Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 3

  Knives. Growing knives? They had passed nothing that looked to his untutored eyes to be blades a-growing on their way out of the cavern last night. Of course, Edger had said he might not, as punishment. Possibly, the T’carais had chosen a route that bypassed such wonders.

  But growing? And sensitive to—energies—created by music, but not the everyday radiant variety?

  What sort of energy, he wondered, nourishes a sense of direction?

  A senseless question, certainly: A sense of direction was nothing but itself.

  Or was it?

  He snapped to his feet; moved to the center of the ship.

  Planetary north, he told himself; turned on his heel, pointing.

  East. a smaller turn.

  South…

  West…

  Home, standing tall, arm raised, finger indicating that area in the Fourth Quadrant where turned the planet Liad.

  Sense of direction back on duty, sir.

  And where had it been last night? He lowered his arm slowly. Music, but not light. A man lost, who never misses the way. Blades growing out of ancient rock…

  A sense of direction is a low-level psychic phenomenon.

  Music?

  Not psychic—a skill anyone might learn, subject to the physics of the universe…

  Two strides to the storage locker and the ’chora within, still shrouded in yellow silk. He set it on the table and pulled the cloth away, exposing its smooth newness.

  This was an expensive portable, far superior to the one he had owned formerly. He had lately had neither heart nor joy to play, but now he flipped the power on; hands flickering over the stops, setting values and intensities.

  Lightly, fingers joking, he played the line of the rhyming game that had so charmed the eggling; drifted into the ballad that had defeated him upon the reed.

  Gods, what a beautiful instrument.

  What sort of energy is music?

  He let his fingers slow; flipped off the power. Eyes still on the ’chora, he lifted the kit and belted it around his waist. Hefting the keyboard by its strap, he arranged it across his back—like a shell, he thought, half-smiling.

  He left the ship, whistling.

  * * *

  SOUNDLESS, HE SLIPPED out of the vegetation at the path’s end, blinked and nearly laughed. To his right, three egglings, running hard from a much larger individual. And walking toward him with infant nonchalance, his acquaintance of the previous afternoon.

  “Good morning, youngling,” he greeted it in soft Trade. “Will your nurse be angry with me again?”

  “D’neschopita,” the eggling told him, with emphasis. “T’carais’amp b’lenarkanarak’ab.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and walked forward. “Say you so?” he murmured, keeping his voice smooth. “Well, she is your kin and I must bow to your judgment in the matter.”

  At this, the eggling burst into a storm of volubility, emphasized by meaningful blinks of the huge eyes. Val Con shook his head. Too much, too fast, lacking structure… Perhaps. He pulled on the ’chora strap; brought the keyboard across his chest; flipped on the power.

  The eggling paused for breath, eyes glowing. Val Con moved his fingers over keys, manipulated stops—playing back the rhythm and sound of the child’s speaking, wondering what would happen…

  A much larger sound interrupted the experiment. He looked up to see the nurse approaching, arms upraised for a strike.

  The ’chora! Instinctively, he bent forward, shielding the instrument with his body; tensing his shoulders to take the blow…

  Which did not fall. Instead, she stood over him and loosed an ear-ringing tirade, no doubt listing his faults and probable bad habits, annotated, cautiously, he turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of an eye.

  The abuse cut off in mid-annotation. Thin chest-armor heaving, she grabbed the eggling by the arm and dragged him away.

  Val Con straightened slowly, watching them go. Nurse was in no mood for nonsense, it seemed. She jerked hard on the youngster’s arm when he tried to hang back, roaring something the man felt must be unsuitable for delicate young ears. The youngling bleated and was borne away.

  Bully, Val Con apostrophized her, just wait until he’s grown.

  Then reaction hit and he collapsed cross-legged to the ground, hugging the ’chora and shaking.

  * * *

  “T’CARAIS, I MUST insist—” the Broodmother’s words proceeded her, reaching Edger as he walked with his brother Handler. He turned ponderously to face her.

  “What is it you must insist, Broodmother?”

  “That hideous thing must be slain—or banished—or—or—It is dangerous, T’carais—rabid! I cannot, in my duty as Broodmother—”

  Edger lifted a hand and she subsided, though not willingly.

  “There is new behavior? something other than we spoke of past noontime?”

  “T’carais, I used your counsel and moved the egglings to the other side of the L’apeleka field for this suntime. All was well, I thought, until I looked about—it was back! and alone with the T’carais’amp! Speaking with him!” She stopped a moment, clearly agitated. “I ran to them, T’carais, and I confess that my hand was raised to strike it…”

  Strike him? The T’carais recalled the man’s absurd frailness. One blow from an outraged Broodmother would shatter him beyond hope of repair. He tasted air.

  “Yet you did not.”

  “I did not, “she agreed. “For it looked up at my approach, bowed down and stayed thus, very meekly, while I berated it.” She gathered her courage together. “It is evil, T’carais. A danger to the egglings and to the clan. It must be destroyed.”

  “No,” said the T’carais firmly; and his brother Handler looked at him consideringly. “This is a sentient being, Broodmother. Ignorant, yes. Young, also. But not malicious. The Knife Clan does not kill wantonly. I go now to speak with him, explaining your preference that he stay apart from the egglings. Though,” he added, fixing her with an eye, “it is true that one hungers for children, when one is far from clan and kin.” He gestured brusquely. She bowed and went.

  Edger turned to his brother. “Will you come? If you are to judge in my place while I am absent, it is well you know all whom your words enclose.”

  Handler inclined his head. “I was about to beg the honor, Brother."

  * * *

  THE MUSIC LED them to his seat under the clemktos tree. Halfway across the valley it reached them, full of such force and structure—such power—that the T’carais gave silent thanks that the man had not chosen to use this instrument within the caverns.

  He had been toying, past moontime, thought Edger. Indeed, what else might one do with music coaxed from a dead stick?

  But this—this was in sophisticated earnest. He had not lied when he claimed maturity for himself…

  The man glanced up as they approached, fingers slowing, stopping on the keys. He set the instrument aside, rolled gracefully to his feet and bowed low.

  “T’carais.”

  Edger inclined his head. “Val Con yos’Phelium Scout. I thank you for the gift of music you freely give our land.” He paused. Surely, he was not mistaken? “Why did you not say your whole name to me, when last we spoke?”

  The dark brows pulled together. “Forgive me. I meant no insult. It is possible that I do not know my—whole name.” He tipped his head. “I would be pleased to learn it from you.”

  Handler blinked. Did the creature ask the T’carais to name it? Impudence.

  But his brother took no offense. He merely raised a hand in the gesture that asked grace and told it, “I will think on this. I also consider that which you asked of me last speaking. These things wait upon my return.”

  “I understand,” said the small one, folding his hands before him.

  “I hear,” then said the T’carais sternly, “that you have again come near the egglings, thus offending the Broodmother. It was my command that you refrain from these things, what say you?”


  Handler blinked again. His brother would judge the thing as if it were a Clan member?

  It is a thinking being, he told himself, laboriously tracing the thought of a T’carais. It has attached itself to the Clan, whatever its alien reason for doing so. Should it thus be slain? Or heard?

  The small one sighed. “I tried to obey you, T’carais. I came here because, in all former days, the egglings and their Broodmother kept to the other side of this field. It was accident that I came into the midst of them. And when the tallest eggling came to me and spoke, I thought it would be—rude—if I refused to answer as well as I might…”

  The T’carais waited.

  Val Con shrugged. “As for irritating the Broodmother—T’carais, I must admit that she has irritated me. Twice she denied this eggling and I the joy of acquaintanceship. If she had his best interest in her heart, she would not teach him fear of what is unknown, but encourage his curiosity and interest!”

  An opinionated egg-man. And not a word to say that he had been threatened. Did he not know? Or count it too small a thing to mention?

  “I hear your answer, and find it holds some merit. I see how this accidental meeting has occurred. The fault is mine and I will make amends. The Broodmother and the egglings will return to their place near the L’apeleka field. You will not go there.”

  The small one bowed. “I hear you, T’carais.”

  “See that you obey me,” Edger said, with asperity. “Broodmothers are not lightly angered. This one feels you are a threat and a danger. Annoy her further and she may strike you, thus greatly curtailing the span of your years.” He studied the unconcerned green eyes. “Do you understand me, Val Con yos’Phelium Scout?”

  “Yes, Edger. I understand you.” He tipped his head. “The T’carais has further orders?”

  An exhalation like a small tornado. “A question: You named your Clan Korval. I am not familiar with this line of the clans of Men. I think you are not Yxtrang—”

  Val Con tipped his head back, uttering that sound men call laughter. Glancing up, he raised a hand to push dark fur from bright eyes.

  “Not Yxtrang,” he murmured. “Nor Terran, though—” He paused. Trade did not hold an adequate word, so he settled at last for: “she-who-raised-me is. I am Liaden.”

  “Ah,” said Edger. “I have met Liadens in the past, though not so many as I have Terrans. It is well. Were you Yxtrang, you would not be allowed to remain.”

  Oh, no? thought Val Con. A race that thinks it might order mighty Yxtrang and have it regarded more than mere senseless noise? Interesting.

  “Now,” continued Edger, “I have said to you that I will be away for a time. This,” he gestured; Handler stood forward, inclining his head, “is my brother, the T’caraisiana’ab. He speaks with my voice in all things while I am gone. Though you are not of the Knife Clan, you infringe on our territory, and must be remembered in judgment. also, your skill in music interests me—I make a study of the music of Men, for the joy of my spirit. You may continue your studies, excepting only that you will refrain from studying the egglings and that you are banned from the caverns. If any offer you insult or harm, you must say to them: ‘T’caraisiana’ab e’amokenatek’. This means that you are to be heard and judged by the T’caraisiana’ab. Are you able to say to the words I have told you?”

  “T’caraisiana’ab e’amokenatek,” murmured the man, the properly-spoken phrase sounding odd in so soft a voice. He turned to Handler and bowed. “T’caraisiana’ab, I am happy to meet you.”

  Handler blinked for a third time, considered as a T’carais might, and inclined his head. “I am happy to meet you, Val Con yos’Phelium Scout. Please do nothing to endanger yourself while the eldest of my brothers is away.”

  Val Con grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  THE SCHEDULE SPECIFIED six ecological surveys of the area.

  He took the last sighting from the hill over the valley, made the notation and stashed paper and stylus in his pouch, stupid thing. They’d made sure he’d learned the tedious, mechanical ways to insure return to a starting point. This was the first time he’d been grateful for the training. There had been no further abandonments by his directional sense, but once burned, twice shy, as his fostermother would say. He would rather not be cut off from the ship in the middle of a wilderness simply because he couldn’t at this present tell his head from his feet.

  Stretching, he looked out over the valley—and looked again, more sharply.

  A large figure was moving across the open area, using a tall something to walk with. Val Con leaned against a boulder to watch.

  The tall something abruptly became a lance; point gathering the wan light of the moons and dispersing it in glittering ribbons. The figure was Edger, no doubt beginning his journey.

  Val Con shifted, took two steps down the path to the valley—and stopped. The T’carais had business to be about, even as he did. Let be, he told himself sternly.

  Yet he stood there, watching until the other reached the edge of the valley and the night hid that large person from feeble eyes.

  “Safe journey, Edger,” he murmured in Low Liaden, as one might to a friend. Then he turned sharply, snatched up the directionfinder and moved back down the trail toward the Scout ship. Time for rest, if he wanted an early start in the morning.

  * * *

  IT IS A SENTIENT being; one that obeys the words of the T’carais. If it is in need, it has the right to aid.

  Thus had Handler reasoned before starting this small expedition. The man had not been seen for days, and though its absence took tension from the Clan it also added tension.

  Handler was nervous. It was difficult to think with the thoughts of a T’carais, enclosing both Broodmothers and men. On his way to the hill path, he stopped to speak with the Broodmother.

  “I give you good sun,” he said politely.

  “As I give you good sun, T’caraisiana’ab,” she responded, taking the T’carais’amp by the arm and indicating that he should make his bow.

  This was done and Handler murmured all things appropriate. Then, “Your pardon, Broodmother, for speaking of a subject I know is distasteful to you. But—the small, soft being… Have you seen i—him recently?”

  “No,” she snapped, “nor have I any wish to. It is to be hoped the horrible thing has gone away.”

  “D’neschopita,” said the T’carais’amp sorrowfully. “Kanarak’ab.”

  The Broodmother was not best pleased by these sentiments. Handler left her trying to interest the T’carais’amp in a game of c’smerlaparek with his younger kin.

  * * *

  HANDLER WALKED AROUND the little ship—constructed, after the manner of the Clans of Men, from soft metal, rather than molded of durable rock. After a complete circuit, he tested the air.

  The lingering hint of the human’s spice-furry scent was days old, direction teased by the winds. He came closer to the ship, but the stink of metal masked any other scent that might have been there.

  Finally, he lifted a hand and brought it down—gently—on the hull, making it to ring. He waited a time and repeated this, before circling the ship again.

  If Val Con yos’Phelium Scout were inside, he was ignoring Handler’s summons.

  Well, then, thought Handler, all beings require space apart. Perhaps this is the human’s time of quietude and meditation…

  He backed away, not quite convinced, but unsure of what else, with propriety, might be done.

  It must be for my brother to decide whether we will open the ship of another clan.

  An unsatisfactory solution, but he could think of none better. After a time, he left the quiet clearing and the stinking lump of metal and returned to his house.

  * * *

  THE THIRD MOON was risen; the first waning, when a small, swift figure left the safety of the dwelling-places and crossed the L’apeleka field, unerringly striking the hill path.

  This was the way his friend came. The path his un
cle the T’caraisiana’ab had taken only last suntime.

  With the echo of the wonderful sounds the soft one made in his head, the T’carais’amp ran down the path, coming in time to the clearing and the ship.

  He barely paused, only sniffing the air to find his friend’s scent. The ship he ignored—it was far too small, even if it were possible that someone would live in something that smelled so. His friend’s home must be further on.

  So he continued—south, with but an occasional wishful hint of his soft friend—and sunrise found him well away from the place of the Knife Clan.

  * * *

  IN SPITE OF the yellow flowers, Val Con made camp in the clearing on the bluff. It was a good place, protected and spacious, with a pool of icy water off to one side, away from the flowers.

  He stared at these, hand twitching toward the machete in his belt.

  They really are quite beautiful, he offered diffidently; and it is true that Daria would have loved them.

  Will you spend your life destroying everything Daria might have loved? If so, best start with yourself and let the innocent universe be.

  He pushed the hair from his eyes with a sigh and turned away, automatically choosing a place to build his fire. Kneeling, he began to cut a shallow pit, carefully thinking of nothing at all.

  Tomorrow, he reminded himself some time later, as he went in search of rocks to line the pit, it’s down the hill and into the flatlands.

  Depending on how long it took to find a way around or through the bog he would be back at the ship tomorrow night or mid-morning the day after.

  He spied a flat stone and bent to retrieve it—

  “Arraaw!”

  Val Con dropped into a crouch, stone forgotten. He stayed utterly still, listening to the echoes of the roar.

  Nothing he had yet encountered could have produced that noise. Besides Edger’s people, the indigenous life was small, skittish and, for the most part, silent. Even the handful of birds were near voiceless—

  Well, he’d been wrong before. And he had the direction of the racket pegged now. He edged toward the bluff, wormed flat among the yellow flowers and peered down.