Free Beholder's Eye by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

height. “I do enjoy your company—and stories. Tell me more. We have time.”
    His intent gaze softened. Perhaps, as a spacer himself, he understood what it was to be alone and lonely, to crave a harmless diversion. “Stories? Hmm. Not much to tell about my life, really. My father always wanted to own a shop—not a big one, mind you. Just something to keep him in touch with other techs and a hand on the newer machines.”
    Ragem kindly rambled on for another hour or more. I listened, asked questions to encourage him, and remembered. The sound of his voice, his tales, his willingness to share with me made a time that was like the night magic of the merchants. I tucked the memory away in that private part of me. This would not be understood, or forgiven, by my elders. But, by a little bit, my loneliness—which I hadn’t felt so keenly before somehow—was eased.
    “I’ve been talking too much,” Ragem said at last, his voice sounding well-used. “Your turn, Esen. What about you? I’ve never heard of a shape-changing species. Where is your world?”
    A reasonable and impossible request. I swallowed a growl, but enough of its violence made its way up my throat to roughen the words I spoke. “Don’t ask me such things, Ragem.”
    “I mean you no harm, Esen,” the Human said quickly. “I promise.”
    I dipped my ears in brief apology. “And I mean you none, Human.”
    “Then—”
    “I’ll tell you what you need to know to warn your ship and keep both our skins whole,” I said, adding somberly, “be satisfied with that.” Our eyes met. I don’t know what he saw in mine, but it was enough to force his to the ground.
    There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I deliberately prepared myself for rest, one ear cocked for the sounds of any travelers on the road beyond our shrub-covered nest. Such sounds could announce both safety or threat. I was reasonably sure I could handle whichever came, though I suspected Ersh would denounce this new confidence as yet another of my youthful mistakes.
     
    Eventually, we did find a caravan willing to accept roadside travelers, although the sun had almost eliminated the shade from our shelter before the first rumble of transports alerted us. A poor, and rather miserable, affair of trucks and quex-pulled open carts, its owners, the Ilpore family, had more reason than usual to be morose. They had passed through a most unusual roadblock before leaving Suddmusal.
    “Dreadful business,” the old woman repeated numbly. She had introduced herself to Ragem (who had described himself glibly as one Megar Slothe, bound for the Eastern Provinces) as Wetha Ilpore, third daughter of Ankin Ilpore, the caravan’s original convener. She was fascinating, with an almost toothless smile and crease-edged eyes that slid politely away from Ragem’s to watch her quex negotiate the road whenever he evaded her more pointed inquiries about his past. Those of the merchant caste understood such things.
    Ragem eased his bottom on the wooden seat as inconspicuously as he could, ignoring the pungent, musky scent of the sweating team of quex before him with admirable restraint. He should have smelled it from my position. “I heard it was bad for those who were there,” he agreed ambiguously. I snorted and knew he understood it was more than the dust beside the cart in my nostrils.
    “Doesn’t need tethering, eh?” the old woman peered down at me with renewed interest. “Wish our stock was as mannered. Willing to talk trade, young sir?”
    The Human took long enough to reply. I thought darkly of leaving him to his own devices, and abandoning my thankless task of pacing alongside the cart. “A pet, Dame Ilpore, that I would miss.” She gave him an uncharacteristically sharp look at this, since my current form, that of a plump, stocky quadruped, was not unlike a meat animal kept by Kraosians on the southern tip of this continent. The Kraosian version, when alive, was definitely without redeeming