Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

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 that traveled between stars. Around this one’s middle was a wide belt, hung with a confusion of objects.

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 mis-craft 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.