“Thank you, ma’am,” Rigi said.
She trailed behind her mother as far as the door to the visiting room, hand-bowed, and stepped back into the now-quiet shelter of the room. They had not quite finished all the social calls before everyone relocated north to the hills of Keralita for the first months of the cool, wet season, and finishing the rounds as well as having guests several times a day, every day, wore on Rigi and her mother both. They’d barely been able to unpack, let alone organize the household. Thanks be that Shona and Lonka had come with them, and Eenjan still managed the Keralita property. Rigi collected the dishes and put them on a large tray for Lonka to move to the kitchen. She tidied up the few crumbs that she could see, plumped the cushions on the chairs, then knelt down by the ancient-style wooden bookcase. She listened for voices, heard none, and pushed the concealed latch that her father had first showed her over six years before. The bottom shelf clicked and swung toward her, and she pulled it open, confirmed that the contents remained in place as they should, and closed it again.
She stood as her mother came in. A few strands of hair had escaped her soft upsweep, and the corners of her mouth drooped, a sign of exhaustion. “Good, thank you, Auriga.” She smiled. “Are your ears tired?”
The polite answer was no. Rigi opted for honesty. “A little, ma’am. I’m not used to visiting season anymore.”
“Neither am I. I believe I will go rest my eyes. Thank you for not correcting Mrs. Vanderlune. I appreciate your tact and restraint.” She swept out of the room, the embroidered hem of her skirt fluttering and making the animals on it seem to dance. Rigi had not quite mastered the technique. She had graceful hands and arms, and sometimes led the sign-dances at the Temple, but her mother had been right when she’d predicted that, like her great-grandmother, Rigi would have a solid foundation to stand on. She was sturdier than was currently fashionable, although that would probably change in a few hours, Rigi suspected. What was beautiful and what wasn’t on Home shifted faster than a striped-lion scattered leapers.
Which reminded her… She tapped on the kitchen door and poked her head in. “Thank you, Shona.”
He inclined his head and bent his ears farther forward, forefeet busy with something.
She left him alone and retreated upstairs, to her work area. She checked her comm messages and found two, one from Aunt Kay and one from DeSilva Press dated a month previous. “Oh dear.” She’d already decided never to illustrate another book for DeSilva unless imminent starvation threatened. Bad news first, she decided, and opened the message. Then she slumped back in the seat as much as decorum and safety allowed. The publisher recommended no changes, and they accepted everything. The crowns would be, now had been, credited to her account. Rigi filed the message and blinked. “That really will be my last off-world work, won’t it? At least for the near future.” Almost no one cared to do business with image and text artists from Shikhari because of the cost of data transmission. Rigi vaguely remembered the explanation for why shipping cargo and moving passengers cost so much less than transmitting data, but her memory refused to access the information at the moment. Rigi shrugged and opened the next message.
She skimmed it, then stopped, closing her mouth when she realized that it hung open almost as far as the carnifex leaper’s had. “Oh my.” Where the Creator closed a door, the Creatrix opened another, as the Guardian and Matron always said. Rigi wanted to pelt down the stairs as she had when she was much younger and run to tell her mother. But young ladies did not do that, and she’d almost fallen once already on the steep steps. Sliding backwards down the bannister might cause problems as well. Instead she called up her calendar of holy days and feasts, confirmed the dates, and replied that she would indeed ask her parents about the possibility of going with the expedition. She also assured her aunt that she’d have the color plates ready for the publisher within ten days, so they could qualify for the bonus. The potential excursion would also serve as a wonderful reason to go to the target range and renew her license, now that she was of age to carry a hand-held beam-shooter.
That evening Rigi ate her vegetables first. Even molded into patties with a white-nut crust and deep fried, tam tasted like the overcooked liver of a very old wombow that had worked his entire life while eating nothing but straw. She had not missed tam. However, the grazer-bird ham almost made up for the vegetable. Shona had a secret recipe for pickling the meat, so secret that he’d chased someone out of his kitchen with a knife for daring to ask for an ingredients list, or so the stories went. Rigi believed the stories and had never asked what he did to the thigh of the giant bird to make it so tender and spice-rich. Instead she savored the flavor, stretching it out with bites of the ricelee that he served it on. The soup had been grazer-bird broth with ginter, perfect for a cool, damp day.
“And how was your day, Rigi?” her father inquired after finishing most of his main course.
“Quite well, sir, thank you. DeSilva Press has accepted my work and the contract is concluded.”
Her mother gave her an appraising look, weighing her. “And do you now have plans, Auriga?”
“Not yet, ma’am, aside from finishing the color plates for the book Aunt Kay asked me to assist with.”
Her father raised one eyebrow. “Yet?”
“Yes, sir. Aunt Kay forwarded a request from the xenoarchaeologist, Dr. Xian, asking me to accompany a group of researchers at the beginning of the warm season to revisit some old sites that had been recorded but not truly documented.”
“And where are these sites? Or did she say?”
“The Indria Plateau, sir, ma’am.” Rigi held her breath for a moment.
Her parents froze, not even blinking, or so it looked. Was that so dangerous? Oh, her heart sank as she remembered. The entire continent had been declared a low-tech Reserve, so she could not take Martinus. But she’d have her permit, and she would be with a large group of people.
“The Indria Plateau.” Her mother pursed her lips. “Will there be other ladies present?”
“Yes, ma’am. Dr. Xian herself, and two research assistants, one from Eta Tolima. We will have our own quarters, including sanitation facilities.”
Her father half-cleared his throat. “Since this is over four months away, I trust an answer is not required tomorrow?”
“No, sir. Three weeks, if possible, per Aunt Kay. Mr. De Groet will be going, but not Uncle Ebenezer. I believe Aunt Kay’s words were, ah,” she closed her eyes so she could see the text in her memory better. “I am tying him to the house until he finishes the enclosed verandah with skylights that he promised me.” She opened her eyes to see her parents both smiling, although her mother was trying to hide her mouth behind her hand.
“She has the patience of all the world,” her mother sighed. “He promised her that eight years ago.”
Her father seemed to be studying the corner of the ceiling and wall, and Rigi wondered if he saw a bug nest, or if he were hoping her mother did not remember something herself. “We will look into the expedition before we decide.” Rigi weighed his answer and decided that meant that he was sixty-percent in favor of her going.
“Thank you, sir. If it is not an imposition, may I go with you tomorrow as far as the first market? I need to certify on my own for the hand-shooter, and to sketch a wombow cart.”
Her father glanced at her mother, who nodded, then picked up her fork. “We are not expecting callers, and I believe I shall not be at home tomorrow.”
Proper young ladies did not dance in their chairs, so Rigi stayed still and took another bite of meat instead.
The next morning Rigi’s father took her as far as the first Staré market. From there it was two kilometers to the range. By the time she finished the certification and her sketches, Shona would be at the market and she could come home with him. A cool drizzle-mist filled the air, softening the outlines of the market stalls and permanent buildings. Rigi walked steadily, reaching the entry to the beam-shooter range just as it opened. “May I h
elp you?” The large man on gate duty asked, studying her.
“Yes, sir. My name is Auriga Bernardi and I would like to renew my hand-shooter certification and obtain a license in my own name.”
He made some notes. “May I see your identification, please, Miss Bernardi?” She gave him her card and her graduation certificate copy. “Ah, thank you.” He finished the notes and returned her things. “Do you have a personal shooter?”
“I have my father’s, Mr. Timothy Bernardi.” She opened the flap on her satchel and removed the case. He noted the locks and marked another something on a data pad, then opened the door. “Thank you, sir.”
To her surprise the rangemaster himself, Mr. Arkangli, met her, hand extended, smiling. “Welcome back, Miss Bernardi. I hope your family is well?”
“Very well, sir. I’ve come to qualify in my own name.”
He nodded. “Excellent! Are you current?”
“No, sir. We arrived on-world three weeks ago, from Home via LimWorld.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “Allow me to congratulate you on your survival of the wilds, and your return to civilization. This way, please, miss.” He led her to the hand-beam range. “What distance?”
She considered for a moment as she set the case down on the shelf. “Ten meter to begin with, please, sir.”
“A good choice.” He programmed the target for the distance as she removed the shooter from the case and inspected it. He watched over her shoulder, and she confirmed to him that the safety was on before putting a fresh gas charge in. “What are the four rules, Miss?”
“A shooter is always loaded, and any unloaded shooter is loaded until proven otherwise, unless it is in pieces. Do not touch the trigger until you are ready and willing to shoot. Do not point the shooter at anything you are not willing to destroy. Always be aware of what is behind your target,” she recited.
“Good.” He leaned back and looked both ways, then called in a voice that Rigi thought could be heard as far as the first market, “Range hot, shooter in position, fire when ready.”
Rigi sighted and fire three times, then stopped. She held her fingers clear of the trigger and looked at the target. Clustered but low and to the left of the center. She sighted again and fired three more shots, then engaged the safety and checked again. The cluster was not quite as tight, but all three were in the edge of the center ring.
“One handed, please, three shots, Miss.”
She didn’t like one-handed, and the target showed it. She was close, but to the left again.
“Do you plan on using an on-person holster, or carrying in your bag, Miss Bernardi?”
“In my bag, sir.” She traced around the back and lowered a panel to show the holster built into the satchel.
“Then holster your weapon, please.” She reconfirmed the safety and put the shooter away, closing the panel and hanging the satchel cross-body as she normally did. “A good decision, miss. Are you worried about bag-grabbers?”
“No sir, I’m not especially, but it is not kind to tempt the weak.” And some young third and second Stamm Staré thought it fun to try and snatch bags from unwary humans, or better, to remove the contents without being noticed.
“Three shots, center now!”
She startled, then dropped the back panel, drew, swept the safety off and fired.
“Humpf.” He pushed a switch and the target retreated several more meters. “Three shots left corner, please, miss.” She did the best she could. “Good. I’ll call up the written test, but you pass the practical, based on experience and personal knowledge.” He raised one eyebrow, then asked, “Does your little friend still have a furry tail?”
“Yes, sir.” Her face warmed a little. Only a handful of people knew how Martinus came to have a carnifex leaper’s tail that slipped over his bare metal appendage.
“Your mother mentioned that your uncle had given you one. Has she returned as well?”
“Yes, sir.” She finished stowing everything in the case and putting the case into her satchel.
As they walked to the classroom building, he smiled. “Excellent! Please give her my greetings and regards, and if she is interested, Mr. Lomax’s offer is renewed. Patient, quiet instructors are still difficult to find.”
“I will do so, sir.”
She passed the test with high but not perfect marks. For some reason she kept confusing the details for the signs designating “must carry” and “should carry” zones. “Well done, Mistress Bernardi,” Mr. Arkangli said, presenting her with a data pad for her to sign.
Rigi shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but I am a miss.”
He walked over to the device that printed out her licenses, then returned, shaking his head a little in turn as he handed them to her. “No. When you qualify and are able to defend yourself, you are an adult both in the law and in truth. Here,” he pointed down, “you are Mistress Bernardi. And should you need to get a hunting license, please come by early. If there’s a quota in place, it can delay approvals.”
Rigi blushed again. “Thank you, sir, and I most certainly will do that, if I need to get a hunting license.” Her permit covered shooting animals in self defense, but she’d be safer if she had a hunting license, because that proved that she understood the game laws and conservation requirements.
She paid the fees from her own account, feeling quite grown up a she did. Mr. Arkangli saw her out and she walked back the way she had come before turning toward the third market. The drizzle had eased up, and after watching for a few minutes, Rigi found a place that was out of the way of the Staré coming and going, but where she could see and be dry. She took her sketch pad out of the satchel, along with a pair of pencils. One went behind her ear, and the other she kept in hand. She hoped it would not be too long. Several Staré of the lower Stamme gave her curious looks, and one sniffed at her. She’d worn a touch of //friendly/polite// and that seemed to suffice, because the female with young in pouch twitched her ears and went about her business. Rigi loosened up her hand, and after a quarter of an hour, smiled as a wombow cart trundled up.
Round—Rigi could not think of a better word to describe the wombow’s shape. The domestic version of the native wombeast, the 500-kilogram animal had a rounded head with round ears, a thick neck, round legs like verandah columns, a round body and a rounded rump. This one sported brown fur with flecks of grey in it, a rather attractive pattern. Someone took good care of the animal, and Rigi crouched down to see the belly. Female, and with a tight pouch so she was young yet. Rigi’s hand moved quickly, catching the general shape, then the details like the way the wombow’s head hung a little lower than usual, and the way the harness sat on her shoulders and neck. The owner had draped a piece of smooth, bright red material under the harness, adding a flash of color as well as keeping the fur from rubbing. Rigi smiled, happy for the animal. The cart looked Staré made, not fancy but sturdy with tight-fit sides and a coat of dark green paint. Rigi made a little note by the side of the sketch. The owner took his time, and she finished her drawing before the medium-brown fourth Stamm male returned.
Rigi approached him, stopped at a respectful distance, and hand-bowed. He startled a little and full-bowed in return. She’d been practicing her Staré, and said carefully, “Solid cart, good wombow.”
He sniffed her, then puffed //gratitude/curiosity.//
“How called, for name honor?” She showed him the sketch, hoping he’d understand.
He puffed //confusion.//
Before she could try again, a darker-colored third Stamm male stepped up, bowed, and said, “I help?” //confidence/polite.//
“Please. I would like his name, to honor him for his work and care.”
The two Staré exchanged a complicated blend of gestures, sounds, and scents. The lower Stamm male pointed to himself. “Tar.”
“Honor to Tar,” she wrote his name on the page. “Thank you.”
The higher-Stamm male translated again, then gestured to the lower. “Gratitude and ho
nor.” They bowed, she hand-bowed, and they parted ways.
As she approached the second market, she heard a sound of voices in rhythm, and then someone speaking, and more replies. Puzzled, she detoured a little to a small park with a public speaking platform, one that she remembered Staré tended to avoid. Indeed, the group were entirely human, although a few low-Stamm Staré walked past, going about their business.
“Shikhari for the Staré,” a young man proclaimed from the platform, and the older people with him clapped. “Humans have no right to Staré land, not after evidence of their cities appeared, not after the first landing! Staré should be independent, not exploited.” He continued that way for several minutes.
Rigi didn’t quite understand the fuss. After all, humans and Staré had a partnership, more or less, and humans respected the Stamme rules and left the Staré to manage their own affairs for the most part and paid them for work. And none of the Staré she knew seemed unhappy about humans and human governance, so why the fuss? It was probably people who didn’t understand things on Shikhari, like Mrs. Debenadetto, who meant well but got confused. Rigi turned and started to leave. A girl, perhaps ten or eleven saw her and trotted up, waving a holo-card. “Mistress, will you vote for Staré freedom?” She pushed the card at Rigi, who took it to keep from making a fuss.
“I will certainly consider it.” Consider and then ignore, Rigi thought, trying to get away without attracting more attention. The girl smiled and hurried to intercept another human, allowing Rigi to ease away from the onlookers and back onto the main footpath beside the road. She stopped, looking for traffic before she crossed, and sensed someone watching. She turned and shifted her weight, ready to run, as an angry, dark-haired young man approached her. She thought she’d seen him before somewhere, not on Shikhari? Yes, she recognized the uneven eyebrows—he was the man on the interstellar transport, and again in the luggage building.
Staré: Shikari Book Two Page 3