Sharon Lee - Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

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 the kit on 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, 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.