Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (35 page)

Ysella started to chirp to herself. Emoro took her by the hand.

“Come on, girl, I mean, Priestess. We have to get moving. Don’t want to leave Lord Tae wondering.” Emoro led her out into the courtyard.

Gilas hurried behind them, his broom in hand, and saluted. “May I escort the priestess to the court, sir?”

“Yes, good idea,” the clawmaster said absently. “Look after her.”

Gilas beamed shyly at Ysella. She flattened her ears in displeasure. A recruit. A green, untested warrior to be
her
champion? Not likely. She opened her mouth to protest to Emoro, but he turned away from them and bowed to Cleotra. She received him regally. Ysella wished she had her composure.

“Priestess, my officer has just informed me that Lord Tae wants his visitors tonight.”

“What?” Cleotra snapped, her tail swishing. “We have had no time to rest or eat!”

Emoro looked apologetic. “We’re at his pleasure, lady.” He handed her a packet of field rations from his own kit. “Eat this. It will do for the meantime.”

Cleotra looked at it in disdain. “I am sick of pieces of leather and sticks of wood. And Lord Tae will have to wait until morning.”

“We must go, Your Sinuousness.” Sherril stood up and smoothed his fur into place. “This is an opportunity to make a good impression. If we are willing to do his bidding in small things, he will take it into account. A small sample of your talents, or the poetry of our people, of which I have memorized the many sagas, will whet his appetite for more.”

“I do not jump when I am bid to jump!”

Ysella glided over and knelt at Cleotra’s side. “He will worship you, Cleotra. He will. He won’t even notice the rest of us, he will be so entranced with you.”

Sherril huffed into his whiskers. Ysella regarded him meekly. He was a very important Mrem. She had probably offended him. She looked to see whether Cleotra was inclined to punish her.

The senior Dancer seemed much more inclined to take out her temper on Emoro. Her tail lashed impatiently, and in spite of the dimness of the courtyard, her pupils had contracted to slits. She bared her claws and slashed the air impatiently. Ysella winced. Cleotra whirled.

“Petru! Fetch my green veils and bronze anklets. Bring the sistrum and the dombek.”

“Yes, Priestess,” Petru said soothingly, from very close by. He appeared at her side, a huge black shadow, his fur dark and fluffy as though he had risen from a restful sleep. Painted hide bags and cases hung from straps over his massive shoulders. “All is prepared already. All you need to do is concentrate upon your art, lady. May I adorn your fur before you go? A little brushing, perhaps, to make you feel fresher?”

Ysella could feel tension fading from all of them as Petru fussed over the senior Dancer. The hornbacked brushes in his hands whisked down Cleotra’s body, fluffing the sleek black fur up one way, then smoothing it down the other. Fur would have flown in every direction if Ysella had groomed herself like that, but not a single hair seemed to float in the dank air. All of it was caught in the bristles. With a lick of his forefinger pad, Petru slicked back her whiskers, untangling a few until her face was a mask of perfection. From a pouch Petru took a pot of glamour dust and sprinkled it on her fur. This one was gold, meant to impress. It picked up yellow lights in Cleotra’s eyes. Ysella craned her neck hopefully toward him, hoping that he would brush her a little as well.

Cleotra noticed the state of her fur first. “And the child, Petru,” she said. “I don’t want to be disgraced by her.”

“You won’t, Priestess!” Ysella exclaimed. But she was happy to be taken in hand by the valet. She luxuriated in the sensation as the brushes danced over her body, from nose-tip to tail-tip. She stretched under Petru’s ministrations, feeling the weariness depart from her. Cleotra favored her with a superior smile.

“If only you were that graceful in Dance, Ysella,” she said. “And Sherril, please, Petru.”

The valet paused for a moment to flick a pinch of blue dust over Ysella’s coat. It was the first time she had been allowed glitter. She preened happily, enjoying the pinpoints of light. Petru, with a look of impatience, scrubbed down the advisor with less tenderness than he had used on the Dancers, and sprinkled a bare fingerful of silver dust on his dark gray coat.

“You look so handsome, Sherril,” Ysella said admiringly.

Petru let out a small hacking noise. Cleotra ignored it and clambered gracefully up the ladder. Ysella followed her, going over in her mind all the movements of the Dance. They kept her from thinking too deeply about the Liskash awaiting them.

There’s nothing to fear,
a thought slipped into her mind.
Trust the noble Lord Tae. He has given you safety here. Calm. Let yourself be at peace
.

It was good advice. Ysella gave in to the soothing thought, and mounted the first rung.

She had said she was willing to give her life for the clan; she just hoped she wouldn’t really have to do it.

* * *

Emoro took point beside the dino guide, a low-browed, heavyset creature almost his own height with slate blue skin and a flat mandible. He didn’t need to look back to know the rest of his warriors spread out in formation. He was too old a hand not to know that the peril from the Liskash came from the minds of the nobles, not from their snail’s-pace battle tactics. Two skinny, red-scaled lizards held guttering torches aloft.

“Let’s go,” the guide urged them. His beady black eyes wore no expression. Emoro gave him a blank look in return.

“Are we ready?” he asked the lady Cleotra, as Petru fussed over her. A small portion of her leg fur had become disarranged as they had come over the pylon’s confining wall. The valet hastened to smooth it out. Emoro watched his sure strokes with admiration and impatience.

“Not yet.” Petru straightened up and surveyed Emoro with a measuring eye. “You can’t go like that, Clawmaster. You’ll be a disgrace.” He moved in on him and began to brush his short, grizzled coat.

“No…!” Emoro roared.

“Yes,” Petru said, meaningfully. Emoro submitted, but with a snarl on his face and lowered ears to show that he disapproved. He wished Petru wouldn’t make a spectacle of him like that in public, but if he ordered him back into line, he’d pay for it later, in private. That payment was often delightful, though. He hoped all those days weren’t behind them. Scaro let out a hiss of scornful merriment. Emoro growled low at him.

“You wait your turn, Lieutenant,” he said. “We all have to look pretty for court.”

“Never!” Scaro said, his eyes twinkling. “I’d rather be rough and ready, Clawmaster.”

Petru snorted. “Ill-kempt is not a fashion statement.”

Emoro said nothing. Scaro and Petru didn’t make a secret of their disdain for one another. It had come to blows once in a while.

Petru didn’t make too much of a show of his ministrations, nor did he reach for the sparkling dust with which he loved to adorn himself. Emoro thanked Aedonniss for small mercies, and nodded to the dino to lead the way. The torchbearers moved out ahead.

“Make way!” they cried in hollow, piping voices. Lizards couldn’t possibly have any balls, not with kitten cries like that.

Lanterns or stinking, guttering torches hung on every corner and at the doorway to every domicile, however humble. The Liskash couldn’t see in the dark like Mrem, so if they wished to go abroad at night they had to herald the way with artificial lights. Emoro did his best to avoid looking directly at any of them, lest the miniature suns blind him to movement in the shadow.

He spotted plenty of that. The sorry-assed Mrem of this town—curse every dino back to the egg!—came and went about their tasks, all of them round-shouldered and droop-tailed. Not one of them looked as if it had had a decent meal in months. It would be his pleasure to take their host by his scrawny neck and wring the life out of him for the humiliation of his fellow Mrem. He was grateful for the protection of the Dancers. He’d faced Liskash without Dances performed behind his force. When a noble was nearby, he felt a strong urge to drop his weapons and surrender. Common sense had taken point, though, and he killed the enemy with all the more ferocity thereafter. He kept the image of the last Liskash he had speared in the forefront of his mind, to refer to in case he forgot how dangerous and treacherous the scaly worms were.

The closer they got to the keep, the more he could feel an oppressive sensation around his head. Lord Tae was trying to influence his mind. He ground his sharp molars together.

None shall pass!
he thought. He hoped the others could withstand it. Cleotra must have felt it, for she began to chant quietly to herself. After a startled squeak that told Emoro the girl had to be nudged for inattention, Ysella joined in.

“Aedonniss, how this place smells!” growled Neer, one of his seasoned warriors, two steps back and two to the left of him. “Reminds me of that hole in the wall up near the south border we cleaned out, Clawmaster, remember…?” His voice died away. That border was gone, along with all the towns to the north of it. No doubt the Liskash had lost plenty of their kind when the water began to flood the Hot Lands, but Emoro didn’t care about that. Everyone he knew was missing friends or relatives who had been caught by surprise.

“Aedonniss decided He needed another body of water close to us, Neer,” Emoro said stoically. “We don’t question the gods. We just take orders. Right?”

“Right, sir,” Neer said thoughtfully.

The warriors felt naked without their arms. At that moment, Emoro was certain his best war-claws were mounted on the wall of the gatehouse-keeper’s hovel. He understood how little choice they had in approaching this lizard-lord as supplicants. His warriors could defend such a small group with no trouble. They were well-schooled in hand-to-hand fighting. Aedonniss grant they wouldn’t have to use any in the next few days. All he had to do was get a fat counselor and a couple of spoiled Dancers back and forth to their camp. That was all. Hah! All!

With all the fanfare, their small procession gathered quite a crowd of onlookers in the short walk between the walls of the lower tower and the main keep. This building, unlike the two smaller ones flanking it, was surrounded by guards. Emoro studied their placements. Not bad, but too much space between sentries in the dark. On the other hand, an enemy would have to fly—and get past the leatherwings circling overhead—to pose much threat to Lord Tae, and this was the cork in the bottleneck blocking the Mrem from passing safely to the west. They were only the first of the tribes that would come this way. Others were no more than weeks behind them. This mission must succeed, so Emoro could not indulge his deep-seated wish.

As the smaller keeps were built, so was the larger one. There was no gate. At a ladder, carved and pegged from an exotic wood and polished smooth with wax, the Liskash urged them forward with spears lowered. Emoro counted guards on duty, how far away they were, and how well armed. He might need this knowledge later; he might not.

He sent Scaro up the ladder first with four warriors. They swarmed up and stood waiting on the first stage. Scaro sent him a hand-signal to say that the walkway was wider than on the smaller building. He nodded.

“Up you go, Priestess,” he said, holding out a hand to Cleotra. She scorned him, like the fancy bitch she was, and clambered up without help. Petru passed within a hair’s-breadth of him, grinning under his whiskers. He put his hand into Emoro’s and stepped up onto the rung after his mistress.

Emoro brought up the rear of the party, behind the last warrior. It was a long way up to the smooth metal lip hammered onto the stone around the top, and a long way down. He took a good look at the courtyard before he made the descent.

The building was deceptive in its size. From the outside, it looked much smaller than it was within. The pylon-walls contained a courtyard that could hold a thousand people. The black and white checked floors were made of fitted and polished squares of stone that felt pleasantly cool under the foot, but were no doubt slippery as river eels when wet. The evening dew was falling. Emoro watched his steps cautiously so as not to slide.

“This is horrible,” Petru said, just audible to his fellow Mrem. “I think, yes, that I may be sick. Could this have been worse designed?”

Emoro had to concur. The colors of the Lord Tae’s home clashed on the eyeballs, even by torchlight. Against the walls, which were painted, as far as Emoro could tell, in bright blues and greens from copper minerals, hung vast tapestries of red, orange, purple and brown. They had orange-and-purple checked borders that matched cushions on the couches that had been arranged before these hideous works of art, if a blind Mrem was led up to feel them and told that’s what they were, obviously so people could study them at their leisure. Emoro would rather have gone on maneuvers over shards of volcanic glass with a double-weight backpack.

Two lines of heavyset guards in metal-studded leather armor stood in the very center of the courtyard. Emoro did a quick count and got four eights in each. Three officers commanded each line. They wore bronze plates sewn to their leather tunics and had crested helmets with low snout-pieces. The chief commander, discernable because he had a white Mrem tail depending from his helmet, curse him to the depths of the sea, marched out before the Mrem got within ten paces of the line and shouted.

“Halt there!” he ordered.

Sherril undulated out of the group, elbowing Emoro aside. He made an elaborate obeisance. “Greetings, Commander. We are to meet with the Lord Tae.”

The commander pointed a leather-gloved finger at a pair of doors with a pointed arch behind him.

“There is where you will have your audience. Stay back behind our lines and do not attempt to cross them. Anyone to approach the throne too closely will die! This is the order of His Godliness, Lord Tae Shanissi. State your names.”

Sherril bowed low. “Then we heed the order. We are the representatives of the Mrem of the Lailah tribe. I was here only four days ago. I am Sherril Rangawo. I present the Dancer Cleotra Mreem and her apprentice Ysella Ehe.” That self-aggrandizing heap of fur was going to ignore them! Emoro growled low in his throat. Sherril glanced over his shoulder with a haughty sneer, but he turned back to Tae. “And the senior warriors who have escorted us to your presence, Clawmaster Emoro Awr and Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh.”