A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “Ah,” said Edger. “I have met Liadens in the past, though not so many as I have Terrans. It is well. Were you Yxtrang, you would not be allowed to remain.”

  Oh, no? thought Val Con. A race that thinks it might order mighty Yxtrang and have it regarded more than mere senseless noise? Interesting.

  “Now,” continued Edger, “I have said to you that I will be away for a time. This,” he gestured; Handler stood forward, inclining his head, “is my brother, the T’caraisiana’ab. He speaks with my voice in all things while I am gone. Though you are not of the Knife Clan, you infringe on our territory, and must be remembered in judgment. Also, your skill in music interests me—I make a study of the music of Men, for the joy of my spirit. You may continue your studies, excepting only that you will refrain from studying the egglings and that you are banned from the caverns. If any offer you insult or harm, you must say to them: ‘T’caraisiana’ab e’amokenatek’. This means that you are to be heard and judged by the T’caraisiana’ab. Are you able to say to the words I have told you?”

  “T’caraisiana’ab e’amokenatek,” murmured the man, the properly-spoken phrase sounding odd in so soft a voice. He turned to Handler and bowed. “T’caraisiana’ab, I am happy to meet you.”

  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 with which to walk. 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 it 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 that 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—

  “ARRAAW!”

  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—He opened his eyes and looked again.

  Drago
ns.

  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 smallest of the three 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 bogland, 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. Or, 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!”

  Oh, 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 gray 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 he snapped backward into a 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 the whipping 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 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 eggling 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.”