uplift4.brightnessreef-第100部分
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up； clattering hooves on the dais。 The new storyteller was Ulgor； the tinker who had acpanied Sara ever since the night the aliens passed above Dolo Village。 Listeners regathered around as Ulgor menced reciting her tale in a dialect even older than the one before。
Ships fill your thoughts right now；
Fierce； roaming silently。
Ships fill your dreams right now；
Far from all watery seas。
Ships cloud your mind…scape now；
Numberless hordes of them。
Ships dwarf your mind…scape now；
Than mountains； vaster far。
A mutter of consternation。 The caravan chief corkscrewed her long neck。 This was a rare topic； widely thought in poor taste； among mixed…races。 Several hoonish pilgrims turned to watch。
Ships of the Urrish…ka
Clan of strong reverence。
Ships of the Urrish host。
Clan bound for vengeance！
Bad taste or no； a tale under way was sacrosanct till plete。 The mander flared her nostril to show she had no part in this breach； while Ulgor went on evoking an era long before urs colonists ever set hoof on Jijo。 To a time of space armadas； when god…fleets fought over inprehensible doctrines； using weapons of unthinkable power。
Stars fill your thoughts right now。
Ships large as mountain peaks；
Setting stars quivering；
With planet…sized lightings。
Sara wondered…why is she doing this？ Ulgor had always been tactful； for a young urs。 Now she seemed out to provoke a reaction。
Hoon sauntered closer； air sacs puffing； still more curious than angry。 It wasn't yet clear that Ulgor meant to dredge up archaic vendettas…grudges so old they made later； Jijo…based quarrels with qheuens and men seem like tiffs over this morning's breakfast。
On Jijo； urs and boon share no habitats and few desires。 No basis for conflict。 It's hard to picture their ancestors slaughtering each other in space。
Even the Tower of Haiphong game was abandoned。 The Stranger watched Ulgor's undulating neck movements； keeping tempo with his right hand。
Oh ye； native listeners
So…smugly ignorant；
Planet…bound minds； dare you
Try to conceive？
Of planet…like holes in space；
In which dwell entities；
That planet…bound minds like yours
Cannot perceive？
Several hoon umbled relief。 Perhaps this wasn't about archaic struggles between their forebears and the urs。 Some space…epics told of awesome vistas； or sights baffling to modern listeners； reminders of what the Six had lost； but might regain someday…ironically； by forgetting。
Cast back your dread…filled thoughts；
To those ships； frigidly；
Cruising toward glory's gate；
Knowing not destiny。
If the first bard had been ardent； chanting bloody glory； Ulgor was coolly charismatic； entrancing listeners with her bobbing head and singsong whistle； evoking pure essences of color； frost； and fear。 Sara put her notebook down； spellbound by vistas of glare and shadow； by vast reaches of spacetime； and shining vessels more numerous than stars。 No doubt the yarn had grown in retelling； countless times。 Even so； it filled Sara's heart with sudden jealousy。
We humans never climbed so high before our fall。 Even at our greatest； we never possessed fleets of mighty starships。 We were wolflings。 Crude by parison。
But that thought slipped away as Ulgor spun her rhythmic chant； drawing out glimpses of infinity。 A portrait took shape； of a great armada bound for glorious war； which fate lured near a dark region of space。 A niche； mysterious and deadly； like the bitter hollows of a mule…spider's lair。 A place wise travelers skirted； but not the admiral of this fleet。 Steeped in her own invincibility； she plotted a course to fall on her foes； dismissing all thought of detour。
Now from one black kernel；
Spirals out fortune's bane；
Casting its trap across；
Throngs of uneasy stars。。。
Several hoon umbled relief。 Perhaps this wasn't about archaic struggles between their forebears and the urs。
With a sudden jerk； Sara's attention was yanked back to the present by a hard tug on her right arm。 She blinked。
Prity gripped her elbow； tight enough to grow painful…until Sara asked…〃What is it？〃
Letting go； her chim consort signed。
Listen。 Now！
Sara was about to plain…That's what I was doing； listening…then realized Prity did not mean the story。 So she tried to sift past Ulgor's mesmerizing drone。。。 and finally picked up a low mutter ing from outside the pavilion。
The animals。 Something's upsetting them。
The simlas and donkeys had their own camouflaged shelter； a short distance away。 Judging from a slowly rising murmur； the beasts weren't exactly frightened； but they weren't happy； either。
The Stranger also noticed； along with a couple of librarians and a red qheuen； all of them backing away； looking around nervously。
By now the caravan chief had joined the crowd of rising…falling urrish heads； lost in a distant place and time。 Sara moved forward to nudge the expedition leader…carefully； since startled urs were known to snap…but all at once the chief's neck went rigid of its own accord； anxious tremors rippling her tawny mane。 With a hiss； the urs matron roused two assistants； yanking a third back to reality with a sharp nip to the flank。 All four stood and began trotting toward the tent flap…
…then skittered to a halt as phantom shapes began rising along the shelter's western edge…shadowy centauroid outlines； creeping stealthily； bearing spiky tools。 A dismayed screech escaped one of the caravan…lieutenants； just before chaos exploded on all sides。
The audience burst into confusion。 Grunts and whistling cries spilled from stunned pilgrims as the tent was ripped in a dozen places by flashing blades。 War…painted fighters stepped through the gaps； leveling swords； pikes； and arbalests； all tipped with bronze…colored Buyur metal； driving the churned mass of frightened travelers back toward the ash pit at the center。
Prity's arms clasped Sara's waist while young Jomah clung to her other side。 She wrapped an arm around the boy； for whatever fort it might offer。
Urrish militia？ she wondered。 These warriors looked nothing like the dun…colored cavalry that performed showy maneuvers for Landing Day festivals。 Slashes of sooty color streaked their flanks and withers。 Their weaving； nodding heads conveyed crazed resolve。
A caravan…lieutenant bolted toward the stand where weapons were kept； mostly to ward off liggers； khoo…bras； or the occasional small band of thieves。 The trail boss shouted in vain as the young urs dove for a loaded arbalest…and kept going； toppling through the stand and skidding along a trail of sizzling blood。 She tumbled to a stop； riddled with darts； at the feet of a painted raider。
The expedition leader cursed the intruders； deriding their courage； their ancestry； and especially her own placency。 Despite rumors about trouble in far corners of the plains； peacetime habits were hard to break； especially along the main trail。 Now her brave young colleague had paid the price。
〃What do you want？〃 she demanded in GalTwo。 〃Do you have a leader？ Show her （criminal） muzzle； if she dares to speak！〃
The tent flap nearest the oasis lifted； and a burly urrish warrior entered； painted in jagged patterns that made it hard to grasp her outline。 The raider chieftain high…stepped delicately over the lieutenant's bloody trail； cantering to a halt just before the caravan mander。 Surprisingly； both of her brood…pouches were full； one with a husband whose slim head peered under the fighter's arm。 The other pouch was blue and milk…veined； bulging with unfledged offspring。
A full matron was not usually prone to violence； unless driven by duty or need。
〃You are not one to judge our （praiseworthy） daring；〃 the raider captain hissed in an old…fashioned； stilted dialect。 〃You； who serve （unworthy） client/masters with too…many or too…few legs； you are not fit to valuate this band of sisters。 Your sole choice is to submit （obsequiously）； according to the （much revered） Code of the Plains。〃
The caravan chief stared with all three eyes。 〃Code？ Surely you do not mean the （archaic； irrelevant） rituals tha
