Harry Turtledove - Clan of the Claw

“You give me too much credit, Dancer,” the Liskash said.

“Not credit, blame. But you will not be able to respond to his accusations. Because you will be dead.”

Lord Tae’s brow ridge went up. He felt for his servants, and discovered to his horror that the vast room was nearly empty. His Mrem slaves wavered, undecided which force ruled their minds. His control had been weakened by the presence of the Dancer. No matter; he still had Liskash soldiers.

Those still standing hobbled or staggered to range themselves between him and Cleotra. There were only seven. It would be enough. It must be enough.

“You are alone, Dancer,” Lord Tae said. “You have nothing left.”

“I have everything,” Cleotra said, her eyes glittering like emeralds.

He opened his mind to her, commanding her to spin. Her body swayed in a hypnotic pattern, her arms and legs moving in rhythm. She spun, a look of annoyance on her face. He smiled.

“Then dance for me,” Lord Tae said, sitting back on his throne. “Power raising is so primitive. I will have no trouble conquering the rest of your people. I know how vulnerable you are. In the meantime, you will be my puppet and entertain me with your art.”

Cleotra stopped. He attempted to make her begin again. She did not. Instead, she undulated toward him, cracking her knuckles and stretching her limbs as she came. Lord Tae watched her in growing horror.

“You should have watched me, Lord Tae Shanissi,” she said. “What most outsiders don’t know is that this art form, as you scornfully call it, is also a fighting form.”

Cleotra enjoyed the look on the Liskash noble’s gray face as she gathered herself and sprang, her claws reaching for his eyes.

The Dancer lounged in the cushions on the stone throne as Sherril kicked Lord Tae’s head around the courtyard. The funny thing was that its expression had not changed from the horror it wore when he died. Sherril glanced up at Cleotra in annoyance. He should have been the one on the throne, but he could persuade no one else to this point of view. Still, his efforts had been acclaimed heroic, and his name would also go down in the sagas, along with that of his illustrious ancestor. He was reasonably satisfied.

Petru, his fur brushed to feathery perfection, was dining daintily but heartily on a whole roast arosh brought to him by the grateful Mrem, the former servants of the noble.

“As soon as possible, we are going to redecorate this entire keep,” Petru said. “Those tapestries are going on the fire tonight. I cannot stand them another moment.”

Emoro lay on a heap of pillows nearby. Petru fussed over him and fed him soft tidbits, the best of the meat. It was difficult for Emoro to chew. His impact with the pillar had knocked out his lower right canine. The rest of the warriors were being cared for, their wounds cleaned and bound.

“…Well, I know a way you can show your gratitude,” Scaro was saying to a female Mrem with dusty orange fur. He fingered the corner of her jaw. To Sherril’s amusement, the female looked interested in the offer. Ysella no longer looked jealous of his attentions to other Mrem. She sat on the bottom steps of the throne with Gilas, making adolescent small talk.

Word had spread swiftly among the Mrem of the city of Tae’s death. They had been arriving in groups, casting themselves at Cleotra’s feet, to beg to be taken in by the Lailah. Cleotra had accepted their homage as her due. To be fair, she had killed the Liskash noble. That did count for something, Sherril thought grudgingly.

“We will wait here for the rest of the Clan of the Claw,” Sherril said, booting the Liskash’s skull between two pillars and according himself a goal. “I will dispatch messengers to Bau Dibsea and Cassa Fisook. They should send runners. The rest of the Clan should arrive within weeks. We can assemble here, gather the supplies that we need, and move on to the west as soon as we can.”

“Why?” asked Cleotra, gesturing with a graceful hand. “This is a pleasant place. We need food. What we really need is a chance to catch up with ourselves. It is spring. The growing season is upon us. This godhold now belongs to us. Why do we not stay here a season, raise food and fatten our animals? Scattered Mrem will hear of us and join. There will be time enough to set out.”

Sherril, as usual, hated any idea that wasn’t his, but it was a sound one. It all depended upon how he worded the message-without any mention that it came from the Dancer. It would please him to pick out a chamber in the horrible little noble’s keep all for his own. It would remind him of better days, and better yet to come.

“It shall be so, Your Sinuousness,” he said.