cough ought soon to pass. If, by virtue of the strict quarantine in which he lay, he did not contract a secondary infection, pulmonary, pneumonic, or bronchial seemed the readiest to pounce on the weakened patient, then he ought to improve rapidly.
K'lon, the blue rider from Fort Weyr, had recovered totally. Capiam hoped that the man had actually had the plague, not some deep cold, and his hope was substantiated by the facts that K'lon had a close friend in plague-stricken Igen, and that the Weyr healer, Berchar, and his green rider weyrmate were grievously ill at Fort Weyr. Capiam tried to censor his own painful thoughts of dragonriders dying as easily as holders. Dragonriders could not die. The Pass had eight Turns to go. There were hundreds of powders, roots, and barks and herbs to combat disease on Pern, but the numbers of dragons and their riders were limited.
Desdra really ought to be appearing soon with some of the restorative soup she took such pleasure in making him consume! It was her presence he wished for, not the soup, for he found the long hours of solitude without occupation tedious and fraught with unpleasant speculations. He knew he ought to be grateful to have a room to himself for the chances of further infection were thus reduced to the minimum, but he would have liked some company. Then he thought of the crowded holds and he had no doubt that some poor sod there would dearly love to exchange with him for solitude.
Capiam took no pleasure in the knowledge that his frequent harangues to the Lords Holder about indiscriminate breeding should prove so devastatingly accurate. But dragonriders ought not to be dying of this plague. They had private quarters, were hardy, inured to many of the ailments that afflicted those in poorer conditions, were supplied with the top of the tithe. Igen, Keroon, Ista. Those Weyrs had had direct contact with the feline. And Fort, High Reaches, and Benden riders had attended the Gathers. Almost every rider had had time and opportunity to catch the infection.
Capiam had had severe qualms about demanding a conveyance of Sh'gall from Southern Boll to Fort Hold. But, on the other hand, Sh'gall had conveyed Lord Ratoshigan to Ista Gather for the purpose of seeing the rare creature on display quite a few hours before Capiam and the young animal healer, Talpan, had their startling conference. It was only after Capiam had reached Southern Boll and seen Lord Ratoshigan's sick handlers that he had realized how quickly the disease incubated and how insidiously it spread. Expediency had required Capiam to use the quickest means to return to his Hall, and that had been a-dragonback with the Fort Weyrleader. Sh'gall had taken ill but he was young and healthy, Capiam told himself. So had Ratoshigan, but Capiam found a rather curious justice in that. Given the infinite variety of human personalities, it was impossible to like everyone. Capiam didn't like Ratoshigan but he shouldn't be glad the man was suffering along with his lowliest beasthandler.
Capiam vowed, yet again, that he would have far more tolerance for the ill when he recovered. When! When! Not if. If was defeatist. How had the many thousands of patients he tended over his Turns as a healer endured those hours of unrelieved thought and self-examination? Capiam sighed, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, a further manifestation of his terrible inertia. When, yes, when, would he have the strength to resume constructive thought and research?
There had to be an answer, a solution, a cure, a therapy, a restorative, a remedy! Something existed somewhere. If the Ancients had been able to cross unimaginable distances to breed animals from a frozen stew, to create dragons from the template of the legendary fire-lizards, they surely would have been able to overcome bacterium or virus that threatened themselves and those beasts. It could only be a matter of time, Capiam assured his weary self, before those references were discovered. Fortine had been searching the Records piled in the Library Caves. When he had had to dispatch journeymen and apprentice healers to reinforce their overworked craftsmen in the worst plague areas, Tirone had magnanimously placed his craftspeople at Fortine's disposal. But if one of those untutored readers passed over the relevant paragraphs in ignorance of the significanceSurely, though, something as critical as an epidemic would merit more than a single reference.
When would Desdra come with her soup to break the monotony of his anxious self-castigation? «Stop fretting,» he told himself, his voice a hoarse croak that startled him. «You're peevish. You're also alive. What must be endured cannot be cured. No. What cannot be cured must be inured, endured.»
Tears for his debilitation dripped down his cheekbones, falling in time to the latest urgent drum code. Capiam wanted to stop his ears against the news. It was sure to be bad. How could it possibly be anything else until they had some sort of specific treatment and some means of arresting the swift spread of this plague?
Keroon Runnerhold sent the message. They needed medicines. Healer Gorby reported dwindling stocks of borrago and aconite, and needed tussilago in quantity for pulmonary and bronchial cases, ilex for pneumonia.
A new fear enveloped Capiam. With such unprecedented demands on stillroom supplies, would there be enough of even the simple medicaments? Keroon Runnerhold, dealing as it did with many animal health problems, ought to be able to supply all its needs. Capiam despaired afresh as he thought of smaller holds. They would have on hand only a limited amount of general remedies. Most holds traded the plants and barks indigenous in their area for those they lacked. What lady holder, no matter how diligent and capable, would have laid in sufficient to deal with an epidemic?
To compound demand, the disease had struck during the cold season. Most medicinal plants were picked in flower, when their curative properties were strongest; roots and bulbs gathered in the fall. Spring and flowering, autumn and earthy harvest were too distant, the need was now!
Capiam writhed in his furs. Where was Desdra? How much longer did he have to endure before the wretched lethargy abated?
«Capiam?» Desdra's quiet voice broke into his self-pitying ruminations. «More soup?»
«Desdra? That message from Keroon Runnerhold.»
«As if we had only one febrifuge in our pharmacopia! Fortine has compiled a list of alternatives.» Desdra was impatient with Gorby. «There's ash bark, box, ezob, and thymus as well as borrago and featherfern. Who's to say one of them might not prove to be specific for this? In fact, Semment of Great Reach Hold believes that thymus is more effective for the pulmonary infections he's been treating. Master Fortine holds out for featherfern, being one of the few indigenous plants. How are you feeling?»
«Like nothing! I cannot even raise my hands.» He tried to demonstrate this inability. «The lassitude is part of the illness. You wrote that symptom often enough. What can't be cured,»
Summoning strength from a sudden spurt of irrational anger, Capiam flung a pillow at her. It had neither the mass nor the impetus to reach its target, and she laughed as she collected the missile and lofted it easily back to his bed.
«I believe that you are somewhat improved in spirit. Now drink the soup.» She set it down on the table.
«Are all healthy here?»
«All here, yes. Even the officious Tolocamp, immured in his quarters. He's more likely to catch pneumonia while standing at unshuttered windows to check up on the guards.» Desdra chuckled maliciously. «He's got messengers stationed on the forecourt. He sails notes down to them to take to offenders. Not even a tunnel snake could slip past his notice!» A tiny smirk curved Desdra's lips. «Master Tirone had to talk long and hard to get him to set up that internment camp in the hollow. Tolocamp was certain that offering shelter would be an invitation to undesirables to lodge and feed at his expense. Tirone is furious with Tolocamp because he wants to send his harpers out with the assurance that they can return, but Tolocamp refuses to believe that harpers can avoid infection. Tolocamp sees the disease as a visible mist or fog that oozes out of meadows and streams and mountain crevices.»
Desdra was trying to amuse him, Capiam thought, for she wasn't normally garrulous.
«I did order a quarantine.»
Desdra snorted. «True! Tolocamp ought not to have left Ruatha. He overruled the brother when Alessan fell ill. And with every other breath, Tolocamp is said to moan for abandoning his dear wife. Lady Pendra, and those precious daughters of his to the mercies of the plague rampaging at Ruatha.» Desdra's chuckle was dry. «He left them there on purpose. Or Lady Pendra insisted they all stay. They'll have insisted on nursing Alessan!»
«How are matters at Fort Weyr and Ruatha?»
«K'lon tells us that Moreta is doing as well as can be expected. Berchar probably has pneumonia, and nineteen riders, including Sh'gall, are weyred. Ruatha is badly hit. Fortine has dispatched volunteers. Now drink that soup before it cools. There's much to be done below. I can't stay to chat with you any longer.»
Capiam found that his hand shook violently as he picked up the mug.
«Shouldn't've wasted all that energy tossing that pillow,» she said.
He used both hands to bring the mug to his lips without spilling. «What have you put in it?» he demanded after a careful swallow.
«A little of this, a little of that. Trying a few restoratives out on you. If they work, I'll make kettlesful.»
«It's vile!»
«It's also nutritional. Drink it!»
«I'll choke.»
«Drink it or I'll let Nerilka, that laundry pole daughter of Tolocamp's, come nurse you in my stead. She offers hourly.»
Capiam cursed Desdra but he drained the cup.
«Well, you do sound improved!» She chuckled as she closed the door quietly behind her.
«I didn't say I liked it either,» Leri told S'peren. «But old dragons can glide. That's why Holth and I can still fly Thread in the queens' wing.» Leri gave Holth an affectionate clout on the shoulder, beaming up at her life-long friend. «It's the tip, the finger, and elbow joints that harden so the finer points of maneuverability go. Gliding's from the shoulder. Doesn't take much effort, either, with the sort of wind we're likely to get now. Why did it have to get so bloody cold on top of everything else? Rain'd be more bearable as well as more seasonable.» Leri adjusted the furs across her shoulders. «I wouldn't trust the weyrlings to such dull work. They'd do something fancy, like the stunt young T'ragel tried on the ridge with Moreta. «Now, you said L'bol is grieving badly?»
«Indeed he is. He's lost both sons.» S'peren shook his head sadly before he took another sip of the wine Leri had served him «to wet your throat after the dust at Red Butte.» S'peren took comfort in the familiar act of reporting to Leri. It was like the old times, only a few Turns past at that, when L'mal had been Weyrieader and S'peren had been much in this weyr. He almost expected to see L'mal's chunky figure swing into the chamber and hear the hearty voice greeting him. Now there was a Leader to encourage and comfort in this disastrous Turn. Still, S'peren thought with a blink, Leri was as brisk and quick as ever. «Could Igen put eight full wings up to Fall?»
«What?» Leri snapped out in surprise at the question, then snorted. «Not likely. Torenth told Holth that half the Weyr is sick and the other half looks sick. Their damned curiosity and all that sun on their heads all the time. Slows 'em down. Nothing to do with their spare time but bake their brains. Of course, they all went to gawk at a raree! And we'll never hear the last of their moans for the unexpected tariff!» She made a business of scanning the lists S'peren had handed her. «Can't say as I can put a face or pair a dragon name with some of these. Must all be new. When L'mal was Leader, I kept up with all the new riders in every Weyr.»
«S'ligar asked about Moreta.»
«Worried about Orlith and her eggs?» Leri peered wisely over the lists at the bronze rider.
S'peren nodded. «S'ligar volunteered candidates in case.»
«Only what I'd expect.» Leri's answer was tart but, seeing the expression on S'peren's face, she relented. «It was good of him to offer. Especially since Orlith is the only queen currently bearing eggs.» Leri's round face produced a slightly malicious smile.
S'peren continued to nod for he hadn't realized that. It put another light on S'ligar's concern for Moreta and Orlith.
«Don't worry, S'peren. Moreta's doing well. Orlith's with her constantly and that queen's a marvel of comfort, as everyone in this Weyr should know by now.»
«I thought it was just with injured dragons.»
«And no comfort for her own weyrmate and rider? Of course Orlith helps Moreta. The other Weyrs could learn a thing or two from our senior queen dragon. Wouldn't surprise me if there were some pretty crucial changes made when Moreta's well. And when Orlith rises to mate again!» Leri winked broadly at S'peren. «That girl has got to show her true preference to her queen.»
S'peren managed to hide his surprise at Leri's outspokenness. Of course, they were old friends and she probably felt able to be candid in his company. Then he took a quick sip of the wine. What could Leri possibly be suggesting? He liked Moreta very much. She and Orlith had done a fine job of healing a long Threadscore on his Clioth's flank last Turn. And Clioth had risen to fly in Orlith's last mating flight. He had been perversely relieved when Clioth had failed, despite his admiration and respect for Moreta, and despite a natural desire to prove his bronze dragon superior to the other bronzes of Fort. On the other hand, he had never questioned Sh'gall's ability as a flight leader. The man had an uncanny instinct for which dragon might be failing in strength or losing his flame, or which rider might not be as courageous as he ought in following Thread out of path, but S'peren did not covet the Leadership half as much as his Clioth yearned to mate with Orlith.
«K'lon?» Leri said, breaking into his thoughts. She and her dragon looked toward the weyr entrance.
Clioth confirmed the arrival of Rogeth to S'peren, telling his rider that he was moving over to permit the blue to land on Holth's ledge.
«About bloody time that young man came back to his own Weyr,»
Leri said, frowning. «There has to be another dragonrider able to do what K'lon's doing or he'll kill himself. Misplaced guilt. Or more likely the chance to get in and out of Igen to see that lover of his.»
There was no question that the blue rider was exhausted as he entered the weyr. His shoulders sagged and his step had no spring. His face was travel-stained except for the lighter patches of skin around his eyes, protected from flight dirt by his goggles. His clothes were stiff with moisture frozen into the hide by constant journeys between.
«Five drops from the blue vial,» Leri said quickly in an undertone, leaning toward S'peren. Then she straightened, speaking in a normal tone. «S'peren, fix a mug of klah laced with that fortified wine of mine for K'lon. And sit down there, young man, before you fall.» Leri pointed imperiously to a chair. She had replaced her one stool with several comfortable seats positioned, as she phrased it, in noncontagious spacing in front of Holth's couch.
K'lon barely avoided falling into the appointed chair; his legs slid out in front of him as he slouched into the seat. Dangling helmet and goggles from one limp hand, he accepted the mug from S'peren.
«Take a long swallow now, K'lon,» Leri said kindly. «It'll restore your blood to normal temperature after all that betweening. You're nearly as blue as Rogeth. There! That tastes good, doesn't it? A brew of my own to hearten the weary.» Though her voice was kind, she watched K'lon intently. «Now, what news from the halls?»
K'lon's weary face brightened. «There is good news. Master Capiam really is recovering. I spoke to Desdra. He's weak but he's swearing out loud. She said they'd probably have to tether him to his bed to keep him there long enough to regain his strength. He's yelling for Records. Best of all,» K'lon seemed to shrug off his fatigue in his cheerful recital, «he insists that the disease itself doesn't cause the deaths. People are actually dying from other things, like pneumonia and bronchitis and other respiratory ailments. Avoid those and,» K'lon made a wide sweep of his hand, his helmet and goggles clacking together, «all's well.» Then his expression altered dolefully. «Only that's just not possible in the Holds, you know. So many people crammed into inadequate spaceand not enough facilitiesespecially now, when it's got so cold. The Lords Holder would put people into hide tents that are well enough for a Gather but not for the sick. I've been everywhere. Even holds that don't know what's been happening elsewhere and think it's only them that're in deep trouble. I've been so many places » His face turned bleak and his body slumped deeper into the chair.
«A'murry?» Leri spoke the green rider's name gently.
K'lon's misery broke through the tight hold he must be keeping on his private anxiety. «He's got a chest infection, one of the weyrfolk nursing him had a bad cold.» His condemnation was plain. «Fortine gave me a special mixture and a comfrey salve for his chest. I made A'murry take the first dose and it really did stop him midcough. And I rubbed the salve thick on his chest and back.» Some instinct made K'lon look at the other two riders and he saw their unvoiced apprehension. «I've got to go to A'murry. Whenever I can. I can't give him what I've got over! And don't tell me it's enough that Rogeth and Granth stay in touch. I'm very much aware that they do, but I have a need to be with A'murry, too, you know.» K'lon's face contorted. He looked about to break into tears, a display he averted by drinking deeply of the wine-laced klah. «That's quite tasty, really,» he said courteously to Leri. Then he finished the drink. «Now, what else can I tell you from my »
He paused, blinked, swallowed, and then his head began to loll to one side. Leri, who had been waiting for that, signaled urgently to S'peren.
«Perfectly timed, I think,» she said as S'peren caught K'lon before he slid from the chair. «Here.» She tossed a pillow and pulled the fur from her shoulders. «Roll him into this, pillow his head, and he'll sleep a good twelve hours. Holth, be a pet and tell Rogeth to go curl up in his own weyr and get some rest. You,» she prodded the resisting flesh of her queen with her forefinger, «will keep your ears open for Granth.»
«What if he's needed?» S'peren asked, arranging K'lon comfortably. «By the Halls or the Hold or A'murry?»
«A'murry is, of course, a priority,» Leri replied thoughtfully. «I can't really condone his breaking of quarantine. I'll think of some discipline later, for K'lon has disobeyed a direct order. I have just decided that we can use other messengers in K'lon's place. Especially if most of what he does is convey supplies or healers. Weyrlings can do that! They'll feel brave and daring, and be scared enough to be careful. Packages can certainly be deposited without making contact and messages collected at a discreet distance from cots. Let them practice setting down by a pennant instead of a ridge. Good practice.» Leri peered down critically at the sleeping K'lon. «However, you'd better circulate the news he brought us from the Hall, that the plague doesn't kill. We must be more wary than ever for our convalescents. No one with the slightest sign of a head cold or even a pimple is to attend the riders.»