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as had Alessan. She didn’t think she would like to antagonize Tirone.
    “He has a beautiful voice,” she said noncommitally. “Is Master Capiam coming?”
    “So I believe.”
    Shells, thought Moreta to herself at Alessan’s terse reply. With the exception of Lord Shadder, Alessan apparently did not share any of her preferences among the leaders of Pern. She’d never heard of anyone who didn’t like Masterhealer Capiam. Could Alessan fault the man for failing to mend his wife’s broken back?
    “Is that sort of exercise good for Orlith at this time, Moreta?” demanded Lord Tolocamp, bearing down on them suddenly. He must have been following their progress along the roadway to have intercepted them so neatly.
    “She’s not due to clutch for another ten days.” Moreta stiffened, annoyed both by the question and the questioner.
    “Orlith flew with great precision,” Alessan said. “An ability well appreciated by Ruatha.”
    Lord Tolocamp checked, coughed, covering his mouth belatedly and plainly not understanding Alessan’s reference.
    “She’s thoroughly shameless,” Moreta said, “whenever there’s a new audience for her tricks. She’s never so much as bunged a claw.”
    “Yes, well, ah, Lady Pendra is just over here; Moreta,” Tolocamp went on with his usual ponderous geniality. “Alessan, I would like you to become better acquainted with my daughters.”
    “At the moment, Lord Tolocamp, I am obliged to become better acquainted with the Weyrwoman, as Sh’gall is not here as her escort. Your daughters”—Alessan looked over at the young women, who were talking placidly with some of his subordinates—“seem well suited.”
    Tolocamp began to huff.
    “A glass of wine, Moreta? This way.” Alessan firmly propelled her away from Lord Tolocamp, who stood staring after them, somewhat surprised by their abrupt departure.
    “I’ll never hear the last of this from him, you know,” Moreta said as she allowed herself to be hurried off.
    “Then you can drown your sorrow in a Benden white wine I have chilling.” He beckoned to a servitor, pantomiming the pouring of wine into a glass.
    “Benden white? Why; that’s my favorite!”
    “And here I thought you were partial to Tillek’s.”
    Moreta made a face. “I’m obliged to
assume
a partiality for Tillek’s wines.”
    “I find them sharp. Soil’s acid in Tillek.”
    “True, but Tillek tithes its wines to Fort Weyr. And it’s far easier to agree with Lord Diatis than argue with him.”
    Alessan laughed.
    As the servitor returned with two finely engraved cups and a small wineskin, Moreta glimpsed Lord Tolocamp, Lady Pendra, and Lady Oma shepherding the daughters toward them. Just then a stentorian voice proclaimed the start of the runner races.
    “We’ll never elude Lady Pendra. Where can we go?” Moreta asked, but Alessan was staring toward the race course.
    “I have a particular reason for wanting to watch that first race. If we hurry . . .” He pointed to the roadway that wound to the racing flats, but that path would not avoid the Fortian progression.
    “Short of calling on Orlith’s assistance, we’d never make it. And she’s asleep.” Then Moreta saw the scaffold surrounding the wall being built at the southern edge of the forecourt. “Why not up there?” She pointed.
    “Perfect—and you’ve a head for heights!” Alessan took her hand and guided her deftly through the guests and away from the Fortians.
    Those already standing by the unfinished courses of the wall made room for the Lord Holder and the Weyrwoman. Alessan put his goblet in her free hand and neatly jumped to the top course. Then he knelt, gesturing for her to hand up both wine cups.
    For just a moment, Moreta hesitated. L’mal had often chided her about the dignity expected of Weyrwomen, especially outside the precincts of the Weyr, where holder, crafter, and harper could observe and criticise. Quite likely she had been stimulated by Orlith’s outrageous