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chin. His hands were sweaty on the plowhandies and the team panting as hard as
he from their labors in the rain heavy field. Ignoring the sting of the
blisters he had acquired in the last two days, he dried his hands finger by
finger on the grimy rag attached to his belt. Then Ruatha Hold's Lord
Holder rubbed the sweat from his face and neck, took a swallow from the flask
of water, picked up the reins, slapped the rumps of his reluctant team, and
managed to grab the handles of the unwieldy plow before the runners had pulled
it out of the furrow.
Another day and he was sure they'd forget they'd ever been trained to race. Of
course, he told himself that every day. One day, it would have to be true. He
had mastered feistier beasts to the saddle, and he must-if he wished to
Hold-prove equally capable at retraining. With bitter humor, Alessan wondered
if his predicament could be a retribution for his defiance of his father's
wishes. Yet none of that breeding had survived. The heavier runners, the draft
and plow animals, the sturdy long-distance beasts, had been especially
susceptible to the lung infections that had swept the racers' camp after the
first days of the plague. The light wiry runners of his breeding had survived
to graze contentedly on the lush river pastures. Until he had had to harness
them, and himself, to the plows.
The land had to be tilled, crops sown, the tithe offered, the Hold fed no
matter how the Lord Holder managed to accomplish those responsibilities. He
came to the edge of the field and wrestled the team into the wide arc, turning
back on the furrows. They were uneven but the earth had been turned. He looked
briefly out at the other fields of the Hold proper, to check on the other
teams. He also had a view of the northern road and the mounted man approaching
along it. He shaded his eyes, cursing as the off-sider took advantage of his
momentary distraction. As he lined it up again with its teammate and the plow
righted, he was certain that he saw a flash of harper blue. Tuero must be back
from his swing of the northern holds. Who else would be brave enough to
venture to Ruatha? Alessan had drummed for heavy plowbeasts and been told that
no one had any to offer. Neither threats of withholding nor doubling the marks
brought better results.
"It's the plague, Alessan," Tuero had said, for once unsmiling. "It was at its
worst here in Ruatha. Until Master Capiam has sent the vaccine round to
everyone, they won't come here. And even then they won't bring animals, I
think, because so many died here."
Alessan had cursed futilely. "If they won't come, I'll have to go! I'll bring
teams in myself! They can't deny their Lord Holder to his face!" While
Alessan railed at his people, he understood their viewpoint-especially since
he himself had not yet had the courage to send for Dag, Fergal, and the
bloodstock. Follen had given him the most strict assurance that the plague was
passed by coughing or sneezing, personal contact, and could not be in the soil
of the race flats or the pickets where so many beasts had died, but Alessan
would not risk the few priceless breeders that Dag had whisked away the
morning after the accursed Gather.
After considerable discussion with Tuero, Deefer, and Oklina, his inner
council, it had been decided that he couldn't leave the Hold proper, for there
was no one else of sufficient rank to enforce his orders. He hadn't wanted
Tuero to make the journey as the harper was only just out of bed. But Tuero
had been a wily talker, which was why, Tuero had said at the conclusion of the
council, he was a harper and why he was the best emissary to send. A few days
or so in the fresh spring air on an untaxing mission would complete his
recovery. After all, while a harper was generally able to turn his hand to
most tasks, Tuero couldn't plow. Alessan hadn't believed a word of Tuero's
cheery bluff but he had no one else to send.
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Despite the awkward height of its rider, Tuero's lean mount moved easily, with
a quick high step, head held high and eager once it knew itself to be home.
Tuero's feet were level with the wiry beast's knees, and the harper's gaunt
frame towered above its ears. Certainly not the mount that
Alessan would have assigned Tuero by choice, but they seemed to have gotten
along. They were riding at a right angle to Alessan's field, but he could not
remove his hands from the plow to hail Tuero. He'd reached the downslope of
the field and the team was fractious with the pole hitting against their
hocks. The field was nearly done; he'd finish it! Once he had he could give
all his attention to Tuero's news.
He would have wished to see Tuero returning with a sturdy team, but there did
seem to be something in his pack. Two more furrows and the day's stint was
done.
As he drove the weary team back to the beasthold, the sowers were still busy
setting seed. They'd have some sort of a crop in spite of the bloody plague.
That is, if the weather held, and some other disaster, like a Thread
burrowing, did not overtake wretched Ruatha.
To Alessan's surprise, Tuero was waiting for him in the beasthold, sitting on
an upturned pail, his saddlebags at his feet and a look of satisfaction on his
long face. His mount was munching sweetgrass in its stall, all saddle marks
rubbed from its back.
"I saw you at your labors, Lord Alessan," Tuero began, a sparkle of amusement
in his eyes as he rose to take the bridles of the team. "Your furrows
improve."
"They could stand to." Alessan began to unhook the harness.
"Your example inspires many. In fact, your industry and occupation are already
legend in the Hold. Your participation does you no disservice."
"But brought me no team. Or is there more bad news?" Alessan paused before he
removed the heavy collar from the off-sider.
"No more than you've probably figured out for yourself." Tuero nodded to
the saddlebags and took the collar from the other runner. "I've some bits and
stashes but I saw myself how bare the cupboards are of what is needed most. At
least in the north."
"And?" Alessan liked all his bad news at once so he could absorb the different
shocks according to their merits.
"Others have started working the land but in some of those holds," Tuero
gestured north with the twist of straw he made to rub the mount's sweat
marks-"they had severe losses. Some Gatherers left before the quarantine and
made it to their homes, bringing the virus with them. I've made a list of the
deaths, a sad total it is, too, and no way I can ease the telling of it. They
say misery loves company, and I suppose if you're of a dismal temperament, you
get joy of it." Tuero quirked his eyebrows. "I've a list of needs and musts
and worries. But I'd a thought on my way back which may sweeten all.
"I was right about people's being afraid to come here, to Ruatha Hold proper.
I was right about their not wanting to send good stock to their deaths for all
the marks you'd be willing to give. I had a time of it to get them to let
Skinny there in their holds. They were afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid it carries the plague."
"That runner survived it!"
"Precisely. It survived, you and I survived. I got over my bout faster because
I had the serum. Wouldn't serum from recovered runners protect others the way
it protects people?" He grinned at Alessan's reaction. "If that notion's
valid, you got a field full of cures. And a good trade item."
Alessan stared at Tuero, condemning himself for not having thought of
vaccinating runners. So many of his smallholders depended on their runner
breeding that he could not, in conscience, have demanded his right to a
portion of their labor in this emergency, recognizing their fear of bringing
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plague back to their holds.
"I'm disgusted I didn't think of it myself!" he said to the grinning harper. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]