Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

Handler blinked for a third time, considered as a T’carais might, and inclined his head. “I am happy to meet you, Val Con yos’Phelium Scout. Please do nothing to endanger yourself while the eldest of my brothers is away.”

Val Con grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

THE SCHEDULE SPECIFIED six ecological surveys of the area.

He took the last sighting from the hill over the valley, made the notation and stashed paper and stylus in his pouch, stupid thing. They’d made sure he’d learned the tedious, mechanical ways to insure return to a starting point. This was the first time he’d been grateful for the training. There had been no further abandonments by his directional sense, but once burned, twice shy, as his fostermother would say. He would rather not be cut off from the ship in the middle of a wilderness simply because he couldn’t at this present tell his head from his feet.

Stretching, he looked out over the valley—and looked again, more sharply.

A large figure was moving across the open area, using a tall something to walk with. Val Con leaned against a boulder to watch.

The tall something abruptly became a lance; point gathering the wan light of the moons and dispersing it in glittering ribbons. The figure was Edger, no doubt beginning his journey.

Val Con shifted, took two steps down the path to the valley—and stopped. The T’carais had business to be about, even as he did. Let be, he told himself sternly.

Yet he stood there, watching until the other reached the edge of the valley and the night hid that large person from feeble eyes.

“Safe journey, Edger,” he murmured in Low Liaden, as one might to a friend. Then he turned sharply, snatched up the directionfinder and moved back down the trail toward the Scout ship. Time for rest, if he wanted an early start in the morning.

IT IS A SENTIENT being; one that obeys the words of the T’carais. If it is in need, it has the right to aid.

Thus had Handler reasoned before starting this small expedition. The man had not been seen for days, and though its absence took tension from the Clan it also added tension.

Handler was nervous. It was difficult to think with the thoughts of a T’carais, enclosing both Broodmothers and men. On his way to the hill path, he stopped to speak with the Broodmother.

“I give you good sun,” he said politely.

“As I give you good sun, T’caraisiana’ab,” she responded, taking the T’carais’amp by the arm and indicating that he should make his bow.

This was done and Handler murmured all things appropriate. Then, “Your pardon, Broodmother, for speaking of a subject I know is distasteful to you. But—the small, soft being… Have you seen i—him recently?”

“No,” she snapped, “nor have I any wish to. It is to be hoped the horrible thing has gone away.”

“D’neschopita,” said the T’carais’amp sorrowfully. “Kanarak’ab.”

The Broodmother was not best pleased by these sentiments. Handler left her trying to interest the T’carais’amp in a game of c’smerlaparek with his younger kin.

HANDLER WALKED AROUND the little ship—constructed, after the manner of the Clans of Men, from soft metal, rather than molded of durable rock. After a complete circuit, he tested the air.

The lingering hint of the human’s spice-furry scent was days old, direction teased by the winds. He came closer to the ship, but the stink of metal masked any other scent that might have been there.

Finally, he lifted a hand and brought it down—gently—on the hull, making it to ring. He waited a time and repeated this, before circling the ship again.

If Val Con yos’Phelium Scout were inside, he was ignoring Handler’s summons.

Well, then, thought Handler, all beings require space apart. Perhaps this is the human’s time of quietude and meditation…

He backed away, not quite convinced, but unsure of what else, with propriety, might be done.

It must be for my brother to decide whether we will open the ship of another clan.

An unsatisfactory solution, but he could think of none better. After a time, he left the quiet clearing and the stinking lump of metal and returned to his house.

THE THIRD MOON was risen; the first waning, when a small, swift figure left the safety of the dwelling-places and crossed the L’apeleka field, unerringly striking the hill path.

This was the way his friend came. The path his uncle the T’caraisiana’ab had taken only last suntime.

With the echo of the wonderful sounds the soft one made in his head, the T’carais’amp ran down the path, coming in time to the clearing and the ship.

He barely paused, only sniffing the air to find his friend’s scent. The ship he ignored—it was far too small, even if it were possible that someone would live in something that smelled so. His friend’s home must be further on.

So he continued—south, with but an occasional wishful hint of his soft friend—and sunrise found him well away from the place of the Knife Clan.

IN SPITE OF the yellow flowers, Val Con made camp in the clearing on the bluff. It was a good place, protected and spacious, with a pool of icy water off to one side, away from the flowers.

He stared at these, hand twitching toward the machete in his belt.

They really are quite beautiful, he offered diffidently; and it is true that Daria would have loved them.

Will you spend your life destroying everything Daria might have loved? If so, best start with yourself and let the innocent universe be.

He pushed the hair from his eyes with a sigh and turned away, automatically choosing a place to build his fire. Kneeling, he began to cut a shallow pit, carefully thinking of nothing at all.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself some time later, as he went in search of rocks to line the pit, it’s down the hill and into the flatlands.

Depending on how long it took to find a way around or through the bog he would be back at the ship tomorrow night or mid-morning the day after.

He spied a flat stone and bent to retrieve it—

“Arraaw!”

Val Con dropped into a crouch, stone forgotten. He stayed utterly still, listening to the echoes of the roar.

Nothing he had yet encountered could have produced that noise. Besides Edger’s people, the indigenous life was small, skittish and, for the most part, silent. Even the handful of birds were near voiceless—

Well, he’d been wrong before. And he had the direction of the racket pegged now. He edged toward the bluff, wormed flat among the yellow flowers and peered down.

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.