Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369) by Marie Brennan
Authors: Marie Brennan
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ourselves to the foothills rather than going up into the mountains proper, what passed for their “summer” was decidedly on the chill side. The long days gave us ample opportunity to chase our prey, though, while the Basilisk continued down to Kupelyi and the markets there before returning to retrieve us from Lezhnema.
I will not say much of the wyvern-hunting itself, for it has little bearing on the key aspects of this narrative, and its scientific significance has been recorded elsewhere. Suffice it to say that the limb configuration of a wyvern—wings and two legs, instead of four—was of interest to us, chiefly as a possible link between the near-limbless serpents of the ocean and the quadripedal winged dragons.
This terrestrial detour gave me ample time to speak with Tom, particularly when we lay in interminable wait for a wyvern to happen past. I recounted what Wademi had said to me, and my speculations as to its possible import.
He frowned, laying one hand over the stock of his rifle. “I have a hard time believing the Moulish would make such an error.”
“We must consider the possibility,” I said. “Their usual treatment of the eggs is traditional, handed down to them through who knows how many generations. Things become habit, done because that is how one’s father and grandfather did them, rather than because their import is fully understood.” I paused, dissatisfied, and then was distracted by movement that proved to be some farmer’s errant goat.
When it was gone, I returned to the point. “But I must consider other possibilities, too. For example: what if the Moulish want queens in the rivers?”
Tom blew out his breath in a quick huff. “To what end? Do they mean to conquer Bayembe for themselves?”
We both knew that was ludicrous. The Moulish loved their swampy forest, even when it was trying to kill them; to them, the arid savannah of Bayembe was a wasteland. And they had no government at a scale larger than the elders who happened to be in camp at any given time, no warfare beyond small gangs of young men scuffling over personal insults. They had no desire to conquer Bayembe, nor the means to do so if they did. Not even with dragons.
“I wish I could go see them for myself,” I murmured—not least because an icy wind chose to blow through at that precise moment, reminding me of how much warmer it was in Eriga.
Tom knew why I could not. He was no more free to travel there than I. “What you need,” he mused, “is a protégé you can send in your stead.”
This made me sigh. “I am not likely to ever have one of those.”
He said nothing. After a moment, I became aware of his gaze on me. When I turned my head to look, he was staring. “What?” I asked.
“What of all those people who flock to your house every Athemer?”
“None of them are dragon naturalists.”
“Well, no—but gather enough bright young things about you, and sooner or later one of them will be. Likely sooner, if you go on a speaking tour after this expedition.”
I wanted to protest that the speaking tour, if it even happened, would simply be a means of raising money (which I expected to be in short supply by the time I returned home). My talks would be popular, not scholarly. But if I could be inspired to my career by something as trivial as a sparkling preserved in vinegar, was it so ludicrous to think that someone else might be inspired by hearing my tales? I thought of protégés as the sort of thing a man like Lord Hilford had: a respected peer, a Colloquium Fellow. Yet I might someday have one, too.
It even crossed my mind that Jake might go, though of course he might have been refused on the grounds that he was my son, and in any event it would have been at least six or seven years before he was old enough to send to Eriga on his own. By then, the matter was likely to be resolved in one way or another. But as I soon discovered, he seemed unlikely to follow that path regardless.
While Tom and
I will not say much of the wyvern-hunting itself, for it has little bearing on the key aspects of this narrative, and its scientific significance has been recorded elsewhere. Suffice it to say that the limb configuration of a wyvern—wings and two legs, instead of four—was of interest to us, chiefly as a possible link between the near-limbless serpents of the ocean and the quadripedal winged dragons.
This terrestrial detour gave me ample time to speak with Tom, particularly when we lay in interminable wait for a wyvern to happen past. I recounted what Wademi had said to me, and my speculations as to its possible import.
He frowned, laying one hand over the stock of his rifle. “I have a hard time believing the Moulish would make such an error.”
“We must consider the possibility,” I said. “Their usual treatment of the eggs is traditional, handed down to them through who knows how many generations. Things become habit, done because that is how one’s father and grandfather did them, rather than because their import is fully understood.” I paused, dissatisfied, and then was distracted by movement that proved to be some farmer’s errant goat.
When it was gone, I returned to the point. “But I must consider other possibilities, too. For example: what if the Moulish want queens in the rivers?”
Tom blew out his breath in a quick huff. “To what end? Do they mean to conquer Bayembe for themselves?”
We both knew that was ludicrous. The Moulish loved their swampy forest, even when it was trying to kill them; to them, the arid savannah of Bayembe was a wasteland. And they had no government at a scale larger than the elders who happened to be in camp at any given time, no warfare beyond small gangs of young men scuffling over personal insults. They had no desire to conquer Bayembe, nor the means to do so if they did. Not even with dragons.
“I wish I could go see them for myself,” I murmured—not least because an icy wind chose to blow through at that precise moment, reminding me of how much warmer it was in Eriga.
Tom knew why I could not. He was no more free to travel there than I. “What you need,” he mused, “is a protégé you can send in your stead.”
This made me sigh. “I am not likely to ever have one of those.”
He said nothing. After a moment, I became aware of his gaze on me. When I turned my head to look, he was staring. “What?” I asked.
“What of all those people who flock to your house every Athemer?”
“None of them are dragon naturalists.”
“Well, no—but gather enough bright young things about you, and sooner or later one of them will be. Likely sooner, if you go on a speaking tour after this expedition.”
I wanted to protest that the speaking tour, if it even happened, would simply be a means of raising money (which I expected to be in short supply by the time I returned home). My talks would be popular, not scholarly. But if I could be inspired to my career by something as trivial as a sparkling preserved in vinegar, was it so ludicrous to think that someone else might be inspired by hearing my tales? I thought of protégés as the sort of thing a man like Lord Hilford had: a respected peer, a Colloquium Fellow. Yet I might someday have one, too.
It even crossed my mind that Jake might go, though of course he might have been refused on the grounds that he was my son, and in any event it would have been at least six or seven years before he was old enough to send to Eriga on his own. By then, the matter was likely to be resolved in one way or another. But as I soon discovered, he seemed unlikely to follow that path regardless.
While Tom and
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