Hellspark (29 page)

A mistranslation? Maggy doubted it, so she sought information beyond her language banks for corroboration.

Item: swift-Kalat telling layli-layli calulan

, “Oloitokitok died while Megeve repaired the transceiver.”

Item:

layli-layli responding instantly to this information, wishing to search immediately for Tocohl, willing to lie to do so.

No, thought Maggy, there was nothing wrong with her translation. But she had insufficient data to calculate the probability.

“Take me with you when you search for Tocohl.” said the arachne; and layli-layli calulan said, “I was planning to.”

The two rejoined the knot of surveyors that crowded about Dyxte in the common room, awaiting the primary meteorologist’s pronouncements anxiously. Matching Megeve’s expressions with what she had on tape in reference to Maldeneantine, Maggy concluded that he was abnormally nervous. In the light of the rest, John the Smith, Dyxte, swift-Kalat, Maggy found this inconclusive.

She let part of her system go on with its extrapolations even as swift-Kalat turned to her and said,

Page 115

“Where was the daisy-clipper when you lost communication with Tocohl?”

Maggy touched one of the arachne’s appendages to the map on display. “There. I can be more specific if you have a more detailed map.”

“No need,” said Dyxte, “the storm has passed well beyond that.” Swift-Kalat had already started for the door. Dyxte called out, “You’ve got about three hours, swift-Kalat, before that next storm hits. I’ll keep you posted!”

“All right,” said Kejesli, “start a standard search pattern for that daisy-clipper from that point outward. You know your positions. Do it now!”

Layli-layli calulan raised her hands, the gesture evocative of that she had used in claiming a taboo situation. “Shuffle the pattern to cover us,” she said, “swift-Kalat and I intend to let maggy-maggy lead us. Our pattern, as such, may be erratic.”

Kejesli moved to object, but layli-layli calulan raised her hands a fraction higher and he said merely, “Take Megeve with you. I’ll want a full report on the causes of the equipment failure.”

The shaman’s smile broadened. “Of course.”

Moments later, a dozen daisy-clippers raced across the landscape of Flashfever toward the spot

Maggy had indicated. “Buntec followed the river,” said the arachne, from its precarious perch on layli-layli calulan’s knees.

“Yes,” said swift-Kalat, who was at the controls of the daisy-clipper with Megeve at his left, “but this is quicker. We’ll go straight to the spot you last saw them.”

Megeve twisted about in his seat to peer at layli-layli calulan

. “Do you really think that machine’s trustworthy?” he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the arachne. “It seems to me—”

Anxious to keep the arachne out of his clutches, Maggy flinched it deep into layli-layli Catalan’s lap.

The shaman raised a protective arm between them. “It seems to me,” she said, “that this machine is at least as trustworthy as your equipment.”

“Still,” said Megeve, “I’d feel better if you’d let me check out its circuits.”

“I’d feel better if you’d keep your eye on the landscape,”

layli-layli calulan told him, and Maggy could hear the sharpness in her voice. “We are looking for a lost party. This time we intend to find them before they come to harm.”

“Yes, of course,” said Megeve. He turned his attention back to the search.

Free from the threat of his reaching fingers, Maggy telescoped the arachne’s legs to give her, once more, a view of the passing scenery. The craft swerved to bypass a noisy grove of frostwillows—the wind had not yet died down—and layli-layli calulan grasped the arachne to keep it from tumbling from her lap.

Without warning, Maggy—high above the world of Flashfever—lost all contact with the arachne. It was as unexpected and as total as the initial loss of contact with Tocohl had been.

Now she had no way at all of helping to find Tocohl!

True, she had other mobiles, but none was sufficiently adept to handle a skiff. She tried reactivating the mobile that accompanied layli-layli

, swift-Kalat, and Megeve at fifteen-second intervals; and, on the third try, she succeeded.

Reassured, she ran a check, long-distance, on the mobile’s circuitry and found everything in good working order. She began a read-through of all available literature to find out what might account for the arachne’s lapse.

“I told you there was something wrong with it,” Megeve was saying. “Now perhaps you’ll believe me. Flashfever has been ruining all our equipment. Let me have a look.”

Overlapping him, layli-layli calulan asked, “Are you all right? The arachne just suddenly
Page 116

collapsed.”

She held it firmly, well beyond Megeve’s reach.

“I’m all right,” Maggy said, produced a chuckle that seemed to reassure the shaman, and added,

“it’s the arachne I’m worried about. I can’t account for the lapse.”

“We’re here,” said swift-Kalat, and the arachne craned toward the door and looked down.

“Just a few feet upriver is the spot I lost their transmissions,” it said. Within a few moments, all of the daisy-clippers were poised above the churning stream. A flock of golden scoffers screamed at them all in

outrage.

Swift-Kalat coded to receive emergency transmissions and spoke into his throat mike, but said to the rest, “Nothing but the search parties answering.” The other five daisy-clippers flashed away in the sunlight to weave a search pattern along either side of the river.

“You said we would not follow the search pattern, layli-layli”

said swift-Kalat. “What would you have me do?”

“

Maggy-maggy

?”

Maggy decided that layli-layli calulan meant for her to answer swift-Kalat’s query. “Continue to follow the river as Buntec did,” she said, all too conscious of Megeve’s muttered objection and of the arachne’s inexplicable lapse.

“Slowly,” added layli-layli calulan

, and the craft glided forward, barely skimming the roaring waters.

They followed the river for another forty minutes, the silence within the daisy-clipper a sharp contrast to the clamor of their surroundings, until swift-Kalat said, “This is where Buntec habitually turned to cross land.”

“When she went to look for wild sprookjes?”

“That’s right, Maggy. Shall I follow her usual route?”

“Yes, please. Perhaps we will at least find evidence that they reached their intended destination.”

“Don’t count on it,” said layli-layli

. “The rains will have washed away most of the traces any party leaves.”

“Not a grounded daisy-clipper,” said swift-Kalat. “We have something large to look for,” and he guided the daisy-clipper into the blazing cacophony of the flashwood.

The sprookje was barely visible as a dark patch moving through the undergrowth some twenty yards ahead. Sunchild seemed to have grasped the notion that they were headed back to the river and had taken the lead. As long as the sprookje was willing (and seemed to be tending in the right direction)

Tocohl accepted the counsel; as Om im pointed out, it was more adept at spotting Flashfever hazards than the rest of them.

Om im led the human contingent, Tocohl and Alfvaen abreast of each other, with Buntec bringing up the rear. Om im and Buntec watched for hazards, Tocohl watched Alfvaen. They were traveling all too slowly for taste, but it couldn’t be helped. The undergrowth was stubborn, dense.

Her eyes teared from the constant dazzle. Her ears she was sure, had not yet stopped ringing from their assault by thunder. But she knew that the ringing was nothing more than background noise, Flashfever-standard. She ducked to follow Om im beneath a clamoring frostwillow.

Beyond was a thick stand of tick-ticks entangled in arabesque vines. Om im eased through—there were certain advantages to his size, Tocohl noted with envy. She leaned her
Page 117

weight against the nearest, to press them aside for Alfvaen. Sharp pain stung her, hip to ankle, and she jumped forward and spun.

Nothing but a zap-me, she saw, hidden within the tick-ticks. “Just bruises,” Tocohl said. “Serves me right for not looking. Could have been worse.” She put her back to the task again, before the zap-me could reset its tendrils.

Alfvaen clicked her tongue, chiding Tocohl in imitation of the plant before she fought her way through. Her darting glance was bright, too bright to be set in a face as pale as that, thought Tocohl, following.

On the far side, Alfvaen paused to scrape furiously at her back, tangling the damp blue fringe of her bodice; then she pushed doggedly on. A swarm of vikries, dislodged from stalks of tick-ticks, followed briefly along beside her. When she bent to drink water from the up-cupped leaf of a green handplant, they scattered away.

(That thirst of hers worries me too.) Tocohl had subvocalized the observation. Then, despite the lack of response, she went on doing it. (Maybe you can hear me, Maggy, and I just can’t hear you… ) Please let it be so, she thought fervently.

(But I could use your expertise right now. Alfvaen no longer slurs her words. I’d say she was

sobering—and the excessive thirst is a symptom of alcohol dehydration—but her behavior isn’t right for sober either. Om im agrees, and he’s seen her normal behavior. She looks like someone riding an oxygen high: too exhilarated for sense.

(And she’s exhausted. We all are. But her exhilaration isn’t Flashfever effect. I mean, not the same as the ionization high.)

The fallen trunk of something like a tree lay across their intended path. The sprookje waited atop it.

“We’re coming,” Om im told the creature. The words had no noticeable effect on Sunchild but the moment he began to clamber up, the sprookje vanished over the side. Tocohl made a knee for him, then waited in the same position, expecting Alfvaen to use the same step up.

Instead, Alfvaen glowered at her, took a running jump, and made the top. She overbalanced, toppled with a crash and an alarming series of squeals. “Alfvaen’s okay,” came Om im’s voice,

“she just landed in a pig thicket.”

Tocohl hauled herself up, balanced on her chest, to see for herself. Bright-eyed and grumbling curses in Siveyn, Alfvaen stood methodically kicking at the edge of a waist-high clump of silver blue; each time she did, it let out another series of squeals. (Plant or no, that sounds like la’ista

,) Tocohl said privately.

(We must get her to layli-layli calulan

! Soon!)

Tocohl reached down a hand to pull Buntec up. Together, the two of them slid over the obstructing trunk.

To this side was a small clearing, bright with penny-Jannisett and monkswoodsmen. Sunchild waited impatiently for the rest of them to regroup, and then set out again.

Tocohl held up her hand. “I think we all need a rest,” she said. Om im glanced at Alfvaen, who was still tormenting the pig thicket, and sat down, pulling Buntec with him. “Alfvaen,” he said,

“sit down. You need the rest as much as I do.”

The sprookje fixed its golden eyes on them, then stared up into the sky. Its cheek-feathers puffed.

Openmouthed, warning tongue displayed, it again held out the edge of the moss cloak to Tocohl, who said, “No rest for the weary. Get up, everybody, and let’s hope it isn’t far to the next shelter.”

“Someplace without a pig thicket, I hope,” Buntec grumbled. She tapped Alfvaen’s shoulder
Page 118

none too gently.

Startled, Alfvaen spun to face her. “Your pardon?” she said, for all the world as if returned to normal behavior. “We’re going on? Why?”

“Because Sunchild gave a very expressive look at the sky,” Om im told her.

“Oh,” she said, forgetting the pig thicket to join him.

Once again the party set off to follow the sprookje to safety, but not before Tocohl and Om im had taken the opportunity to exchange worried glances.

The route brought them to a swollen stream that, no doubt, channeled into the river they sought.

A

happy chirring filled the air, grew louder and louder, until it almost drowned the sound of rushing water.

“Drunken dabblers,” Buntec shouted, over it all, “sound like good times and parties. Nothin’

but plants.”

Alfvaen glared at the two of them over her shoulder. A moment later, she let slip a branch which snapped and dashed a spate of cold water in Tocohl’s face. The Siveyn had begun to speak softly to herself in her own tongue, so softly that Tocohl could not make out the words, not even when they had left the patch of drunken dabblers well behind.

They came to a bend in the stream and the ground rose slowly beneath their feet. Where the water tumbled swift about a bare and broken jut of rocks, tall weeds spaced themselves at neat intervals, flicking with the rapids. “Om im?” Tocohl pointed to them, “Wave power,” he said. “What you see in the water is a runner from these,” he flicked a finger, in passing, at a black stem topped by a dull red gleam. “Any excess energy is bled off as light. They only glow like that when the stream is swollen—which means most of the time,” he finished, with a wry smile.

“Wonderful!” said Tocohl, but Alfvaen growled in Siveyn, “Deathlight.” She scratched and scowled, whether at the itch or the plants, Tocohl couldn’t tell.

The sprookje turned opposite to the stream’s bend to lead them back into deep flashwood.

The ground rose steeply, so steeply in fact that they followed the sprookje’s example and, whenever possible,

drew themselves hand-over-hand along the arabesque and leatherstrap vines.

The wind picked up once again and with it the flashwood’s noise. By the time they had clawed their way to the top of the small escarpment, rain was falling from the darkened sky. The sprookje had a fine sense of timing, there was no doubt about that. Tocohl, pausing while they caught their breaths from the climb, counted. The storm would be overhead in minutes. Already the lightning was close enough that she could scent burning vegetation on the wind after each strike.