Curmir nodded slowly but gave her a long, searching look.

"S'peren is to contrive a support sling for Dilenth. We cannot expect T'grath to stand under his wing until it heals. Such sacrifices sour weyrmates!" Moreta managed to rise, carefully planting her feet under her so as not to jar her aching skull. Never had a headache arrived with such speed and intensity. She was nearly blinded by it. "I think that's all for now. It's been a difficult day and I'm tired."

Curmir offered her assistance but she discouraged him with a hand gesture and walked slowly from the Lower Cavern.

Without Orlith's constant encouragement, Moreta would not have been able to cross the Bowl, which, in the sudden chill of the night air, seemed to have perversely grown wider. At the stairs, she had to brace herself several times against the inner wall.

"So, it's got to you," Leri said unexpectedly. The older Weyrwoman was sitting on the steps to her weyr, both hands resting on her walking stick.

"Don't come near me."

"You don't see me rising from my perch, do you? You're probably contagious. However, Orlith appealed to me. I can see why now. Get into your bed." Leri brandished her cane. "I've already measured out the medicine you should take, according to that drum roll of Fortine's. Willowsalic, aconite, featherfern. Oh, and the wine has a dose of fellis juice from my own stock. The sacrifices I make for you. Shoo! I can't carry you, you know. You'll have to make it on your own. You will. You always do. And I've done more than enough for one day for this Weyr!"

Leri's chivvying gave Moreta the impetus to stagger up the last few steps and into the corridor of her weyr. At its end she could see Orlith's eyes gleaming with the pale yellow of concern. She paused for a moment, winded, her head pounding unbearably.

"I assume that no one in the Lower Caverns suspected you've been taken ill?"

"Curmir. Won't talk, though."

"Sensible of you in view of the Igen death. She'll make it, Orlith." Then Leri waved her cane angrily. "No, you will not help. You'd jam the corridor with your egg-heavy belly. Go on with you, Moreta. I'm not going to stand on these chilly steps all night. I need my rest. Tomorrow's going to be very busy for me."

"I hoped you'd volunteer."

"I'm not so lacking in sense that I'd let Nesso get out of hand. Go!

Get yourself well," she added in a kinder tone, heaving herself to her feet.

Orlith did meet Moreta at the end of the corridor, extending her head so that Moreta could hang onto something to cross the chamber. Orlith crooned encouragement, love and devotion and comfort in almost palpable waves. Then Moreta was in her own quarters, her eyes fastening on the medicine set out on the table. She blessed Leri, knowing what an effort it had been for the old Weyrwoman to navigate the steps. Moreta took the fellis wine down in one swallow, grimacing against the bitterness not even the wine could disguise. How could Leri sip it all day? Without undressing, Moreta slid under the furs and carefully laid her head down on the pillow.

Capiam could not remain asleep, though he tried to burrow back into the crazy fever-dreams as a more acceptable alternative to the miseries total awareness brought. Something impinged on his semi-consciousness and forced him awake. Something he had to do? Yes, something he had to do. He blinked bleary, crusted eyes until he could focus on the timepiece. Nine of the clock. "Oh, it's me. Time for my medicine."

A healer couldn't even be sick without responding to his professional habits. He hauled himself up on one elbow to reach for the skin on which he was recording his progress through the disease but a coughing spasm interrupted him. The cough seemed to throw tiny knives at his throat. Such spasms were exceedingly painful, and Capiam disliked them even more than the headache, the fever, and the boneache.

Cautiously, lest he provoke another coughing fit, he dragged the note case onto his bed and fumbled for the writing tool.

"Only the third day?" His illness seemed to have made each twenty-four hours an eternity of minor miseries. That day was mercifully three quarters done.

He could take little comfort in noticing that his fever had abated, that the headache was a dullness that could be endured. He placed the fingers of his right hand lightly on the arterial pulse in the left wrist. Still faster than normal, but slowing. He made an appropriate notation and added a description of the hardy, dry, unproductive cough. As if the note was the cue, he was wracked with another fit that tore at his throat and upper chest like a tunnel snake. He was forced to lie in a fetal position, knees up to his chin to relieve the muscle spasms that accompanied the cough. When it had passed, he lay back, sweating and exhausted. He roused enough to take his dose of willow salic.

He must prescribe a cough remedy for himself. What would be the most effective suppressant? He touched his painful throat. What must the lining of his throat resemble?

"This is most humiliating," he told himself, his voice hoarse. He vowed to be far more sympathetic to the afflicted in the future.

The drum tower began to throb and the message stunned him for condolences were being transmitted from Lord Tolocamp-what was he doing in Fort Hold when he should have remained at Ruatha?-to the Weyrleaders of Telgar and Igen for the deaths of ... Capiam writhed on the bed, convulsed by coughing that left him weak and panting. He missed the names of the dead riders. Dead riders! Pern could ill afford to lose any of its dragonriders.

Why, oh why hadn't he been called in earlier? Surely nine people in the same Sea Hold falling sick was an unusual enough occurrence to have warranted even a courtesy report to the main Healer Hall? Would he have appreciated the significance?

"Capiam?" Desdra's query was low enough not to have aroused him had he been asleep.

"I'm awake, Desdra." His voice was a hoarse caw.

"You heard the drums?"

"Part of the message-"

"The wrong part from the sound of you."

"Don't come any closer! How many riders died?"

"The toll is now fifteen at Igen, two at Ista, and eight at Telgar."

Capiam could think of nothing to say.

"How many are ill, then?" His voice faltered.

"They report recoveries," Desdra said in a crisper voice. "Nineteen at Telgar, fourteen at Igen, five at Ista, two at Fort are all convalescing."

"And at Hall and Hold?" He dreaded her answer, clenching his fists to bear the staggering totals.

"Fortine has taken charge, Boranda and Tirone are assisting." The finality in her tone told Capiam he would not elicit any further information.

"Why are you in my room?" he demanded testily. "You know-"

"I know that you have reached the coughing stage and I have prepared a soothing syrup."

"How do you know what I would prescribe for my condition?"

"The fool who treats himself has only a fool for a patient."

Capiam wanted to laugh at her impudence, but the attempt turned into one of the hideously painful, long coughs and, by the time it had passed, tears rolled down his cheeks.

"A nice blend of comfrey, sweetener, and a touch of numbweed to deaden the throat tissues. It ought to inhibit the cough." She deposited the steaming mug on his table and was swiftly across the room by the door.

"You're a brave and compassionate woman, Desdra," he said, ignoring her sarcastic snort.

"I am also cautious. If at all possible, I would prefer to avoid the agonies which I have observed you enduring."