by Sharon Lee
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 miscraft 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 moon’s 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.
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 moontime?”
“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 the man had not chosen to use this instrument with 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 hear
d?
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 me 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.”
