Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 2

  There were people abroad in the valley: farming, drilling and in general about their business under the wan light of the two pinkish moons as if it were full daylight.

  Val Con paused to stare out over all this activity and finally proceeded, shrugging.

  The path deserted him at the base of the hill and he paused once more, this time because he heard the sound of large persons approaching, talking among themselves.

  He hid in the shadow of a sundered boulder and let them go by: a group of three, well-shelled and carrying large objects—containers of some sort, he thought.

  They entered the caverns purposefully, the boom of their voices echoing back.

  After a moment, Val Con followed.

  THE BROODMOTHER STOOD away from the bench in the waiting chamber and inclined her head as he approached. “T’carais. A word with you?” Not now, he thought, still rankling from Eldest speaker’s criticism. Hasty, am I? when all with eyes must see that the Clans of Men will give us profit, perspective—He became aware of the Broodmother still standing, head bent in respect; and put irritation aside. “Of course. Come within.” He sat upon the bench of office and indicated that she should sit, as well.

  At least—” She paused, marshalling words. “It is that—thing, T’carais. The Reports of this one had reached him from other sources, all annoyed.

  But this, in her agitation, she did not do, merely standing and gazing mutely up at him. “What concerns you?” he asked in some puzzlement. Whatever failings she possessed, nervousness was not counted among them, “Are the egglings unwell?”

  “They are well, T’carais. Little, black—soft—thing…”

  He signed understanding.

  “It—the T’carais’amp…”

  This could not continue. “Please tell the tale clearly, Broodmother. Do you say that the T’carais’amp is endangered?”

  “I do!” she cried, knotting her fingers together. “It—the soft thing—came out of the hills today and sat upon the stone at the base of the L’apeleka field, a short distance from the egglings and I, and seemed busy with something or another in its—its hands.” She paused to collect herself.

  “Then, it began to make noises—horrible noises, T’carais, high-pitched and whining—just as the three youngest began a fight among themselves, which I of course had to attend to…”

  “Of course, “he agreed, since this seemed required.

  “When I looked around, the T’carais’amp was—was at the rock, holding out his little hand. And that—thing held out its hand and was going to—going to touch him!” Again she took a time to return to composure.

  “I snatched him away, T’carais, and was hurrying back to the others when—it hissed at me, T’carais!”

  This was new. “Hissed at you? By all descriptions, this is but a member of the Clans of Men. I do not recall having heard one of this family hiss…”

  “Well, perhaps it was not itself that hissed. It was—holding a reed, T’carais, and I believe that it somehow caused the reed to hiss at me. When I turned to protect the T’carais’amp, it bared its teeth and said ‘D’neschopita!’”

  This was apparently the awful whole, for she unknotted her fingers and stood with head bowed, awaiting his judgment.

  It bared its teeth and cried ‘Pretty’? Odd and odder.

  The T’carais had traveled much and judged most of the members of the Clans of Men harmless, if hasty. Their music had a certain charm, their actions a touch of madness bordering on art. Certainly there seemed to be no lasting harm in this one.

  “I judge,” he said, using the formal intonation, “this individual to be rude and inconsiderate, yet not dangerous. If it frequents the area on the edge of the L’apeleka field, then take the egglings elsewhere for their outings. I will investigate it myself, to ensure it is not of that family called Yxtrang, though its behavior has not been consistent with the nature of that line. If it is not, then we must merely tolerate it for a shell or two. It will soon be gone.”

  He gentled his voice, “It is not worth troubling yourself over, Broodmother, I promise you,” and signed dismissal.

  With this she had to be content. She had asked and the T’carais had judged. Better she had slain the soft thing this daylight and endured words of reprisal than this—this empty assurance that something so repulsive was no danger to the children.

  Unconvinced, she made obeisance and left the hearing chamber.

  HE DID NOT understand how he came to be lost. The cavern was dark; but his ears were as sharp as his sense of direction. Those he followed made no pretense of stealth. There should have been no difficulty.

  And yet there had. His guides were a little distance ahead, rounding a corner. Moments later, he rounded the same corner—or, as he thought now, not the same corner—and found himself alone in a dark his eyes were unequipped to penetrate.

  He stopped, eyes half-closed in the blackness, listening.

  Silence, in which his breath rasped.

  His nose reported the dry, musky scent characteristic of shelled people, but not with an immediacy that encouraged him to believe any stood near.

  Well and good. He pulled the lantern from his belt and thumbed the beam to low, careful of any dark-seeing eyes that might, in spite of his certainty, be watching.

  He stood in a pocket of stone, high-roofed and smooth. It was well that he had stopped where he had: another half-dozen of his short strides would have run him nose-first into the endwall.

  The wrong corner, indeed. He pivoted on a heel, playing the beam over the floor, but the dustless stone showed no tracks.

  Well, there at least was the bend in the corridor. Best turnabout and walk out…

  HE WALKED FOR twenty minutes by his inner clock, fully twice the time he had walked in behind his guides. Stopping, he played his light around the room in which he stood. It was so vast a place that the mid-beam did not even nibble at the dark along what he imagined must be the walls. The floor was littered with boulders and smitten columns of stone.

  He spun slowly in place, running the beam about the room. This is absurd, he thought. I don’t get lost.

  Still, he had to admit that he did seem to be lost. It was clear that he would succeed only in becoming more lost if he continued on his guideless way.

  It is possible, he told himself kindly, that you have done something just a bit foolish.

  He sighed and pushed the hair off his forehead.

  People did come into the caverns, though it was true that he did not know the schedule of these visitations. Food and water he had—even fresh water, he amended, ears catching a silvering cascade in the dark to his right—and the torch would provide light for months. The wait would no doubt be tedious, but hardly life-threatening, and if he got bored he could use his fishline and markers to map the caverns.

  Shrugging philosophically, Val Con sat down and waited to be found.

  * * *

  THE DUTIES OF a T’carais are myriad; the duties of the senior-most Edger many. Happily, several overlapped, so that a visit to the caverns was both present joy and remembered bliss.

  He crossed the threshold into First Upper Way, noting that three of his kin—Handler, Selector and Lader—had passed this way but recently.

  Around their scents, and as recent, was the odor of something vaguely spicy and somewhat—furry? The T’carais puzzled as he went on. It was like and yet unlike a scent he knew, though not one usually found within the caverns.

  An oddity. No doubt all would come clear in time.

  Scent told him that his kinsmen had turned down the Second-Full Corridor. They were beginning the harvest of the Lower Ninth Room, then. Good. The T’carais had great plans for that particular crop.

  He turned into Third New Way and shortly into Fifth Cavern but One.

  The newest crop was good, he noted, well pleased. Only fourteen had been encouraged beyond the strength of the crystal to endure. If only half of those remaining harkened to his own tutelage, it would be
a superior harvest, indeed. Seeder had done well. Nurturer had excelled herself. He would commend them.

  It was then that he heard the sound.

  And what a sound! Thready and fulsome by turns: abrading. Fascinating.

  Music, the T’carais understood after a moment. Though of what sort he could not have said, since it bore little resemblance to any he had heard in all his long life.

  But whatever kind of music it was, it was absolutely forbidden within the caverns.

  With one more glance at the precious, fragile blades, the T’carais went in search of the sound.

  * * *

  ITS SOURCE WAS in the Seventh Old Storeroom, sitting in a glowing pool of energy, many-fingered hands holding something to its mouth.

  The T’carais stopped in horror, mentally assessing the damage of so much energy on the infant blades, two levels above. Then he realized that part of what he beheld was merely harmless radiant energy. The force generated by the musician, while more substantial than one would expect from so small a being, was well below the danger level.

  He approached the intruder.

  Who glanced up, dropped its hands and rolled to its feet with amazing suppleness, whereupon it performed the bow of youngling to elder and straightened, awaiting his pleasure.

  An eggling, thought the T’carais, astounded.

  Of all who had complained, none had said that the intruder was but an eggling. He remembered, then, the disconcertment this particular eggling had caused members of the Knife Clan, not to mention unleashing harmful energies in the vicinity of growing blades, and stiffened his soul. Withholding any indication of regard for his petitioner, he studied it at his leisure.

  It was somewhat smaller than those of the Clans of Men he had previously known, and ridiculously thin. Also, it had no fur on its lower face, though a profusion upon its head, dark brown in color. It was dressed in garments of black leather over another long-sleeved garment of some softer stuff: garb worn by many men, especially those that traveled between stars. Around this one’s middle was a wide belt, hung with a confusion of objects.

  The T’carais returned his attention to the face, seeing that it was small; looking as if one of his kin had taken a nugget of soft golden ore and used a knife to plane off five quick, angular lines, finishing the work by setting two crystals of the most vivid green possible well back among them, shadowed by long lashes and guarded by straight, dark brows.

  The T’carais deigned to speak. “Egglings are not permitted here,” he said sternly, and in Terran, so there should be no mistaking his meaning.

  One of those straight brows twitched out of line with its brother, as the master of them both looked down at itself, and then back up.

  “I am sure that to one of your own magnificence,” it said softly, and with a lilt to the words that fell oddly on the ear, “it must appear that I have not yet achieved adulthood. However, I must insist that I am not an—eggling—but a man grown.”

  An absurd eggling. But not one of those called Terran, by testimony of the way he spoke that family’s tongue. The T’carais took thought.

  “What is your Clan?” he inquired, this time in the tongue called Trade, which was easier to form.

  “Korval,” returned the other, obediently following into that language. “And your own?”

  And an impudent one. Then the T’carais recollected that, in his consternation, he had presumed to take a member of another Clan to task for misconduct—eggling or adult. And. to do this without proper introduction was a far greater impudence than he had now been offered.

  “I am called,” he said austerely, “in the short form used by the Clans of Men on those things called visas: Eleventh Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River’s Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmakers Den: The Edger. Among those of men I have met,” he added, “I am known as Edger.”

  The small one bowed, acknowledging, the T’carais supposed, the greatness of the name.

  “I am called, in the longest form thus far available: Val Con yos’Phelium Scout.” He glanced up, both brows out of true. “Among those of men I deal with, I am known as Val Con.”

  The T’carais was charmed. Merely an eggling, after all—he recollected again the damage the creature had done the peace and harmony of the Clan and strengthened his soul once more.

  “This,” he said sternly, deliberately neglecting the name he had been given, “is the place of the Knife Clan of Middle River. Egglings and adults of other clans are not permitted here, save by special invitation, and with a member of the Clan. You are trespassing. Further, you have endangered the blades by the energies unleashed in playing your eggling music. You are fortunate, indeed, that you chose to do this in a section of the caverns that is at rest, for you might have ruined an entire crop, had you chosen to play in a room that was seeded.

  “I am angry that you are here, but because I see you are ignorant, I will raise no complaint to the T’car. Now begone.” He folded his arms over his armored chest and glared at the little creature.

  Who sighed, and glanced down at the reed in his hand. He seemed markedly uncowed by Edger’s avowed anger, and did not smell of fear. When he raised his face he was smiling, as men call it, though very slightly.

  “I am sorry,” he said slowly, “about the music. It is a new instrument for me and I am afraid I did mis-craft it. I did not know the playing was of such poor quality that it would ruin a crop of blades.” He paused, vivid eyes intent. The T’carais kept his countenance unyielding, and said nothing.

  “Where I am from,” continued Val Con yos’Phelium Scout, “knives are made of iron and steel and light.

  I have made a few of the first two myself, though I am a novice. It would interest me greatly to learn how your knives are formed.”

  “You might have had the privilege,” the T’carais said with deliberate cruelty, “but you chose to cast it away from you and enter without permission.”

  “And how was I to ask permission,” wondered the impudent one, “when there is no person I have found in the valley who will speak to me?”

  “Foolish eggling! Do you expect persons of consequence to speak to one to whom they have not been introduced?”

  The small one took time to consider this, eyes on a rock at his feet. He looked up.

  “You are.”

  Had he been capable of it, the T’carais would have gaped. As it was, he merely moved his head from side to side, slowly, before speaking with great care. “This is a different matter. Your noise endangered the blades. I am T’carais. Of course I must speak, that I might command you to cease.”

  “Ah,” said the other. “I understand.”

  Edger thought that perhaps he did and was not comforted. Sternly, he said, “I have ordered you to begone.”

  “Yes,” Val Con agreed readily, “and I would like to comply. But I am lost. It’s stupid of me, but my sense of direction seems to have gotten misplaced, and I can’t find my way out.” He slanted bright eyes upward. “I did try.”

  Absurd that a being so frail should have so much life in it.

  “Very well,” said the T’carais stiffly, “I shall escort you to the cavern door.”

  “Thank you,” said the other with a bow. “I am grateful for your kindness.” He bent to retrieve the lantern and straightened, face thoughtful.

  “I have just considered…Will it be dangerous for the blades to encounter light? If so, I must ask if I might hold to your harness as we go. My eyes are too poor to see here…”

  Edger was touched, both by the eggling’s care and the grace with which he accepted his limitation.

  “You may keep your light at that level,” he said gruffly. “The blades will not suffer from it.” He turned, heading back the way he had come. “Follow.”

  In keeping with his judgment, the T’carais led his charge by a route that avoided the growing rooms; and in due time they reached the cavern mouth.

  Outside, he turned, meaning to leave wordless, as
was proper.

  “Edger,” called the small one, who appeared to have no shame.

  Reluctant, the T’carais turned back. “I hear.”

  He had clipped the lantern onto his belt and stood now, hands out, palms turned up. “You have been very kind and it’s true that I am grateful. In spite of this, I feel I must ask for yet another kindness.” He took a breath and plunged hastily on. “Would you please introduce me to some of your Clan members? I have come to learn about you—your language and your ways—and it would be much easier if someone would speak with me…”

  Was he a scholar, then? The T’carais was uncertain of the word “scout.”

  “What you ask may be possible,” he conceded. “I will consider it. However, a decision will not be made this moons’ phase, for I leave tomorrow moontime for a visit to another Clan.” He paused.

  “Perhaps it would be wisest for you to go someplace else. Or, if you must stay here, to avoid the egglings. You frighten them.”

  Once again that ironic glance down at his soft self, the straight look into Edger’s face.

  “I think that, beside yourself, the egglings are the only people I have seen here who are not frightened of me.”

  This eggling was out of reason perceptive. Edger turned away, speaking the wellwish.

  “K’mentopak, eggling. Be you well.”

  “K’mentopak, T’carais,” came the soft reply. “My thanks to you.”

  VAL CON STRETCHED taut in the pilot’s chair and relaxed, abruptly boneless. The log was once more up-to-date.

  He considered the T’carais, grinning as it occurred to him to wonder if that person thought him Terran. There were those of that long, burly race who would not be best pleased by that. Though, to be fair, the general configuration was the same, and perhaps, from a height of nearly nine feet, a seven-foot person and a five-foot one are both merely small.