Dark Matters_ Shadow of Heaven (Book 3) - Christie Golden [29]
"Your brother wishes you to join him at dinner," said the Castellan, and Ameron's heart swelled with joy and gratitude.
CHAPTER 7
ENSIGN PARIS'S PERSONAL LOG, STARDATE... HELL, I don't know.
The whole village has been busy the last couple of days. Apparently we're heading into the season of "trading," though I don't know how they can mark seasons in this climate. How did they do it on the Earth's equator again? The rainy season and the dry season? Probably that's how they do it here too. I'll have to ask.
So we have stopped doing things like repairing huts-
And here Tom Paris paused and looked vexedly up at his own ceiling, through which a steady trickle emerged to plop into several pots he'd hastily scrounged. Rainy season. Definitely.
He resumed his log entry: -and instead are spending our time making crafts, drying food, and coming up with other things to barter when the traders come by.
Frankly, fond as I am of the people here in Sumar-ka, I am looking forward to meeting some new people. This might be a good time for me to disengage myself and start trying to contact the Alilann.
Except that he still didn't know what had happened to Matroci. Unease stirred in him. It was one hell of a bad coincidence that Chakotay had vanished on the night Matroci died, but coincidence Tom knew it to be. Chakotay would never murder anyone. Kill in a fair fight, or for a worthy cause, yes. But Matroci's murder had been calculated, cruel, stealthy-as un-Chakotay-like a thing as Tom could imagine. But who else? Someone knew more than they were telling.
With a sigh, Paris put down his makeshift "log." Over in the corner, his task awaited him. He stared at it. It seemed to stare back. He rose and went over to it.
It sat on the hard-packed dirt floor, reproaching him silently.
Tom hadn't ever been good at anything creative, other than coming up with fibs to get himself out of trouble. He couldn't play an instrument like Harry did. He couldn't sing, like the Doc. He couldn't paint, like the captain. His decision to keep a log merely highlighted that writing wasn't his hidden talent, either.
He sometimes made up pretty funny limericks, but that didn't count.
Before him were six earthenware pots of various sizes and shapes, all made by the talented hands of Resul the potter. His job was to paint them. He'd done two so far and they looked dreadful. He had first tried a pattern on one. Bad idea. The lines were squiggly and even a simple checkerboard made his eyes hurt when he looked at it. The second one, free-form art, was even more atrocious. It was a muddy swirl of colors that looked like someone had been sick all over the pot.
He sat down cross-legged in front of the pots, picked up the smallest one, and held it in front of him.
"What am I doing?" he asked it. "You're a lovely little pot. And I'm going to ruin you. I'm sorry. You must just have had some bad pot karma."
What the hell, he thought. This time he'd just dip his fingers in the pot and cover it with polka dots. He opened the sealed jars, poured small amounts of color into shallow, flat-bottomed bowls, and dipped his five right fingers into the liquid. First the black. He pressed his fingers to the brown-red surface of the clay jar. Kinda fun. Now a little yellow-
"Crafters give you a good after-sun, Tom Paris."
Tom started, knocking over the entire pot of blue paint. He swore and almost made the mistake of scooping the blue mud back into the jar.
"I am sorry," said Trima. "I did not mean to startle you. We were supposed to meet at this sun-place, remember?"
He groaned. "You're right. I'm sorry. I got engrossed in finishing these."
She looked gravely at them for a long moment, then said, "Perhaps Resul would prefer it if you were not quite so engrossed."
He had to laugh at that. "Perhaps she would, at that. I'm just ruining