Harry Turtledove: Clan of the Claw

“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.