Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden)

by Sharon Lee

  Dragons?

  Closing his eyes, he called up the memory of Clan Korval's sigil: the full-leafed tree, its faithful winged guardian—Opened his eyes and looked again.

  Dragons.

  Three of them. All noisy. He winced in protest of this excess of sound and peered closer.

  Supper was the point of contention. At least, Val Con supposed that the still lump in the center of the group had been intended as someone’s dinner.

  The smaller suddenly moved on the largest, swinging its paw, leading with its teeth. The largest turned a negligent armored shoulder to the attack, swung his own paw across the attacker’s soft throat; used his teeth to thoughtful advantage.

  The crunch was quite audible to the man on the bluff, and the littlest dragon slumped and lay still beside its late intended dinner. The largest gathered the disputed item into its jaws and waded off into the bog land, second largest following docilely.

  Val Con dropped his chin onto his folded arms. No fire tonight. Perhaps, too, a camp in the rocks instead of the clearing.

  Well, at least they don’t breathe fire. I think. No wings. And they aren’t very fast…

  But they were right in the middle of his projected route home. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

  * * *

  RAIN WOKE HIM before dawn. Shivering in the warm air, he rose and cleaned up the campsite. He pulled out a bar of concentrate to eat as he walked and left, heading for the flatlands.

  Working with his mental map and sense of direction, he plotted a route that would take him in a long loop around the bogs. It would add half to a whole day to his journey, but that was acceptable, if it insured that he did not become a snack for an eighteen-foot dragon.

  When he hit open ground, he stretched his short legs, hoping that the detour was safer than the original route. He was acutely aware of the lack of data concerning dragonish habits.

  For all he knew, the things hunted right up to the valley of the Knife Clan. Into the valley; what did he know? Maybe there were virgin sacrifices. Maybe dragons sat on the Council of Clans. If there was a Council of Clans. Maybe dragons were pets of Edger’s people. Maybe Edger’s people were—

  “AAARRRAAW!”

  O, damn.

  He pivoted slowly on a heel, looking for it. To the east, south, west—clear to the shadowy horizon.

  Immediately north, his view was cut off by a jumble of rose and grey rock.

  “AAAARRRRAAAAWWW!”

  Of course. So, then, another detour. He didn’t really have to be back at the ship for another five months or so—

  “P’elektekaba! “screamed a voice from beyond the rock.

  Val Con ran.

  He tore around the rockpile and skidded to a halt, spraying gravel. Directly before him, a squalling eggling, frozen mere feet from the safety of a rock-niche. Further—on treacherous sand—Edger, lance couched and ready, facing the dragon.

  In dragons, eighteen feet is small.

  Val Con dove forward, hitting the eggling with a surprisingly hard shoulder. The squalling cut out abruptly as the baby sprawled half into the niche. He skittered in the rest of the way to avoid his soft friend, who threw a knapsack at him, yelling, “Stay there!” had he but known.

  The rock-niche was comforting, calling up thoughts of home. He made himself as small as possible and stayed very still.

  Val Con ran forward, yanking gun from belt; dropped to one knee and fired. The pellet whistled harmlessly off an armorplate side. The dragon did not even turn its head.

  It swung at Edger with a long-taloned claw—withdrawn rapidly as the lance leapt to meet it.

  Val Con returned the gun to its loop—worse than useless, not even a diversion, for Edger to move into the throat.

  He ran, making a wide detour, fishing the machete from his kit. The tail was half as long as the dragon itself, wickedly armed with Val Con-high spikes.

  He brought the machete down. Hard.

  The dragon screamed. Encouraged, he swung his weapon again.

  And again.

  On the eighth blow, the blade shattered and the dragon screamed—close. He looked up, saw the descending jaws, double-toothed and gaping—

  Reflex hurled the useless handle into the descending maw, as reflex snapped him into a backward somersault, away from certain death.

  Teeth clicked as he rolled away and Edger cried out, “A’jliata!”—the rest of his words eaten by another dragonish shriek.

  Val Con snapped tall, whirling back—

  Edger was down.

  Dodging whipped tail, ducking a sweeping paw, Val Con reached the T’carais, set his hands against the place where shell met shoulder—and pushed.

  He was not strong enough. Edger tipped, tried to get his feet under him, holding to his lance—and the dragon was turning back, paw raised in a gesture the man had seen from its bogland kin.

  It meant death, that gesture. It would sweep Edger over, exposing the softer shell across his chest… Val Con stepped back, hands dropping from horny shoulders, staring upward as fingers groped in his belt—

  Touched—and had it out without fumble. The safety clicked off as the paw swept down, talons first, toward the struggling Edger.

  Val Con fired the flaregun into the towering face, his cry echoing the beast’s as the blue-white flash blinded both.

  * * *

  IT IS NOT difficult to dispatch a blinded dragon. One walks up to where it stands clawing at its ruined eyes and one cuts the soft throat. It is an act of mercy.

  Sentient beings are not allowed this mercy, unless they ask for it very specifically.

  Edger hunkered down before the man called Val Con yos’Phelium Scout, in the fullest form thus far available. The smallness of him as he rocked back and forth, arms folded across his face, touched the spirit with ice.

  “Tell me what I may do to aid you,” he begged, feeling ignorant as an eggling.

  The small one gave a shuddering sigh. “You are well? It is dead?”

  How valiant a being was this! “Yes, brother,” Edger assured him, “A’jliata is dead. I am uninjured, as is this foolish eggling, my heir.” He paused, then asked again. “But you—tell me what I may do. You are damaged…”

  Another sigh, less profound. “Only temporary. I think. The light was so bright…”

  Truth. Edger had been turned away, shielded by his shell, yet the flash had stabbed his eyes.

  Val Con dropped his protecting arms and raised his head. The bright eyes were squinted almost shut, and there was moisture running from them, but it appeared that they functioned.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said slowly. “It may take a little time for me to be able to see—properly.” He took a breath, moving his head from side to side. “I am sorry to trouble you, T’carais…”

  Edger was conscious of a tightening of his spirit, in pride. “There is no trouble, brother, ask what you might.”

  “I was returning to my ship,” Val Con explained, “when I happened upon you. If you could guide me…” He shook his head, turning his many-fingered hands up, palm out. “I am sorry to trouble you,” he said again, “but it may take my eyes some days to—to heal…”

  “There is no trouble,” Edger assured him again, “Are you strong enough to travel immediately? Shall I carry you—I will be careful,” he added, conscious of how easily one might crush a being as small as this new brother.

  Val Con smiled wanly. “I can walk,” he said, “though I may need to hold onto—something—and be guided…”

  “It shall be done,” declared the T’carais, rising to full height. Gingerly, he extended a hand to the small person on the ground.

  In a moment, that person also put forth a hand, curling many fingers about Edger’s few, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

  * * *

  THEY REACHED HIS new brother’s vessel in the near dark of the third moon. Edger led, leaning upon his lance; the T’carais’amp and Val Con followed, hand-in-hand. The eg
gling wore the man’s knapsack on his back like a soft leather shell.

  Voices carried on the night air: two, raised in disharmony. Edger straightened and lengthened his stride, entering the clearing as a T’carais should.

  The Broodmother cut off in mid-lament; bowed as deeply as she was able. His brother inclined his head, reading the weariness in him, but saying nothing, as was his gentle way.

  Edger stopped, motioning those behind to come forward.

  Hand-in-hand, they did so; stopped before T’caraisiana’ab and Broodmother, waiting.

  The Broodmother looked up and resumed her outcry.

  “You see what I have told you! It made off with the T’carais’amp, the evil thing!” She turned to Edger, every line of her pleading justice. “Will you not slay it, T’carais? You have seen with your eyes how evil—”

  “SILENCE!” bellowed Edger and the Broodmother subsided, blinking rapidly. Handler looked from his brother to the small intruder to the T’carais’amp.

  Edger gestured and Handler brought his head up, listening, that he might later recall precisely.

  “Let it be known,” the T’carais began, regally, and in the tongue known as Trade, “that this man Val Con yos’Phelium Scout has this day saved the lives of both the T’carais of the Knife Clan and the T’carais’amp, placing his life into peril to do so, when he might have run and been safe.

  “Armed with a blade of mere metal he came against A’jliata, suffering pain and possible permanent damage in the service of T’carais and Clan.

  “Let it further be known,” Edger continued, “that this person shall come into the clan as my brother, which he has earned. His name in present fullness shall be stated at the ceremony of adoption.”

  He fixed the bewildered Broodmother with his eye, dropping into the only speech she understood. “This person is honored by me, as he will be honored by the clan, for bravery and service. Know that he alone slew the eldest A’jliata, thereby preserving the line of the T’carais of the Knife Clan. I will hear no further words against him. Do you understand what I have said?”

  She lowered her head. “I understand you, T’carais.”

  “It is good. Now, take the T’carais’amp and attend him. Later you shall tell me how he came to be in danger!”

  The Broodmother came forward, hand extended for her charge, who set up a squall and clung to his soft friend.

  Val Con shifted away, prying clutching fingers from his arm. “Gently, child,” he murmured in Trade, “you’ll break me…”

  The Broodmother added a few quick words of her own on the subject and the T’carais’amp was borne away. Edger looked at his brother Handler.

  “Find you our brother Selector and choose a worthy blade from the Room of Men.”

  Handler inclined his head; turned to the man.

  “I am proud to have gained so valiant a brother, Val Con yos’Phelium Scout, “he said formally. Then he, too, went away.

  Val Con turned to Edger, brow up. “I do not understand, T’carais. You slew—A’jliata—not I. Why honor me?”

  Edger blinked. “I hurried what you had contrived. A blind creature in the wild is already dead. I but showed it the mercy one accords a worthy foe. You gave it death with your light.” He slumped, leaning on the lance: it was not necessary to feign tirelessness with this, his brother.

  “Will you gather the objects of your name and subsistence, Brother? It is past time that we were home, and I understand men to require some time of sleeping every moontime.”

  Val Con stood for a long time, as men measure such things, squinting up at the T’carais. Then he smiled and turned toward the ship.

  “I will not be long.”

  “So be it,” said Edger, settling to wait. He considered the T’car and sighed gustily.

  “Aaii, and they called me hasty anon!”

  A Day at the Races

  THE SKY WAS nearly Terran blue overhead, shading to a more proper Liaden green toward planetary east. Shadows were beginning their long evening stretch across the lawns, from the topiary maze to the house.

  Up the drive came a slender young man in the leather vest and leggings of a spaceworker. Despite the peremptory summons from his sister, he had walked from Solcintra spaceport, enjoying the taste of natural air.

  He paused by the cumbersome landau parked messily across the drive. The crest of his aunt, the Right Noble Lady Kareen yos’Phelium, Patron of the Solcintra Poetry Society, Founder of the League to Preserve the Purity of the Tongue, and Chairperson Emeritus of the Embassy of Form, glittered in the fading light.

  Scout Captain Val Con yos’Phelium sighed. Perhaps it was not too late to turn about, catch the evening shuttle to Chonselta City, and thus avoid any contact with his father’s sister, a course he had pursued whenever possible throughout his childhood and halfling years.

  He sighed again. No, he decided, better to attend to the business at once and have done.

  Thus virtuously armed, he continued up the drive and let himself into the house.

  Standing in a small sidehall, he listened, marking the sound of two voices. The first was unmistakably Aunt Kareen, the measured tones of the High Tongue ringing in bell-like purity. The answering voice was lower in pitch and inflection: his fostersister, Nova yos’Galan.

  Val Con sighed for yet a third time and slipped silently down the hall to the large parlor. He bowed to his aunt and kissed his pale sister lightly on the cheek.

  “Summoned, I obey,” he murmured in her ear. Then, turning, “Will you drink, Aunt? I see you are unrefreshed.”

  “Thank you,” said that lady austerely, “but no. I am unable to take a crumb of sustenance; nor even a thimbleful of wine.”

  Val Con blinked and darted a look at his sister, who avoided his eyes. No enlightenment from that quarter. He moved silently to a chair near his aunt. Perching on the carved arm, he shook his head.

  “That sounds very bad, I must say. Have you consulted a physician?”

  The Right Noble sniffed. “I am quite well—physically. Thank you, my Lord. Your concern warms my heart.”

  Score one for Aunt Kareen. Val Con hastily schooled his face to that expression of distant interest considered proper when speaking with other members of Society.

  “Forgive me, Aunt; I meant no disrespect. The difficulty is that I have only recently returned to Liad. My sister’s message met me at Scout Headquarters, and I obeyed her instructions immediately. You will understand that this left me no time to discover the nature of your trouble.

  “I am ready to hear,” he concluded, most properly, “and feel certain that all may quickly be resolved.”

  “That is very good, then,” said Aunt Kareen, greatly mollified. “It grieves me that the cause of my distress is the First speaker, your—kinsman—Shan yos’Galan. I am aware of the regard in which you hold him, my Lord; and on a minor matter I would not, of course, approach you. However, this case is such that I am certain it is no less than one’s duty to bring it to the attention of yourself, who will lead Korval next as Delm.” Her eyes sharpened. “If you will ever bestir yourself to take the Ring, of course.”

  Val Con resisted the temptation to look at Nova again. with effort, he maintained the proper expression, though one eyebrow did slip upward, just a little.

  “Has Shan slighted you, Aunt? It does not seem like him. He is very conscientious in his duty as First-Speaker-in-Trust. It is true that his manner is not quite—polished—but his heart is good and—”

  “He is an outrageous rantipole and a disgrace to the Clan!” snapped his aunt. She took a bosom-lifting breath and dabbed at her Temples with an orange silk kerchief.

  “Forgive me. It was not my intention to speak thus of a kinsman you hold so dear, though I am certain my feelings on Lord yos’Galan’s past—adventures—have not escaped notice.”

  “I am,” said Val Con dryly, “aware of your antipathy for my brother. You are obviously agitated. I make allowance.” He removed his eyes to the Clan sig
n above the fireplace: Korval’s Dragon hovering protectively over the Tree.

  He looked back at the Right Noble, both brows up.

  “You have not yet informed me what my brother has done to offend you—this—time, Aunt.”

  She drew herself up. “He is—racing!”

  Her nephew achieved a new peak of self-discipline and contrived not to laugh.

  “Is he? Racing what, I wonder?”

  “Skimmers,” said Nova unexpectedly, frowning slightly when he turned to face her. “A new thing off the Terran tracks…” She sighed. “They are dangerous, Val Con. Stick and throttle—no electronics, no safeties.”

  “Ah.” He considered it; smiled at her. “But he’s not likely to hurt himself, is he? He’s quite an excellent pilot.”

  “Whether or not he does himself some trifling injury is not the essence,” announced Lady Kareen. “Consider the scandal, my Lord! The First Speaker of Clan Korval—racing, like a common—“words failed her.

  “Pilot? Individual? Rantipole?” He caught Nova’s Terran-style headshake and allowed the spurt of anger to subside.

  “Aunt Kareen,” he began again, more smoothly. “I ask you to consider what you say. Consider what has made Korval great—” He pointed to the device above the mantle. “‘Flaran Cha’ment’i: I Dare’. My brother carries on an illustrious tradition—”

  “Your cousin,” she snapped, “does not care a broken cantra for tradition! You speak of his concern for duty. I say it is wonderful we are not already the laughingstock we are doomed to become, unless you, my Lord, very soon take your place at the head of this Clan and—”

  “Is it so bad a thing,” Val Con overrode gently, “to laugh? Better to laugh—even be laughed at—and continue to strive, rather than run away…”

  “Korval does not run away!”

  “No?” He tipped his head. “And yet my father—your brother—abdicated his position, left the Clan—ran away. Shan would far rather give over the duties of First Speaker. It would better suit him to return to the Passage and the trade route. But in fact he is First Speaker at this present, and thus remains upon Liad, taking what harmless amusement he may to ease his time here.” Val Con rested his eyes, bright green and very angry, on his aunt’ s.