A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  So thinking, he walked down into the valley and sat atop the flat rock.

  The guardian glanced his way, but turned its back, making no move to herd the smaller ones away. Encouraged, he crossed his legs and settled in to watch.

  They were definitely children. They played tag, fell on each other, crowed loudly and shouted shrill, unintelligible taunts. Entertaining, but not particularly productive. The guardian still ignored him, and he nurtured a small flame of optimism as he felt in the belt for the stick-knife.

  Best to put waiting to work, he thought, quoting one of his uncle’s favorite phrases. Slowly, attention mostly on the schoolroom party, he began to fashion the reed into a flute.

  It was the first time he’d attempted such a thing, though he had read how it might be done, and he did not give it primary concentration. This may have accounted for the woefully off-key sound that emerged when he finally brought the flute to his lips and blew.

  He winced, and blew again; moving his fingers over the holes to produce a ripple of ragged sound. His fourth attempt yielded something that could charitably have been called a tune, and he glanced up to see how the nursery was taking the diversion.

  The guardian stood yet with its back to him, watching as three of the babies enjoyed a rough-and-tumble of wonderful ineptitude.

  The fourth was looking at him.

  Val Con brought the reed up and blew again, trying for the simple line of a rhyming game from his own childhood. The child took a step forward, away from its quarreling kin, toward the rock. Val Con repeated the rhyming song and began a hopeless rendition of the first ballad he had learned on the ’chora.

  Fortunately, the baby was not critical. Val Con abandoned the attempt to wring structured music from his instrument and, instead, created ripples of notes, interlocking them as it occurred to him; playing with the sound.

  The baby was right in front of him.

  He let the music fade slowly; raised his head and looked into enormous golden eyes, pupils cat-slit black; let his lips curve into the slightest of smiles. And waited.

  “D’neschopita,” announced the child, extending a three-fingered hand.

  “D’neschopita,” repeated the Scout, copying inflection and pitch. He extended his own hand, many-fingered as it was.

  A hand larger than either swooped out of nowhere, snatching the child from imminent contact, sparing for his abductor one withering glare from eyes the size of dinner plates. It dragged the protesting infant away, holding forth in a loud and extremely displeased voice.

  Nurse, Val Con decided, shoulders drooping. Don’t touch that, he translated freely, giving his imagination rein, you don’t know where it’s been! It could be sick! Whatever it is. And look how SOFT it is! Probably slimy, too. Yuck.

  He raised the flute and blew a bleat of raucous wet sound.

  The big one spun, moving rather more rapidly than observed in others of her race, dropping the baby’s hand and raising her arms.

  Val Con grinned at her. “D’neschopita,” he said.

  She hesitated, lowered her arms slowly, and spun again reclaiming her charge roughly and driving the other three before toward the safety of the center valley.

  “TO CONCLUDE,” intoned the Speaker for the Trader Clan, “White Marsh feels that the Knife Clan of Middle River owes in the form of information regarding routes of star-trade. This, because the Knife Clan neglected to locate the being known as Silver Mark Sweeney and deliver the knife he commissioned, thereby denying the Trader Clan its fee of information, for sending this business hither.”

  There was silence as the T’car digested the whole of the Trader Clan’s message. Out of the silence, Eldest Speaker’s dead-leaf voice: “Will you make answer, T’carais?”

  The person so addressed stood away from the bench and inclined his head to the Elders in respect.

  “It grieves me,” he began, “that the Trader Clan of White Marsh would come before the T’car entire, citing wrongs, before they came to the Knife Clan and requested facts. However, it is done, and answer shall be made.

  “It is fact that the Trader Clan brought Silver Mark Sweeney to the Knife Clan, from which he commissioned a blade appropriate to his size. We accepted the task, seeded the cavern and encouraged not one, but many knives of a size and shape that would be fitting to beings of Silver Mark Sweeney’s order. In the fullness of time, the blades were ready and the Knife Clan caused a message to be sent as instructed by Silver Mark Sweeney, stating this.

  “He did not come to claim his knife.”

  “It was the responsibility of the Knife Clan to search—” began the Trader Clan’s Speaker, with lamentable haste.

  The T’carais raised a hand, reminding that it was his time now to speak, and continued in the midst of the new silence.

  “The Knife Clan searched. And, when it was found that our manner of search is not efficient among the stars, we employed a skilled tracker of the Clans of Men to perform this task for us.” He paused to consider how best to proceed. The Elders, wise beyond saying, were old. They did not always recall that to those yet mobile, change was . . .

  “You must remember,” he said diplomatically, “how short-lived are the members of the Clans of Men. Where I engaged one to search, his heir reported failure to me, as his father had grown too feeble to travel. It was the belief of these trackers—and also myself—that while we encouraged and refined the blade, Silver Mark Sweeney achieved s’essellata and died.

  “Thus, I commanded that the family of Silver Mark Sweeney be found, that the blade might be placed into the hands of his kin. Time passed, and when the first tracker’s heir came to me again, he leaned heavily upon his own heir . . .”

  The T’carais sighed gustily.

  “It seems that Silver Mark Sweeney was both kinless and clanless, as is not uncommon among that family of the Clans of Men named ‘Terran’.” He paused; signed summation.

  “And so the knife is undelivered and the Trader Clan is bereft of its fee. It is to be considered that the Knife Clan had also considerable investment in this venture. There is an entire room filled with blades refined, awaiting only handles and sheathes, all too small for our use.”

  He inclined his head to the Elders. “Thus does the Knife Clan answer.”

  There was a large quiet while the Elders conferred silently, after the manner of the very old. In time, Eldest Speaker’s voice was heard.

  “It is seen that the Trader Clan has come before the full T’car to state its concerns and to give notice of intention to make formal complaint, should there be no balance forthcoming from the Knife Clan.

  “It is seen further that the Knife Clan erred in failing to teach the Trader Clan its attempt at solution.

  “Thus, it is the decision and will of the T’car that the T’carais of the Knife Clan go to the T’carais of the Trader Clan and speak as egg-kin, seeking to resolve all equitably. If this is not done, then shall the T’car make disposal.” She paused, and all awaited her further words.

  “It puzzles the T’car that the Knife Clan so hastily encouraged an entire cavern of blades fit only for those of the Clans of Men. However, there has been no complaint made of this, and no judgment is made.

  “The matter in this phase is ended. All may go.”

  HE WOKE SOBBING, the echo of his cry still shuddering the metal walls.

  “Daria! Daria, untrue!”

  But it was true.

  Painfully, he pulled air into laboring lungs, stilled the sobs and straightened from his cramped coil of grief.

  Local midnight, by the chronometer on the board. He slid out of bed, dressed deliberately, buckled on the kit, and moved to the door. At the threshold, he bethought himself, turned back to the rationboard and withdrew several bars of concentrated food, which he stuffed into his pouch. His eye fell on the flute he’d made that afternoon and he picked that up, too, thrusting it into his belt as he went out into the night.

  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, her 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.

  But this, in her agitation, she did not do, instead merely stood and gazed 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. At least—” She paused, marshalling words. “It is that—thing, T’carais. The little, black—soft—thing . . .”

  He signed understanding. Reports of this one had reached him from other sources, all annoyed.

  “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 travelled 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 who travelled between stars. Around this one’s middle was a wide belt, hung with a confusion of objects.