Harry Turtledove - Clan of the Claw

“We are not alone,” she reassured Emoro. “Aedonniss is strong with us.”

“The gods be blessed,” the grizzled clawmaster said. “But we may need earthly strength to supplement His gifts.”

They climbed down to the ground level. Night had fallen by then. Torches lit the square with feeble, twisting spires of yellow light. Cleotra was hungry and footsore. The sound of the water tinkling in the fountain made her want to go and dunk her head. She longed to wash the dust off her face and out of her ears, but that would not be dignified. Instead, she played with the leaves and ropes of vines hanging from enormous metal openwork baskets on poles around the fountain. The desert through which they had been trudging for weeks had no such lush greenery. The scent soothed and pleased her.

The captain conferred with a small, skinny male in a long checked tunic and rope sandals. The male counted them.

“There were twenty-six,” he said, his throat pouch swelling impatiently. “Where are the other five?”

“Outside,” the captain said. “They are standing guard.”

“I have nothing in my instructions regarding that,” the functionary said. His black eyes were no more expressive than pieces of slate, but his voice sounded as fussy as any court official she had ever met. “They are all supposed to be here.”

“ You go tell them to come inside,” the captain said flatly.

The steward shrugged. Impatiently, he waved a hand, directing the Mrem toward the most remote corner of the courtyard.

He pointed at a trio of dark, low doorways, then gestured at Cleotra, Petru and some of the guards.

“The first third of you, in that chamber. The next third, and the next third. Go on!”

Cleotra peered into the first room. It reeked of something dead and plenty decaying. One narrow rope bed stood in the corner of the unlit stone chamber. The press where she kept her dancing veils was larger. The bedding, if she would dignify it by default, had black and gray streaks on it, she dared not guess from what. Debris, including piles of dried leaves that had drifted or were kicked inside from the plants hanging over the fountain, filled the floor. Furiously, she turned to the official.

“I will not sleep in that rathole. And I do not sleep in a bunkhouse. I will have my own chamber. Now!”

“This is where you are assigned!”

“Nonsense!” Petru bustled up to the steward. He was half again as tall and twice as broad as the skinny Liskash. “We need eight rooms, not three. We will have the entire row.”

“Those are occupied!” the steward said, though he looked frightened.

“Unoccupy them! We are guests. Unless you would like our soldiers to empty them for you?”

“I do not listen to slaves!”

Petru poked the steward in the chest with a sharp, blue-enameled claw.

“We-are-not-slaves.”

The steward looked to the guard captain for help. The captain stood back, his arms crossed, his face impassive. He was not going to participate in any function that were not in his orders. With an aggrieved sniff, the steward began to knock on doors. Self-important-looking Liskash peered out. He murmured to them in an apologetic tone. The Liskash glanced at the Mrem in terror or annoyance and slammed the doors. Cleotra was mortified at the thought that she might have to occupy a chamber with common soldiers, but her worries were soon assuaged. The doors opened again, one after another, and the Liskash within bustled out, their possessions clutched in their arms.

As soon as the rooms were clear, Petru took charge, setting aside the least objectionable chamber for the Dancers, one for Sherril, one for Emoro, four for the guards, and the last for himself. Cleotra sniffed the air. The chambers reeked of mildew and dead rodents, possibly the remains of the previous occupants’ lunch. It would have to be cleaned before she set foot in it, but it might do. She had not slept under a solid roof for some time.

“The Lord Tae will send for you when he wishes to see you,” the functionary said, peering down its long, skinny nose at them. “Be quick when he calls, or you will suffer the god’s wrath.”

“We do not wish to cause trouble,” Petru assured him.

The steward blinked his black eyes at them. “You already have, but Lord Tae will deal with that.”

Cleotra steeled herself. She would undoubtedly have to dance for her life. To do that, she needed rest, but there were some lines she absolutely would not cross. She turned to Petru. “I will not sleep in there, not like it is.”

“I will see to it, Your Sinuousness,” he reassured her. “Stay here by the fountain.” He stroked her shoulder and stalked over to the nearest claw of warriors.

“We are at a disadvantage here,” Emoro told Sherril. “I don’t have enough warriors to patrol all four walls. We are trapped in this place. Liskash could swarm over those walls and we’d be easy targets. I would feel we could control the situation better in a low building, say an inn?”

Sherril gave him a peevish glance. “We are being honored with rooms near the main keep itself,” he said. “I had to stay near the main gate when I was here last. Lord Tae is showing us favor. We need his approval. It is better to do what he wants.”

“What if what he wants is to see how quickly we can die?” Emoro asked.

“You are not the diplomat here,” Sherril said, his neck ridge rising along with his temper. “You are the escort only. Be silent except where you have advice to offer.”

Emoro’s eyes glinted. “This is my task,” he said. “Bau sent me to make certain that we would be safe. This is not safe.”

“It will have to be for now!” Sherril said. He loomed down at the shorter clawmaster. “Make it work!”

Cleotra sprang up and bore down on both males, letting her voice rise to a war-cry.

“No more arguing! Unless you both want me to treat you like the kits you sound like!”

She got up and stalked around the fountain, letting the vines conceal her. She did not want to see her traveling companions for a time, even though she could still hear them.

“At least the priestess didn’t kick your backside, the way she did on the road,” Emoro observed.

“I didn’t start it this time,” Sherril said. “Stick to your tasks, and I will stick to mine.”

Petulant children.

Ysella trembled in a corner as Petru bullied the Mrem warriors into cleaning the foul chamber with broom and shovel. It wasn’t just the stink, but there was something pressing against her mind from the inside. She fought against it, as Cassa and Cleotra had taught her, but it was difficult. She was sensitive to emotion, as all Dancers were, a prime reason that she had been accepted as an apprentice. It made her more receptive to the rhythm of the gods, but it was not that easy to live with.

When she was nervous, as she was now, she comforted herself by singing the lullaby sound her grandmother made when she was a small kit. It was a cross between a chirp and a trill. If only Scaro had come in with them! He was a male to be reckoned with. None of those horrible Liskash could withstand his might. She daydreamed about falling into his strong arms and being carried away to a romantic bower where they would declare their everlasting love for one another. She knew it was a silly fantasy, since she was a Dancer and he was only a soldier, but perhaps she could find a way to overlook her superior rank. He would be such a splendid mate! The rolling muscles of his back, the way he waved his tail, the spring of his long feet all melted her into a puddle whenever she saw him.

The elders ignored her as they held a conference outside by the fountain. She could hear them and see them well enough.