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his head, chuckling. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths to which we went—but you could be right. The old Lord could have known.”
    “I expect he wouldn’t have named you successor on your merits as a breeder alone. What else have you been up to?”
    Alessan winked at her. “The Weyr commands my services, Lady, not my secrets.”
    “I’ve found
one
out. Shall I—” Moreta paused, suddenly aware that their laughing exchanges were being closely observed. Why shouldn’t she laugh at a Gather? She gave R’limeak a stern glare, and the blue rider looked away.
    Noting her change of expression, Alessan glanced about them and swore under his breath. “Not even on a half-built wall in full sight of a Gather!” he said acidly. He swore again as he saw Lord Tolocamp and the women moving purposefully toward the wall.
    “Shards!” Moreta said. “I will not have the racing spoiled by chitchat and courtship. Look, we’ll be able to see just as well from over there!” She pointed to a slight rise in the field below the roadway. Then she gathered her skirts and started to pick a careful path down the pile of stones waiting to be set into the wall. “And do collect that skin of white wine.”
    “Be careful, you’ll break your neck!” Alessan urgently signaled the servitor to hand over the wineskin, then he was following her before anyone was aware of their intentions.
    Rocks shifting under their feet, Moreta and Alessan reached the roadway without mishap, then hurried behind the stalls and down the open field to the rise. When Moreta felt burrs pulling at her full skirts, she bundled them higher.
    “No propriety in you at all today.” Alessan shook his head at her undignified lope, though he was placing his elegantly booted feet with a care for rough ground.
    “This is a Gather. An informal occasion.”
    “You are not dressed informally.” He caught her by the elbow as she tripped. “That gown was not designed for cross-country scrambles: Ah! Here we are”—he came to an abrupt halt—“an unimpeded view of the start and finish lines. Let me fill your goblet.”
    “Please.” Moreta held it up.
    “Why didn’t I know that the Fort Weyrwoman liked racing enough to desert the forecourt and its pleasures?”
    “I’ve been at all Ruatha’s Gathers the past ten Turns—”
    “Up
there,
though.” He gestured back to the forecourt.
    “Of course, as befits my rank. L’mal didn’t like me to roam the picket lines.”
    “Which was where I generally was.” Alessan grinned.
    “Learning how to breed winners?”
    “Of course not.” Alessan feigned shocked innocence. “I was supposed to breed stamina, not speed.
My
Gather duties were to assist our race-course manager, Norman.”
    Moreta lifted her goblet again. “To the man who perservered and won the race!”
    Alessan was quick-witted and grinned at her subtlety. Their eyes met in a candid gaze. Moreta felt a growing affinity for the new Lord Holder and not only because of their mutual interest in race runners. His mind was unpredictable, certainly not in the pattern of the usual Lord Holder, if she compared him to Tolocamp, Ratoshigan, or Diatis. He was good company, with a fine sense of humor; if he danced as well as he did everything else, she might just monopolize him this evening.
    Two more dragons arrived midair as she glanced up, away from Alessan’s light-green, compelling gaze. Then her eyes dropped slightly to admire Orlith, ensconced right above the main hold door, and she thought how well Orlith’s golden hide complimented the window hangings on the top tier. Embarrassed, she looked away, aware that Alessan had been watching her.
    “A habit, really,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.
    “Surely after twenty Turns as partners—”
    “Are you already accustomed to being Lord of Ruatha Hold?”
    “Not yet. I’ve only been—” Alessan broke off, his eyes on her face, noting her fond smile. “Even after twenty Turns?”
    “Ah
,
look.