Clan of the Claw

Cata
JODY LYNN NYE
JOHN RINGO

They Danced and the minions of evil perished. But the minions were many and they were too few. Finally the Dancer stood assailed in her body and mind. “Guide my claws,” Cassa Fisook prayed. And Assirra heard her and entered her. And so filled with the power of Assirra, Cassa Danced as never before, with such grace and purpose that no demon could stand before her. And thus through her the goddess gave all moved to worship her the Dance of Death. – The Book of Bau, verse ninety-seven

Catas are stories of beauty and pain. -Ancient Mrem saying

S herril Rangawo tiptoed softly into the pavilion under cover of the music, careful not to disturb the Dancers’ ritual. As counselor to Their most august Sinuousnesses, he had the privilege to view but not interrupt. He wished they had been resting; how satisfying it would have been to be able to make a grand entrance and fall at their feet exhausted! He had thought about it all the way back from Ckotliss, the stronghold of Tae Shanissi. The very relief he felt at being alive at all, let alone in one piece made him want admiration and sympathy. He promised himself now to be stoic and modest, all the more to make those waiting admire him more. Since he wore no weapons, he made no sound as he slid into a fold of the heavy hide tent. His charcoal-gray fur allowed him to blend with the shadows to await the end of the ritual. The chamber, the center of the Lailah clan’s mobile city since they had left their flooded valley many leagues to the east, was formed of rectangular tents open to a central square that let in the sky. Under the hot sun of noon, the Dancers danced. He breathed the sharp, leather-scented air, and watched.

The slender, black-furred females wove a hypnotic pattern, sliding in and out among one another, as if they were attempting to weave a complicated knot out of pure energy. He could feel it, though he was far more sensitive to nuance than sensation. Sherril marveled at the ancient story unfolding before him. No matter how many times he had seen the Tale of Creation, it never palled. That young Dancer at the back, though-she needed more work on her portrayal of the Burgeoning Garden. Too clumsy. He would not dare say he could do it better himself, but he wagered his attempt would show more grace than hers. The rest, though, exhibited litheness and power that made him lust after all of them. The beat of the white skin drum, the wild fluting of the twin-pipes, and the pinging of the lyre only made his blood pump harder.

The priestesses leaped over and rolled beneath one another, drawing power in three dimensions. They wore bracelets and anklets of jeweled silver or gold, as well as charms around their tails and in between their toes. The metal glittered in the sun. Their fur seemed to glitter, too, dusted as it was with powder crushed from precious stones. Sherril smelled the fragrance of their fur warmed by their efforts and the heat of the day. A senior Dancer, Cleotra Mreem, caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of a brilliant grass-green eye. She did not waver for a moment, but shot a meaningful look to Cassa Fisook, the head priestess. Cassa Fisook looked toward Sherril. The dance changed, slowing down. The hot energy began to melt away. Cassa Fisook whirled and leaped as lightly as a leaf until she was in the heart of the circle. Her Dancers came to a halt, facing her. Their voices sounded low in their throats, a gentle burr. She made gathering gestures with her arms, collecting the last of the power. Her long hands tucked it into a ball that she offered to the sky.

The chief of the Dancers bore a few gray hairs around her chin and nose, but was otherwise the upright, slim female who had protected, and mothered, the Lailah tribe of the Clan of the Claw for over thirty years. Her training and condition were so thorough that she was not even breathing fast. Sherril was exhausted from having run all the way from the center of the city. Her chief servant Petru Keoh oiled into view. The huge, nearly all-black male was adorned even more ornately than his mistress. His many bracelets clashed together on his heavily-furred arms and legs, and he had dusted himself copiously with golden glitter. Sherril hated to admit it, but he envied Petru Keoh his thick ruff that made the ladies swoon with pleasure, not that the big gelding ever noticed. He brushed Cassa Fisook’s fur smooth and sprinkled her with fresh sparkles, blue and green this time. Tiny, jeweled glints twinkled from the sable depths of her coat. He moved to adorn the rest of the Dancers, more sparingly, with the exception of that imperious senior female, whom he decorated copiously with precious red glitter. Petru Keoh was not above playing favorites, Sherril thought with a snort.

“I see you have returned,” Cassa Fisook said. “Alive and well?”

Anyone with less self-possession than Sherril Rangawo would have lowered his head at the reproof. The ritual had been performed to protect him and his escort on their journey. Dancing magic took a great deal of effort and energy. Not to have revealed himself immediately was an error. The priestesses could have stopped much earlier, but then he would not have seen them dance. To Sherril, it was worth the possible tussle on the ground with the Dancers or their bodyguards. He strutted forward.

“I am here,” he acknowledged. “My mission is accomplished, and I have brought us all back without hurt or loss.”

“What news, then?” a deeper voice inquired.

Anyone with less self-possession than Sherril Rangawo would have jumped through the open roof. The Dancers parted. He saw Bau Dibsea lounging on a pile of cushions at the edge of the Dancing ground. The talonmaster glared at him. It was one thing to preen before the females. It was quite another to show off before a well-tried warrior with many kills to his name and a reputation for nipping holes in the ears of obnoxious subordinates. Inwardly, Sherril Rangawo cowered, but he covered his discomfiture as well as he could. He bowed.

“Leader, I bring news.”

“I assumed as much. Let us hear it.”

Dancer Cassa Fisook settled on her purple-dyed cushion beside Bau Dibsea. Sherril knew Bau was being honored to witness the Dance because of what might come later, but Sherril Rangawo knew differently. He was pleased to have information that the talonmaster did not. Cassa Fisook gestured to him.

“Sherril Rangawo, come forward and tell us what we must know.”

Sherril gestured at his person, flicking a morsel of dust from his breast.

“Your Sinuousness, forgive the state of my fur. I haven’t had time to wash since I returned.”

“No matter,” the Dancer said. “It is more important that we hear what you have to say.”

Cassa Fisook twitched a finger, and Petru stepped forward. The valet held a painted wooden tray on which balanced a beaten-silver pitcher and a silver cup. Not the first-quality cup, as should have befitted Sherril Rangawo’s station. He let out a hiss under his breath as Petru poured out wine for him. Petru retorted with an almost inaudible snort. He knew that Sherril could say nothing. He was going to get away with his insult. One day, Sherril Rangawo vowed, he would make the valet pay. But the Dancer swiveled her ears toward him. Sherril offered a drop to the God, Aedonniss, and his gentle bride, Assirra, then drank deeply. If he had been alone he would have drained the cup in a gulp. Sherril Rangawo didn’t realize how dry his tongue was.

“What says the lizard?” Bau Dibsea demanded.

Sherril looked longingly at the cushions, but Bau Dibsea did not invite him to sit down. Cassa Fisook was kinder. She waved to Petru, who arranged a seat just under the lip of the tent where the heat would beat down on Sherril’s back but his face and toes would be cold. That’s two, he thought. But he curled up on the down-stuffed pouch and tucked his feet beneath him.

“Greetings to you, Dancer Cassa Fisook, and Talonmaster Bau Dibsea, from Tae Shanissi, lord and self-proclaimed deity of the sovereign city-state of Ckotliss, master of ten thousand and a domain of great span and fertility.”

“Gack!” Bau Dibsea spat. “Even their names are sickening to say.”

“Did he hear you out?” Cassa Fisook asked, ignoring the male’s interruption.

“All my words and movements were heard, lady,” Sherril said. He sipped more wine to wet his tongue. The heady fragrance helped dispel the foul dust of the road and the cloying smell of the Liskash city. “He and his lords listened to me in the great hall of that stone keep that we observed from the ridge. He gave me sweet water to drink and flat cakes of some foul grain or bean that I ate only out of courtesy. I explained exactly as I was instructed to that we are peaceful travelers in Lord Tae’s land. The mountains and the sea preclude our passing to either side of this valley, so we must go through. That we want to do as swiftly as possible. I also requested to trade for supplies to see us on our way.”

“And…?” Bau Dibsea asked, impatiently.

Sherril hated to be rushed. The Liskash were more appreciative of his full explanations and the spooling out of the Lailah’s journey from their homeland. He wrinkled his nose slightly, sweeping his whiskers back.

“He is agreed, Talonmaster.”

Bau sprang to his feet. “Excellent! Then we will break camp at once. Will he provide us with guides or maps?”

Sherril patted the air with his palms. “Not so swiftly, my leader. There is a price.”

“A price?” piped up Ysella Ehe, the young Dancer who had stumbled. “What price? They enslave our kind. I hear they even eat them.”

“Ysella!” exclaimed Cleotra, the Dancer with lush, sleek fur dusted with red. “It is not your time to speak.” But it was not a formal council, and the young one had asked a question the rest of them wanted answered.

“We are not to their taste, except as slaves,” Cassa Fisook said. “But it is true, Lord Tae might demand such a price.”

“In truth, I saw many Mrem in the city,” Sherril admitted. The sight of scrawny, ill-kempt Mrem yoked to a wagon as if they were beasts of burden or carrying heavy loads behind their Liskash masters was a deep insult. Their faces wore despair that he could not and did not want to imagine. The Mrem in the noble household looked as miserable, though not as ill-fed or groomed.

“None of us will submit,” Ysella insisted.

Cassa Fisook gave her a look of kindly patience. “No gift is ever really free, my daughter. There is always a price, even if that is simple gratitude. What do they want?”

“It is not as onerous as slavery, Your Sinuousness,” Sherril said. “Lord Tae said that he is a student of our race. He wishes to know more about us. He admitted that once a Mrem’s mind is in his thrall it ceases to think as one of us. Lord Tae said he was perhaps too quick to subsume something interesting. He would know more of our culture and customs.”

The Dancers murmured among themselves.

“So he can conquer ones like us more easily?” Bau growled. “Knowledge is power!”

“How does he want to learn about us?” Cassa Fisook asked.

Sherril opened a hand. “Before we pass through his land, Lord Tae proposes to have representatives of our tribe visit him in his citadel. They will be welcomed as guests, free to come and go as they please-with certain restrictions, naturally. He would hear our songs and poetry, see our art, and learn the history of our people. He specifically said he wished to meet the Dancers.”

“To deprive us of their magic,” Bau said at once. “Once in, the visitors are certain to become prisoners. I am wary of his intentions. My warriors will feel the same.”

“It is quite understandable that he wants to know us,” Cassa Fisook said, blinking her wise green eyes. “It is also undeniable that it might be a trap.”

“Whoever goes in will have no assurance of getting out,” Sherril said. He felt his own sacrifice was going unnoticed. After all he had been through! “As I had.”

Bau snorted. His golden eyes gleamed. “We are well aware that you have just gone into the serpent’s mouth and emerged unscathed,” he said. “You want gratitude; you have it. Well done. Now, we must plan to achieve the same with a greater number.”

Cassa Fisook saw the disappointed expression on Sherril’s face and regarded him with sympathy.

“Your deed will not be forgotten, my friend. It shall be added to the annals of our tribe. Rest now.”

Sherril feigned a convincing collapse into exhaustion though he held up a hand to protest. “That won’t be necessary, Your Sinuousness. I am prepared to lead our visitors back to Lord Tae’s stronghold, immediately if necessary.”

Bau was fooled neither by the sudden show of weakness nor Sherril’s self-sacrificing offer.

“The elders and warriors need to hear slimy Lord Tae’s proposal,” Bau said. He flicked a hand toward a white-and-black mottled servant. “Go tell them to gather in the hollow up on the ridge. I will address them there. We will decide which of us will go into the trap.” The servant bounded away, running.

“I will give them a full report, of course,” Sherril said, complacently. “They will want to know how many doors lie where, how high the walls are and how many guards stand upon them.”

Bau had to hand it to the old scamp. He would gladly have done without him-would rather have done without him-but he realized now that he could not. For the same reason that they had sent Sherril there as their emissary, he would be of great use on the return journey. Sherril had well-developed survival instincts. He seemed to sleep with one eye open, and no one had yet caught him off guard for any of the beatings that he had earned and undoubtedly deserved. Sherril was capable of preceding you through a doorway but ending up behind you as if he had the dinos’ own evil magic. His powers of observation were legendary throughout the camp as he had been in their own land, many leagues behind them to the east. If he had been able to wield a spear or hold up that bulk of his longer than three breaths in a fight, he could easily have maneuvered himself into the position of talonmaster. But no one would ever trust him. Bau knew better than that. But he always managed to find himself a vantage point. He was a Mrem. Better to give him his chance than to have him working against the group because he was thwarted.

“Very well, then. Come and make your case.”

The high hollow amid the thin-branched trees made a natural amphitheater. The remaining warriors, only three hundred sixty in number, settled themselves on the cool earth. With a hiss and a meaningful look, Cleotra made the younger females settle down and stop whispering. Only twenty-three Dancers and apprentices, out of fifty that had lived in the old land before the floods came, had made it this far. She fervently hoped they would lose no more. Her friend and fellow Dancer Nolda Ilu lay in a cool spot on the grass, attended to by a couple of the apprentices. She was due to kitten any day. Her last pregnancy, even in the safety of their old home, had almost finished her. Cleotra feared that having to give birth on the road would be too much for her. The baby in her belly kicked once in a while, showing the outline of a tiny foot, as if impatient to be free. Cleotra begged the tiny one to wait, at least until they knew they had safe passage through Ckotliss.

Many of the females of the clan were near to their time. By all rights they should be making up nests for themselves in a comfortable corner of their homes, laying in special treats and nourishing foods to see them through their confinements. Mrem females liked to give birth in private. The custom, admittedly, was a throwback to their uncivilized days, when males hoping to force females back into estrus would kill kittens who did not bear their scent, but Cleotra simply didn’t care for an audience when she was on her side, straining to produce her baby. No one would dare to watch her in that undignified time! She cherished her son and daughter, but was glad that no siblings for them were in the offing.

Everyone had had to fight their natural urges to beget more young, at least until they were safely on their way to rejoin the clan on the north side of the new water. It wasn’t easy when so many of the males were attractive and virile, and the tantalizing spice of spring was in the air. It would be the most natural thing in the world to choose this year’s mate from among the ebony-coated warriors and tear the night apart with longing cries and wails of satisfaction. Look at that foolish child, Ysella, making eyes at the lieutenant of the guard. She had not even had her first estrus yet! Luckily, Scaro Ullenh’s gaze was wandering among the mature Dancers, as if he had a hope of mating with one of them! It wasn’t for want of trying; that was sure. There wasn’t a female of bearing age he had not propositioned, many times, over the course of the last months, including herself. Handsome he was, to be certain, with a deep chest, a narrow waist, and strong, springy thighs, but what an ego!

Nature was against them. Cleotra believed-she must believe-that Aedonniss had not turned his face away from his children.

On one side of the ridge lay the verdant valley ruled over by the odious Liskash. On the other was the desert through which the Mrem had lately come. Personally, she liked the heat, though it was making her luxurious fur come out in handfuls. She refused to think the shedding was the result of a lack of decent food. Rations had become distressingly thin. They usually were at this time of year, just before the first planting of spring, but she and her fellow Dancers had sworn to make do on what scanty supplies were left, along with the results of hunting. The local wildlife, mostly lizards and other mindless Liskash-kin, fled on their approach. Cleotra was sick of chameleon stew, fried iguana and roasted flitter-when the hunters were lucky enough to get sufficient food for all the tribe.

She missed meat, red meat. Once when she woke from a dream of eating a thick, juicy haunch of venison, she almost cried. When she got over the disappointment, common sense had returned. Oh, she could have pulled rank and demanded a piece from a herd beast that died on the road. Those carcasses were a rare treat, and there were plenty who needed it more than she did. What easily-digested and most nutritious food they had must be saved for the very young, the sick, the elderly, and the warriors. None of the herd beasts could be spared. They were being used to haul wagons at the moment, but they would form the kernel of new herds when they reached the safe haven where the rest of the Clan awaited them. Out in the desert, there were few palatable sources of meat, almost all Liskash-kin. The sea, which had flanked them on their right all the way from their drowned home, was too perilous for all but line fishing, an unreliable and slow process. The rest of the Mrem could, and did make do on what was left, dried meats, pulses, insect-ridden grains and the disgusting small prey they could snare or shellfish they could dig out of the sand. Sometimes Cleotra hated being so responsible.

She could almost have borne a further trek through the desert better than what lay before them. From the hollow on the ridge she could not only see the valley of the Liskash, but she could smell it. The black earth, fresh and smelling of rain, had been freshly turned for planting, and lay in neat squares awaiting seed. The sour-sweet odor of composted manure did not sicken her, except possibly to make her homesick. Her mother’s household should have been planting now. All those farmers, swept out to sea! She lifted her hands to the sky and swayed them in a pattern of prayer to Assirra. May their souls be at rest. For a while when the Lailah had started traveling to the west, Cleotra had felt their presence, but only as far as the borders of their land. The dead had stayed behind. Cleotra missed the comforting sensation. In its place, she felt the imposition of the Liskash’s magic. And the stench.

Who would have thought that magic had an odor and a sound of its own? Since childhood, when she had joined the corps of Dancers, the magic of the Mrem’s prayers had been a part of her life, her coming and going, her lying down and rising up, the food she ate, the air she breathed and the people she loved. Though she had Danced many a ritual for protection from them, she hadn’t had to interact with Liskash nobles, until one month into their journey the Lailah had to fight against one who had suddenly noticed that the tribe was cut off from its kin and vulnerable for the first time. He had tried to take over their minds. Only Cassa’s swift realization that something was wrong had saved them. She had whipped the Dancers out of bed and made them dance for their lives. Their talonmaster at the time, Mowar Echirr, had driven back the Liskash’s forces. Cleotra had never forgotten the unbelievable smell of decay that had permeated the camp, and the off-tone of everyone’s voices, birdsong and frogsong. When the Liskash noble fell, everything returned to normal.

She was aware of it now. Lord Tae felt at them with his mind. He was powerful and dangerous. How she hated being at his mercy!

So did her kin. They muttered and yowled among themselves, speculating as to the news. Bau strode into their midst, attracting more gossip. He had buckled on his war harness and donned his bronze clawed gauntlets. The bronze gorget that protected his throat was buried deep in his black and white fur ruff. Instead of the flint-toothed spear he might carry into battle, he held the staff of leadership, a wrist-thick pole carved down its length as a braid. The teeth of enemies studded the turns and folds of wood. From the top dangled strands of hide on which were strung faceted crystals that twinkled and danced. It was used by the designated speaker of the moment because no Mrem could keep his or her eyes off the swaying strings.

Bau snarled and bashed the staff on the ground. Gradually, everyone turned to look and fell silent. Bau fixed his lamplike golden eyes on each of them in turn. When they met Cleotra’s, she shivered. He spoke.

“We are now entrusted by Rantan Taggah to open the way for the rest of the Mrem and find a path to safety. We are now the tip of the talon for the Clan of the Claw. Two weeks ago, we passed what has survived of brother Rau’s Three Fangs. They were supposed to lead next, but you saw in what poor condition they were after their battles.

“The Clan and our herds are hungry and tired. It is up to us to find a way west. We have found it, we hope, but as our scouts report, there’s a hopeless bottleneck. A fortress greater then any we have seen before. Greater than that of the Liskash Rau defeated. The alternative is not an attractive one, and a sand desert in which many would die.”

Some of the gathered Mrem stirred nervously. The hot sands were a friend to the Liskash and doubly dangerous. The leader raised his voice to regain their full attention.

“Where once we were just a small clan concerned for ourselves, now us, Rau, and all who must join together are of the Claw.” Bau paused and held up one hand claws extended. “Now our talons must be swift and deadly.”

He paused, letting his words have effect. Then, in a more even tone, continued.

“You are aware that four days ago, we sent Sherril Rangawo to negotiate safe passage for us through the lands down there.” He gestured down the slope toward the wide valley, then turned to point at Sherril, who preened at the attention. “But there he sits! You can see that he has returned safely. The Lord Tae Shanissi has agreed that we can proceed unmolested…” Bau’s voice was drowned out by a chorus of pleased yowls. “Bury it, you fools! You know it isn’t that simple! This is still a Liskash we’re dealing with. Nothing is straightforward. The weakling dinos always have a reason. They always want an advantage. This is it: in exchange for allowing the tribe to pass through the land, he demands a cultural exchange.”

“They can’t understand culture,” Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh said, with a scornful flip of his tail.

Bau nodded agreement. “Not ours; not yet. That is what he claims he wants. We are interesting to him.” He held up a hand to forestall the outbursts. “No, I don’t really believe him. I think it is just a means of gaining power over Mrem, though I do not yet know how he plans to achieve that. We will not know until it’s all over and we’ve shaken the dust of his realm off our feet. But we can’t stay here on the edge of his lands forever. There are too few of us to fight, though we’d take many times our number to Aedonniss with us. To go back and choose another route would cost us months more of travel. I do not lie to you; we have little food left for us or our beasts. We need to trade or buy, and no one else is near enough to sell us grain. We lose Mrem and herds on the road every month we must travel. Those who go to perform for Lord Tae will likely save many lives. I do not pretend that those who go will come back, alive or unaltered. The Liskash magic has robbed many Mrem of their names, minds and freedom. We could lose all those who go into the citadel. Therefore I ask for volunteers.”

Nearly all the warriors leaped to their feet, yowling their willingness. Bau couldn’t help but feel pleased. They knew it was suicide, but that never stopped a true Mrem. He had to weed out the foolhardy, the inexperienced, those who were too young or too old, and especially those who did not rise until they saw their fellows spring up.

“I would die for the sake of the clan!” declared one warrior, shaking a fist above his head.

You’re not going, Bau thought to himself.

Then one he knew and trusted heaved himself to his feet, a stocky, grizzled male with scars on his arms and chest. Emoro Awr led a squad of picked warriors. Every one of them feared his wrath, yet strove for his approval. He prided himself on bringing all those under his command back, alive or dead. Bau nodded. Here was the first of a strong band.

“Emoro, will you lead a force to accompany our people into the city?” he asked.

“To Aedonniss’ gate, if need be,” Emoro said. “And back again.”

He wasn’t bragging, only stating what he believed to be true. Bau was pleased. He crossed to Emoro and put the staff into his hand. The strands of crystals danced and twinkled. All the Mrem’s eyes followed.

“Choose your fighters.”

Emoro looked around. It was a tribute to the old male that no one looked away, or sat down, to avoid being chosen. In fact, most of the young ones seemed eager. Bau watched with interest as Emoro made his decisions. He forewent most of his usual band, tapping instead fighters who were more than cadets but had seen only a few battles.

Bau frowned. “Will you choose none of your own warriors, brother?”

Emoro flicked his tail. “I don’t want to leave the clan with inadequate defenses.”

“You won’t,” Bau said, slightly amused. “We’ll make do.”

“All right, then.” Emoro pointed to Scaro, who had been one of the first to rise. “You’ll be my lieutenant, Drillmaster Ullenh.”

Scaro threw his chest out. “Of course, my Clawmaster! I am proud to serve.”

Emoro returned the staff to Bau, who immediately passed it to Cassa Fisook.

“The choice of a Dancer must fall to you.”

The elder female sighed. Her bright green eyes looked sad. “I would go myself. There is much more I would teach my students before I am confident that knowledge is safely stowed in their memories, but I am growing old. There may come a time when infirmity might cause me to hold you back. Better I give myself to this task. If I were not to come back, others could carry on. When the Clan of the Claw is reunited, that lore that I had not passed on to my Dancers can be restored to our collective memory.”

“There is another way,” Bau reminded her. In his heart he feared the loss of any of the priestesses. They protected the clan in ways that he and his warriors could not, and they were the guardians of their history and customs. Nearly three-quarters of the fighters could fall before it would mean the same as being deprived of one of the remaining Dancers. “We can go far to the south and skirt Tae’s land. It will add greatly to the length of our journey, though.”

“All the more reason for me to undertake it,” Cassa said. “Petru, you will come with me, won’t you?”

The valet cast himself upon the ground on his back before her, throwing up a cloud of scented glitter. “Anywhere and anywhen, my mistress.”

“No,” Cleotra said, alarmed. She rose. “I will go, Cassa Fisook. You can spare me. You have others who know as much as I.”

She said it, though she didn’t really mean her humble words. Cassa smiled at her kindly.

“No, my dear. I cannot ‘spare’ you, but I will be grateful if you will make this journey. You will be better than I.”

“Never that, Cassa!”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, my dear. I expect you to succeed me one day.” She turned to the talonmaster. “Bau, this is our Dancer.”

The talonmaster bowed deeply to Cleotra Mreem, flicking his tail in wide arcs. “Your Sinuousness.”

She accepted his obeisance.

“The rest of us will work for your safety while you are in enemy ground,” Cassa Fisook said. “But you should not go by yourself. You, too, should take,” she smiled, “a lieutenant.”

“Me!” Ysella Ehe sprang up at the military term. She glanced at Scaro and ducked her head immediately. The warriors all chuckled except Scaro. If her unrequited passion had gone unnoticed before, it was not now. He looked perturbed and slightly horrified.

Cleotra moaned to herself. That girl would be nothing but trouble, mooning after the randy warrior in the midst of danger.

“No, child,” she said. “Stay with the others. It will be safer.”

“I am not scared of lizards,” Ysella said scornfully. Why did no one take her seriously?

“And what is the source of your courage?” Bau asked, gently. He had a daughter her age.

“The Dancers can stand against all,” Ysella insisted. “When we Dance, the power of Aedonniss flows through us.”

“I think not,” Cleotra said. “Remain here, my dear. You are the next generation. Give yourself time to grow up.”

“Cleotra Mreem!” The girl’s golden eyes widened with dismay.

“Take her,” Cassa said, unexpectedly. “You may need her energy.”

Cleotra frowned. To concentrate upon their rituals, she needed to focus. If she was worried about one wayward youth, that distraction could break the vital link between her and the others. Ysella picked up on her concern.

“I will serve you,” Ysella promised. “I will be the best apprentice you could have. I will be obedient. No one will work harder than I.”

Cleotra did not want to, but she relented. “All right. I will hold you to your word.”

“I won’t fail you!”

“Mistress, I must go, too,” Petru said, rubbing his cheek against Cassa’s ankle.

“You, my friend?” Cassa asked, looking down on him fondly. Petru blinked at her.

“Of course. Who will care for the lady Cleotra and Ysella in that barbaric city? Who will see that their coats are brushed smooth and that every bracelet is polished to the sun’s own gleam? Who will see that they have food that is fit to eat? Aedonniss alone knows what filth they consume behind those walls!”

Sherril perked up. A valet in his train? He had felt like such a supplicant in Lord Tae’s court before, with all those lizards running to and fro to serve the noble’s every whim. To show that he was a Mrem of substance, worthy of having a servant of his own, would elevate his status. Besides, should they survive to return, there would surely be an opportunity to take a measure of revenge upon the obnoxious creature.

“I would be grateful if you would allow him to accompany me, Your Sinuousness,” Sherril said.

“Granted, then,” Cassa said. “Prepare, then. We will Dance you a farewell.”

Even Sherril could feel the power rush through him as they left the encampment early the next morning. The Dancers surrounded them, throwing their arms toward them as if casting garlands around their necks, then bowed, arched and twirled again and again. The twenty picked Mrem warriors marching in two files on either side of him looked proud and a little sheepish. They were prepared to die for the clan if they must. Sherril, for his part, had no such intention. If he could impress that skinny, furless creature in the citadel with their magic and wisdom, he would be a hero.

Emoro Awr, with Scaro at his side and Bau hanging over them like a stormcloud, had debriefed him thoroughly as to the architecture and garrisoning of the citadel. He had been made to describe every doorway and window he had seen, the thickness of the walls and the height of every ceiling. How many Liskash were there in the courtyard, and how many within the keep itself? How many captive Mrem? When did the sentries pass? What form of locks on the doors? How many wells and fountains? Had he spotted dungeons or cells of any kind? What about armories?

Sherril was proud that he had forgotten none of these details. Plus, he had offered information for which they had not asked. Lord Tae had a practice of overruling his captains on a whim. All of his people were afraid of him; Sherril could tell by their posture and the way each measured its words when it spoke to him. He had two tasters to sample his food. He kept pets. Six small flying lizards fluttered around his throne, eating tidbits and leaving messes on every surface. They bit visitors, soldiers, servants and whoever else was unlucky enough to get close to their sharp little beaks. Emoro and Scaro exchanged glances. If they needed a distraction, Lord Tae’s flutteries might prove useful.

“And their food didn’t kill you,” Emoro noted. “Good. Better to find out on you rather than someone who’s really valuable, like a Dancer.”

Sherril took that in the spirit that he hoped it was intended, for the greater good of the clan. The playful glint in Scaro’s eye left him uncertain.

He felt like an old hand, leading the others down the sloping track with the rising sun at their backs and morning dew clinging to their leg fur. Some of the scouts who had actually discovered the scarcely used road accompanied them part of the way, then turned back as the party reached the well-traveled, packed-gravel road that led to the city.

They were not traveling lightly. Four young bullocks whose loss the tribe could not really afford hauled two-wheeled carts behind them laden with bags and bundles. Sherril deplored the quantity of luggage, but he had been overruled at every protest. Weaponry and armor for the warriors, that he approved and understood. Anything that the Dancers required for their comfort and the performance of their art, he neither caviled nor begrudged. Food, wine and clean water, naturally, in case nothing came their way along the road. Gifts for the Lord Tae, to show their appreciation for his forbearance. But two carts brimmed with parcels containing the personal belongings of that cursed valet, Petru! It was an outrage. Pots of scent, boxes of glitter, bags and bags of jewelry and other adornments, none of which was necessary to their journey. Grooming tools the likes of which he had never seen, as well as many other things he had glimpsed but did not recognize. Sherril had complained of the additional responsibility of looking after the possessions of a mere servant. The Dancers championed the big nuisance, of course, but to his surprise, so did Emoro. Sherril was surprised. He never thought of a soldier like Emoro even noticing an ephemeral like Petru. Sherril took the information in to muse upon later. He had learned a lot since they had left their homeland, and had been able to use much of it to his benefit from time to time.

Numerous carts with big, heavy, flat wooden wheels creaked along, drawn by thin-pelted cattle or huge lizards with round feet like tree trunks. The drivers, lower-caste Liskash, small of stature, eyed the warriors suspiciously. Sherril scorned them. Liskash were physical cowards. They were even less inclined to physical interaction than he was. They covered their hairless skins in woven cloth that had been dyed in terrible colors and worn in combinations that hurt him to look at. He hated to give Petru any credit, but his garments and adornments pleased the eye at least.

The Mrem felt uneasy in the midst of so many of the enemy. Sherril believed in the power of the gods. Aedonniss and Assirra would help them withstand an attack. Though these merchants all had guards walking with them and a few carried vicious little green-skinned lizards on their carts to prevent pilferers, they were more interested in making it to Ckotliss’s marketplace by the start of business rather than tangling with party of heavily armed Mrem surrounding a stunning, proud, lithe, black-furred Dancer jingling with bracelets and anklets on her dainty limbs. The child, Ysella, trotted along behind, looking like an afterthought.

The smell overpowered Sherril’s delicate nose. He had had the forethought to bring with him a cloth soaked in crushed lily petals. He raised it to his face to mask the odor of the Liskash, their beasts and the endless piles of dung that the creatures deposited.

As Sherril thought it, a green-and-blue-skinned beast over five Mrem-lengths long with baskets of nuts draped across its spiny back lifted its heavy, conical tail and let a heap drop directly in front of them. The Mrem had to hop to avoid stepping in the steaming mass. The drover, sitting on a saddle just at the base of the huge creature’s neck, opened its flat mouth and emitted a staccato hiss. Other Liskash nearby joined in the merriment.

“I’m not sure, but that strikes me as a deliberate insult,” Scaro said, wrapping his long fingers around the shaft of his spear. The merchant stuck his ugly chinless face in the air. Scaro growled under his breath and sidled forward. Sherril put a hand in the center of the guard’s chest.

“The difference in our species means that what strikes one of us as funny will be lost to the other,” he said in a low voice, keeping a wary eye on the Liskash merchant. “That which is cruel or kind is open to a certain amount of interpretation. But, yes, that was an insult, and no, it would be a very bad idea to respond.”

“He should know better than to interfere with us,” Scaro growled.

“I don’t take threats from slaves!” the Liskash hissed.

“Who are you calling slaves?” Scaro demanded.

The Liskash looked superior. “Those mangy bags of fur who don’t know their place.”

“My place is at your throat, tearing it out of your body!”

“Scaro!” Emoro snarled. The lieutenant stood for a moment, staring at the Liskash. “Did you get your pads dirty?”

“No, sir!”

“Do you care if you get your pads dirty?”

“Well…no, sir!”

“Then let the lizards have their joke! We’ll laugh all the more heartily when we reach the other side of the cursed water. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Scaro said. He resumed his place in the file.

“Aedonniss bless me, but if a little dung offends you, then you’d better never eat meat again! Everything poops, boy. Even those ugly warts sitting up there.” Emoro gestured at the merchant, who was very pointedly not listening. “Picture that one squatting, if you want, with those ugly purple trousers down around his ankles trying to grunt out his last meal. Don’t look too dignified, does he?”

The males in the ranks chuckled. The merchant’s neck inflated as if he were a frog. The Mrem broke into open howls of amusement. He turned, his big round eyes bulging out of his ugly flat skull. He clenched his fist. The laughter died away. Sherril Rangawo felt something evil begin to stir around them. A noxious odor flavored the air, clawing at his throat and the inside of his nose. The miserable Liskash was putting a curse on them!

“It would go ill,” he said, aloud, to no one in particular, “if we reached Lord Tae and had to tell him that his invited guests were treated badly by one of his own subjects.”

At the mention of the noble’s name, the rider’s neck pouch deflated. The Liskash turned and hunched over the neck of his mount.

Sherril spat out the terrible taste in his mouth. All of the Mrem rolled their tongues to rid themselves of it. The Dancers in particular seemed most troubled by the sensation. Ysella gasped and extended her tongue as if trying to spit it out. Petru rushed forward to cluck solicitously over Cleotra and Ysella. He hurried back and stopped one of the bearers to rummage among the bundles in his cart. Petru drew from it a stoppered bottle and a bronze goblet chased with a pattern of flying birds. He poured liquor into the goblet and offered it to Cleotra. She took a sip, then nodded. Ysella took her draught and made a face, but got it down.

“Make sure all are treated equally,” Cleotra instructed him. Petru bowed. He brought the goblet to Emoro, then Scaro, then each of the males. Sherril waited impatiently for his turn.

At last the big servant undulated up to his side. Sherril pretended not to notice the delay. Petru offered the cup. Only a few drops remained in the bottom.

“I will need more than that to restore me,” he said.

The words reached the ears of the Dancer a few paces behind him.

“Give him what he needs, Petru,” Cleotra said.

Petru shot a reproachful look at her, though it was tinged with deep adoration. “Lady, I am. He recovered better than most on his own!”

Cleotra widened her eyes. Petru grudgingly tipped a tiny measure of potion into the goblet. Sherril drained it. The strong liquor raced through his veins like hot lightning. The smell of the lizards lessened immediately. He stood up straighter.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the goblet back to Petru. Even better than dealing with the effects of the malicious magic, he had made the valet do something he did not want to. Perhaps he could leverage it into further service. “Now, my fur has become slightly disarranged. If you would brush me, it would settle my nerves. And,” he added with a daring glance, “I would like some of the sparkling powder sprinkled over my shoulders. Perhaps the blue?”

“Now, let’s just address one misconception before we go one step farther,” Petru said, putting his big hands on his hips. “I am not your valet. I do not serve you. I serve the Dancer Cleotra. If I have any time left over from my care of her, that time belongs to this young one, Ysella. They are the most important people in this caravan. I will see to their well-being, their meals, and their grooming. You are the leader. Lead. I will not interfere with that.”

The warriors behind him laughed.

Sherril was disappointed, but he waved a hand diffidently, as if it did not matter at all what the valet did or what the warriors thought. “Very well. Back to your place. We must turn at this next crossroads.”

He knew that Petru glared, but he pointedly did not look back. Too much terrain lay ahead of them, and too many dangers, not so easily dealt with by veiled threats and herbal remedies.

“How ugly!” Cleotra said, staring up at the edifice at the heart of the city. After an entire day’s walk they came to stone-and-mortar walls the thickness of two Mrem-lengths. Upon those walls were carved lines in the language of the Liskash. She puzzled out the inscription, and discovered that it was a warning. Anyone passing inside the walls of Ckotliss was considered to have taken an oath of loyalty to Lord Tae Shanissi. Woe betide those who broke that oath: they would be punished with lashings and spikes. The rest of the carving went on to detail in what way those spikes would be administered. Cleotra shuddered. To either side had been carved likenesses of a noble, with huge crystals set in the eyes. Cleotra found their stony stare unnerving, and was glad when they went through the gate and could no longer see it.

She followed the escort under gates perforated with secret peepholes and arrow slits, and into a courtyard large enough to encompass three or four good-sized Mrem farms. Before they had emerged into the sunlight, they were surrounded by Liskash warriors who leveled pole arms at them and disarmed her escort. Once all spears, bows and knives had been confiscated, they steered the Mrem toward the center of the citadel.

Inside the confines lay dozens or hundreds of smaller buildings, it was difficult to say, since the whole place fluttered with small tents, lean-tos and laundry on lines. Bundor, hamsticorns, krelprep, and many other animals ran wild within the space, looked after by dead-eyed Mrem or Liskash children with little care for their charges. She had always felt an antipathy toward Liskash but fought against it. A Dancer must embrace life, whatever form it took. There was simply something about them that made the hair down her spine stand up in a fighting ridge.

The curtain walls were meant to protect Liskash and their goods and cattle in case of attack. Few of those coming and going that evening lived there. The exodus as they entered was heavy, many thousands of dinos finishing their day’s toil and going home. Lord Tae and his household enjoyed relative isolation in the keep.

Within the walls, the feeling of being imposed upon was stronger than ever. The sensation had built ever since they left the mountainside, until it impinged upon her mind like a headache. She took comfort in the rhythm of the Dance beating in her soul. It meant she was not separated from the other Dancers. They were with her now, as always. The Dance was a protection for which she was grateful. The sun had baked them on their journey, but the air was damp as if the valley was full of water, and now that the sun was setting she felt chilled. While it was a relief not to feel dried to leather, the sensation of being cold and damp added to their perception of vulnerability.

The squared, pyramidal center block loomed over her almost ten Mrem-heights. The walls had been built of stone and covered with painted plaster. The covering must have peeled away often in the humidity. Liskash on ladders with buckets slathered a new coat over the exposed blocks. Cleotra spotted several different levels colored many different shades of ochre. The lip of the tower itself gleamed in the setting sun as if made of gold. Polished metal would make it difficult to hook a grapple or claws to pull oneself up. It could be done, though. In her childhood, she had made much more difficult ascents, she thought mischievously.

One would think that since it was the most prominent building for a hundred leagues that there might be some attempt to make it beautiful. If it had been an animal, Cleotra would have said it was molting because of some parasite.

Flanking it were two smaller, similar towers made of wood, neither close enough to the main tower to leap to it. Lord Tae or his ancestors took no chances of ambush. They were also ugly, their purple-gray timbers clashing horribly with their taller member. If pressed for a compliment, she would have to say that the three towers were nicer looking than any of the clothes of Ckotliss’s inhabitants.

Petru echoed her very thought.

“Surely it would be better to go naked than to wear that tunic and those trousers,” he said, as a Liskash strutted by, resplendent in a turquoise-dyed tunic that went well with neither his nether garment nor his pale blue skin. Cleotra smiled to herself. She adored Petru, and he was devoted to her. They understood one another. One day he would be her personal valet.

Large, muscular Liskash warriors in plate-sewn hide armor and heavy helmets patrolled the walls. They vanished into square towers in which she could see archers crouching. Flying lizards swooped in and out of the guardhouses, no doubt carrying messages and intelligence for the garrison. With such powerful magic at his command, whom did Lord Tae fear?

Surely not them. The Lailah was such a small tribe. They had come to supplicate him. She did not like the thought of begging a dino for their lives, but her pride must bow down and serve the needs of the clan. Ysella’s ridge was up, too. She felt the overwhelming power of the noble. She hissed to herself, and her eyes flashed at the Liskash escorting them. They did not seem very impressed by her or by Cleotra.

Good, the Dancer thought. They see us as harmless. All the better .

“We are here as peaceful envoys,” Sherril kept reassuring the Liskash captain. The spears and bowmen made the Mrem nervous. “The warriors are an escort of honor for our Dancers. The Dancer Cleotra must be protected and kept from outside interference, you understand. And of course, I am a person of great importance among the Mrem. I would not come unaccompanied. I did not before, if you recall. The weapons are only to keep us safe from brigands and thieves on the road, not to attack our host or his loyal servants. You are loyal to Lord Tae, are you not?”

This last question made the bright blue spots on the captain’s cheeks pale to gray.

“You dare to question me?” he hissed.

That put the proof to what Sherril had maintained, that Lord Tae ruled by fear. Cleotra dreaded meeting him.

The minister put an innocent hand to his chest. “You must not think that he has sent me out among you as a spy,” he said. “I am but a humble visitor from a distant land. My question is an innocent one.”

Innocent or not, it set the rest of the lizards on edge. Sherril strutted ahead of them, even outside the ring of bronze-tipped weapons that ought to have contained him. Cleotra wanted to laugh out loud. She was almost sorry she had not had Petru adorn him when he had asked. Perhaps she would grant him that favor later. His daring was as great a protection as the Dancer’s rituals or Emoro’s warriors.

The guards marched them around to the west side of the great keep. At the wooden tower, they came to a halt. A ladder made of sticks tied together with ill-cured hide thongs rested against the wall.

“Go on, then,” the captain said. “Up and over.”

Cleotra looked up. Three Mrem-heights above her was the first occupied level. To either side of the ladder were doorways set into the wall. Many lengths to the left along a very narrow walkway, nearly at the corner of the building, was another ladder leading to the second stage. Above that, at the center of the wall, a third ladder led to the roof, where two Liskash guards with ruddy-colored skin peered down at them.

“Which of these quarters is ours?” she inquired.

“Inside,” the captain said. His pikemen braced their weapons as if the question was a threat. “Go.”

Emoro barked out orders. Two of his warriors took their place to steady the ladder. He swarmed up it like a kitten a sixth of his age. Six males followed him. They spread out to await the Dancers’ ascent.

“Come up, Your Sinuousness,” he said, extending a hand.

Cleotra ascended to the stage and waited for Ysella to join her. The child was wide-eyed with nerves. She took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. Ysella gave her a nervous glance. She was doing well. Cleotra was relieved that the girl was holding up.

“Aedonniss will protect us,” she said.

Sherril made as if to climb up, but Petru shoved past him. He put one foot on the bottom rung and shot a smug look at him.

Cleotra shook her head. Their feud bid fair to put them all in danger. She was going to have to speak sternly to Petru, although little good seldom came from interfering with the valet. He was like a boulder rolling down a hill. He tended to crush anyone in his way, though usually for the sake of someone else, such as Cassa.

Sherril, his ruff fluffed out with annoyance, joined them. All but five of the remaining warriors and Scaro came up.

“Well, go on!” the Liskash captain ordered.

“My men and I stay here,” Scaro said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “My clawmaster’s orders. I guard the entrance to their quarters. This is where they are domiciled while they are guests of Lord Tae; this is where we wait until they come out again.”

The dino grunted. He was not smart enough to puzzle this out himself. He did seem to know that Mrem were faster and more nimble than his kind, so there would be injuries even if he summoned help to make all the pesty visitors stay in one place.

“Lord Tae did say that we could come and go as we pleased,” Sherril called down to the captain. The Liskash frowned, drawing his low brow even lower toward his muzzle.

“Very well,” he said. “I will see what is my lord’s will. Go on. Up and over.”

People lived within the walls of this pylon, Cleotra observed. Through an open door she spotted a female in an ugly orange shift tending an egg lying on a bed of straw. The top stage, though, was no more than a walkway half a Mrem-length in width. The Lailah tiptoed along it. The captain directed them to the other end of the wall to a ladder. Cleotra looked down.

Below them were two more stages with doors in the wall, but at the bottom was an open courtyard with a fountain where more guards waited.

“A fine trap,” Emoro growled, echoing her very thought. “Kick away the ladders and we’d be fish in a tidal pool, ready to be scooped up.”

Cleotra closed her eyes. She reached inside herself and felt for the strand of warmth that tied her to the other Dancers. They were there, comforting their distant sister. She sensed Cassa’s warm wisdom, the love of her fellow priestesses, and a more remote touch that she had always associated with Assirra. Cleotra sent a quick prayer to the goddess to plead with her husband to protect them, and felt a surge of energy in return.

“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.

“What do you think, lady?” Clawmaster Emoro asked, properly yielding authority to Cleotra.

“Lord Tae seeks to control us in here,” the Dancer said. “The force of his mind is oppressive. You can smell him.”

“I am sure he can hear anything we say,” Sherril said. “And much of what we think, though I feel more protected than I did on my first visit. It must be your presence, Dancer,” he added, as Cleotra glared at him.

“Do you feel our ritual left you unguarded?” she asked, her green eyes narrowing to slits.

“Oh, my lady, no!” Sherril exclaimed. “It is only the proximity to the Liskash lord that gives him the strength to probe us as he does. If we were here too long, and without your ties to Aedonniss, our minds would fall quickly under his influence.” He pricked his ears toward the walkways, where Mrem slaves climbed down the ladders with baskets tied to their backs. Any harness or jewelry that those poor creatures had owned in better days had been taken from them, along with identity, history, even independent thought.

The inference was not lost upon Ysella. If the New Sea had not drowned their homeland, she might never have had to face the horrors of the lizard-kin. Her granddam lived far to the north of her settlement. It used to be all they needed to do to visit the old one’s steading was to travel through the hot, broad valley as the sun crossed overhead twice from right to left. Now, it would take months, if not years, to rejoin her. She was sure that her granddam lived. A faint connection still existed between them. Oh, but Granddam was so far away!

Ysella yearned for her days as a kit, when she could climb into the old one’s warm embrace and be nestled close. Her own parents had died in some accident-no one had ever really told her the tale. Her brothers had gone to the warriors’ camp soon afterward, and she had been apprenticed to the hall of the Dancers.

Now all those buildings were gone in the flooding. The elders had all said the sea could not rise higher than the mountains at the west end of the great valley. They talked about the safe crossing they could make there. Behind them, various tribes of the clan had scorned them for retreating so soon. Ysella burned with shame. She chirruped to herself. The warriors looked down kindly upon her, especially one young recruit with a mask and chest of banded bronze fur. In an all black coat, those markings would be considered flaws, but to Ysella they looked like sunlight, a welcome sight in that dark place.

“May I help you, Dancer?” he asked, holding out a long, slender hand to her.

Shyly, she put her fingers into his, and was surprised by his strength as he hauled her upright with a quick jerk. She hastily smoothed her fur and straightened her necklaces. She closed her hand on the amulet of Aedonniss and Assirra that she had been given to celebrate making her first Dance as an apprentice and felt a warmth from it that was not from her own body heat.

“Thank you,” she said. He gawked at her, as what warrior might not? Dancers had an innate grace. She recalled Cassa Fisook’s stern lessons that it should be reflected in their manners as well. “What is your name, warrior?”

“Gilas Aulor. I know your brothers, Your Sinuousness. They said you were very beautiful.” His eyes shone. They were the same bronze as his breast-fur. “It is true.”

“Thank…” Ysella began shyly.

“Presumptuous kit, get on with your tasks!”

They jumped apart. Scaro stood there, his tail lashing from side to side. Ysella looked up in pleased surprise. The lieutenant must be jealous of the young male! She gazed up at him, her pupils spreading. Scaro moved to one side and took her arm, pulling her out of the way. Ysella preened, enjoying the feeling of his strong muscles and sinews under his fur. Oh, he did care for her! He just could not say it because of the differences between their ranks. She wondered if that day came when, long after Cleotra had taken Cassa’s place as senior priestess, she, Ysella, ascended to that position, she would be able to act upon the feelings that she knew she and Scaro shared for one another. But she couldn’t wait that long. He was here now, and so was she.

She ran a claw tip along Scaro’s muscular arm. The fur rippled under her touch. She shivered with excitement and peered up at him out of the corner of one green eye. He didn’t look down. Ysella realized that they were not alone. Scaro must not want to reveal his feelings before an underling.

Gilas finished sweeping and left the room. Behind him, a female Mrem shuffled in, fresh bedding in her arms. She kept her eyes low.

“Hello, lovely lady,” Scaro purred. He let go of Ysella’s arm and moved into the path of the newcomer. “And what is your name?”

She looked up at him with terror in her eyes. Scaro moved closer and took the sheets and featherbeds out of her arms. He tipped her chin up with one finger, the claw carefully retracted.

“No need to fear me. I’m friendly. I could be your new best friend. Where do you live?”

Her jaw opened, but no sound came from her mouth.

“Silence is good, too,” Scaro said, wrapping her in a solicitious arm. “Perhaps you would just like to show me?”

She shook her head, wide-eyed. Scaro pressed further.

“Maybe you don’t live alone. That’s fine. I don’t mind having more than one of you at the same time. I think you will find that I am equal to all things. Shall we go?”

Before Ysella could translate this baffling interchange, a hand smacked Scaro in the ear. His eyes went wide and he whirled, claws out in a defensive stance.

“I thought I’d find you up to your tricks!” Emoro said, the corners of his mouth upturned. Scaro let go of the serving Mrem and saluted his senior officer.

“Sir!”

“I suppose there’s a reason beyond wanting to seduce the locals that you came within instead of remaining on your post?” Emoro asked.

“Oh, he wasn’t…” Ysella hastened to assure him. “He was just trying to make friends with her! She is very shy. She doesn’t talk.”

Emoro frowned, his heavy brows making his eyes into yellow slits. “Scaro, it ill befits a warrior to have children make excuses for him.”

“I didn’t ask her to!” Scaro protested. The serving Mrem slipped out of his grasp and rushed out of the room, her eyes fixed on the floor. Ysella drew herself up at the insult.

“Clawmaster, I am not a child,” she said. “I am a Dancer. Please treat me with the respect of my rank. I would give my life for the Clan of the Claw as readily as you.”

“Of course, dear little one, of course,” Emoro said, in a soothing voice. “We all hope it won’t come to that. Well, Scaro? What is it?”

The officer looked a little sulky. “A messenger came from Lord Tae. He wishes us to visit him this evening. He wants to learn something new today, he said. The rest of my warriors protect the way in to this building. I have come to escort you out.”

“Right, then,” Emoro said. “Good thing you didn’t shout it from the roof like you do your other business.” He grinned and nudged Scaro with his fist. Scaro grinned back. “No time for that until we get home again, do you understand me?”

Scaro’s eyes narrowed mischievously.

“Clawmaster, there’s always time. It doesn’t take that long.” He and Emoro shared a juicy laugh.

Ysella looked from one to the other in bemusement. They couldn’t mean sex as such a casual encounter, could they? She had always thought every coupling was supposed to be meaningful! That meant that he was trying to…that servant girl…he wouldn’t, not when he was just starting to understand his feelings for her!

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.”

Petru cleared his throat meaningfully, but Sherril did not speak again. Emoro stifled a grin.

“Welcome to you, and welcome back, Sherril and your companions.”

A reedy voice echoed forth. Emoro blinked. Through the wide doorway he saw a thin, very short Liskash with pale blue skin the color of a winter sky seated on a stone chair on a platform eight feet or more above the floor. His black eyes bulged in his narrow face. His skull was rounded except for a narrow ridge of scales that ran from just above his eyes over and down the back of his head to his collar. His raiment was bright orange with narrow black lines. Bronze ornaments jingled on his sleeves, and tall, vividly colored feathers stuck up around the collar like a picket fence. Statues of the Liskash lord in various outfits and painted garishly to match stood on plinths all around the room. The costume he wore that night was depicted on the third figure to the right of the doorway. Lord Tae could behold his own image whenever he chose.

“I shall be ill,” Petru said, feelingly.

“That is hideous,” Scaro said, in a rare moment of concord with the valet.

Sherril bowed again. “Greetings, Lord Tae. Thank you for this audience.”

The Liskash beckoned with one skinny finger. “Come forward.”

The first line of dinos formed a square around the Mrem, spears pointed in. Emoro wished again for his battle claws, or one little stabbing spear. The commander gestured them to move. Sherril glanced back imperiously and strode forward, following the double-line of Liskash into the throne room.

Once inside, the doors closed behind the Mrem with a hollow BOOM. Emoro glanced back to see two guards hefting a huge latch into place across a pair of brackets. Easily undone if necessary.

The lines of Liskash spread out again into a double border between the Mrem and Lord Tae. Sherril stepped off, Emoro close behind him. The Liskash shifted with them, keeping their beady eyes fixed on them. The closer they got to Tae, the more the headache he had felt coming on increased. The Dancers were aware of it, too. Both of them had been moving their hands and bodies in light, subtle motions as they walked. Those increased in intensity, and the pressure receded from Emoro’s mind. It was still there, though.

Sherril halted at the prescribed limit and bowed again. Emoro followed suit, signing to his warriors to do the same. His knees felt as if they wanted to bend, too, to take him to the floor where he would prostrate himself. He fought the impulse. It was no doubt coming from the lordling on the throne. Tae was going to keep trying to control them.

“We came here of our own free will,” Emoro growled, forcing the words out as he forced his back to straighten. “We do not bend to yours.”

Sherril turned so the Liskash lord couldn’t see him, and glared. He purred at the Liskash, offering a supplicating gesture.

“I apologize, Lord Tae. It was agreed that I would speak for the group.”

“It was not,” Cleotra snapped. Sherril’s fighting ridge went up at the sound of her voice. “I speak for myself.”

Lord Tae smiled. His face moved but his eyes bore no expression at all. “No offense is taken. All these reactions teach me more of your culture.”

Sherril seemed relieved. “We are pleased to bring you the fruits of our history and our arts,” he said. “I have memorized the sagas of our people, from the cold days until now. There are many heroic poems that you will enjoy, translated into your own language by myself. The first one I would have you hear is of the first Clan Leader of the Lailah. In fact, Soroo was an ancestor of mine. He lived-”

“No.” The refusal was dry but final. “I may wish to hear your poetry another time. Frankly, your voices hurt my ears. I am a student of your religion. I wish to see your dance.”

Cleotra threw back her head proudly. “The hour is late and we were not given time to refresh ourselves,” she said. “Our Dance is not a simple thing. My apprentice and I have been marching for two days. In our normal routine, we limber up and do exercises before beginning our rituals. They are sacred things, not mere entertainment!”

The ridge above Lord Tae’s eyes went up. “I would see those exercises as well as your dance. You may begin.”

“ We begin with refreshments and repose upon comfortable seats,” Cleotra said.

Lord Tae looked a little bored. “Oh, very well.”

He did not move or speak, but very shortly, a rap sounded upon the door. Emoro and the other warriors tightened their muscles in preparation, but when the portal was unlatched, it was to admit an eight of gray-scaled servants. They bore huge pillows in a mismatch of colors and hammered metal trays with enameled pitchers and bowls upon them.

Petru took charge. He ordered the servants, who were as dull as their skins, to place the pillows on the shining floor to one side of the area they had been allotted. Once they were placed to his liking, he escorted the Dancers there and assisted them to sit down. Cleotra settled gracefully upon the ugly cushions. Ysella plumped down beside her.

Sherril swaggered after them. A low argument ensued between Petru and the counselor. Her green eyes blazing, Cleotra stood up between them. Effortlessly, she lifted her left foot and kicked each of them in the head. Emoro rumbled in his own throat. What a warrior she would have made!

Lord Tae rolled back on his padded throne, laughing. “Fantastic! So limber!”

She stood glaring as they both staggered backward. They didn’t look at one another or at the Dancer, but Petru pulled a drab purple cushion along the floor a short way from the Dancers, and Sherril sat down on it, waiting patiently for Petru to serve refreshments to Cleotra and Ysella before bringing him a selection of dainties.

Lord Tae watched with curiosity as the Dancers lapped the pale white liquid from the wide goblets and sampled the savory brownish nuggets of food. Some looked chewy, others crunchy. Emoro licked his chops. It had been hours since he had had a decent meal, out on the road, though he had eaten the nuts and dried fruits that served as field rations, but he was a warrior. He could wait until the lizard had finished toying with them and they were safely back in their fish-trap. Cleotra set down her goblet.

“Are you satisfied?” Lord Tae asked. Cleotra rose in one smooth motion. Behind her, Ysella was as awkward as a frog.

“I thank you, our host,” Cleotra Mreem said.

“Then dance for me.”

Scaro Ullenh made sure that his guards were well deployed, keeping watch on the Liskash. He stood as close to the Dancers as he could manage without getting in their way. He didn’t want to miss a moment. As a warrior, he saw Dances performed during sacred feasts and other occasions, such as the circle to protect them here in Ckotliss. He had never beheld the warming-up sessions. He had fantasized about the females throwing themselves about in their exercises, lithely and energetically in wild abandon. He had mated with many a Dancer after they had finished their rituals for the day, but it would add spice to see what made them so hot and ready. Now he would. And perhaps he could approach Cleotra later on to help her burn off that excess energy. He grinned to himself.

The valet settled himself on a pile of cushions with the dombek drum between his knees. He rattled off a quick roll, then began a slow, syncopated rhythm. One, two-three, one, two-three, one, two-three.

Cleotra and Ysella touched fingertips and paced off a circle about two Mrem-lengths in diameter. Scaro fancied he could feel the power of the gods sealing it, so intent were the Dancers’ expressions. Ysella, for all her adolescent awkwardness, once she began to focus, moved almost as smoothly as her mentor. A pity she was too young for mating. He couldn’t blame her for fixing on him. He was handsome, well groomed, and possessed of enviable style that attracted the eye of many a Mrem female. Still, until she matured, he wasn’t going anywhere near her!

Once they had created their sacred space, Cleotra led Ysella through a series of exercises. They began with simple steps and stretches, and moving into thrusts, kicks and claw swipes, shifting sideways, jumping backwards, leaping and pirouetting. The steps swiftly became more complicated and rapid. In fact, if he did not know they were Dancing, he might have thought they were fighting one another. The drum beats sped up until they were moving so fast he could hardly follow. Ysella was open-mouthed and wide-eyed, but Cleotra looked serene, as though she was Dancing with the gods themselves. No wonder she was to be Cassa’s chosen successor.

Scaro found himself breathing hard. His resolution deserting him, he wished to mate with both of them right there in the middle of the throne room.

They stopped. The drum ceased. Cleotra strode magnificently to face Lord Tae. She was not even breathing hard. Ysella was.

“Our exercises are complete,” Cleotra said. “Now we will perform for you the Coming of the First Dawn.”

“I would rather see the Wooing of Assirra by Aedonniss,” Lord Tae said. “It is a story I have heard of, and have long been curious about.”

Cleotra’s eyes flashed. “That is a sacred Dance, not suitable for outsiders.”

Lord Tae’s brows drew down. “If you do not want my help, you may leave.”

The Liskash guards behind them lifted the latch from the door.

Cleotra looked as if she might storm out. Scaro speculated on whether any of them would make it out of there alive. His task, should all things go awry, was to see to the Dancers’ safety. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to spring to their defense. Liskash took a long time to die, but they were slow moving. He could probably kill six or seven of them before getting the Dancers out of the room.

Cleotra lifted her chin. She was still angry.

“For the sake of my people, then, I break my vows. Ysella!”

The girl ran to her side. Cleotra assumed a pose with her hands outstretched, palms down. Her fingers moved gracefully as if each was a bird flying through the air. Ysella moved at once to a distance of two Mrem-lengths and composed herself, her eyes cast modestly down, shoulders turned inward. She must be playing Assirra to Cleotra’s Aedonniss.

Cleotra leaped into the air. Her hands and feet kicked out, and her tail lashed. She was a storm, she was a cataract, she was a whirlwind! The mighty powers of nature were all contained in one slender, lithe body. Scaro could not take his eyes off her. She kicked high and twirled in midair, coming down on her toes. Then, staying poised on the ball of one foot, she crouched low, watchful and wary. The world was created, but Aedonniss was alone and lonely.

Ysella moved then, wafting her arms in gentle waves. As the dombek thrummed, she moved sinuously around the circle, exploring the domain that had been made. She stopped, withdrawing into herself, as she saw the hulking figure of Aedonniss. He was powerful and fierce, but she was clearly attracted to him. She held back, not knowing what she should do. She was alluring in her grace. She seemed to rub affectionately against the air, seeking someone to share that caress. Scaro yearned to be the one that she sought. He could give her the love she craved.

Then he gave himself a mental kick. That was Ysella up there! An immature girl! But she had a mastery of the art that he would not have dreamed. What she would be when she was older! Scaro glanced at the throne to see what Lord Tae thought of their performance.

The Liskash noble wasn’t even looking at them! He had his eyes closed. And so they remained throughout the rest of the magnificent dance.

Scaro shrugged. If he wanted to miss what he had asked to see, that was his problem. As long as no threat was imminent, he was going to enjoy the command performance. It must be good to be the lord of a whole domain.

Petru soothed and fussed over Cleotra all the way back to the guest quarters. He had wrapped her in a light cloak against the cool air. Night, thankfully, covered most of the horrors of Liskash architecture, artwork and decor. Nothing, sadly, could be done about the ugliness of their escort. It was even larger than the contingent that had brought them to the high keep.

“You channeled your anger at Lord Tae magnificently, Your Sinuousness. It was most impressive,” he said.

“It was odd to Dance without my sisters,” Cleotra said thoughtfully. “That ugly little worm did not show much appreciation.”

“He had his eyes closed, my lady,” Emoro repeated.

“The whole time?” Cleotra asked, outraged, as if she could not believe it.

“The whole time,” Sherril said glumly. “And he did not want to hear any of my poems.”

“No surprise there,” Scaro commented, from the ranks. “The Liskash already hate us.” Sherril shot an annoyed look over his shoulder. There would be ear-biting and rolling on the floor if they were safely at home.

“What I fear,” Sherril said, “is why.”

Petru massaged Cleotra’s hand. The tension in it was extreme enough that she would need a thorough rubdown once he got her settled in her chamber. Once the performance was over, he had collared one of the less dazed-looking servants and gotten her to agree to bring food to their quarters. He could have eaten an entire arosh by himself, but the Dancers had to have meat too after their exertion. Lord Tae had a lot to answer for, not letting them prepare properly and asking for a forbidden Dance. Petru did not like him. His attire, and how ridiculously heavily Liskash dressed, was an eyesore, as was the entire stronghold. A waste of craftsmanship and materials. If he had been in charge, and perhaps he could offer some guidance when they were permitted to cross Ckotliss to the west, he would correct their color sense at least. It pained him that his personal adornments clashed with his surroundings no matter how he arranged himself. He had a headache that made his temper short, but his duty was to Cleotra. He cosseted and soothed her.

“Why do you think?” she asked Sherril.

The counselor looked around them. Too many of the dinos were close enough to hear. Petru knew that what they heard, Lord Tae heard. He shot a warning look at Sherril, who waved it away impatiently.

“I think he was enjoying the drumming,” Sherril said.

Petru preened. He had been very good.

“How did our Dance look?” Ysella asked, sidling up to Scaro.

“Good,” the lieutenant grunted.

“I thought you were wonderful,” Gilas said, from behind her. “You move like leaves on the trees, or grain waving. I have never seen anything so graceful.”

Ysella startled, her tail fluffing.

“Thank you,” she said, pleased. Gilas beamed at her.

Petru chuckled to himself. Ah, young love. But that lad had many years ahead of him before he could settle down with a wife, let alone win a Dancer.

Up the wretched ladders and down into their deep, dank box again. Petru took both of his ladies into the room prepared for them. He was pleased to see that none of their possessions had been tampered with by Lord Tae’s servants. Cleotra was exhausted, but restless. He brushed her entire body over and over again until she dozed on the clean bedding. She would have been better for fresh food. Where was that servant girl with the food he had ordered? All that was available was the stores they had brought with them from the camp. Dried fish would be too hard to chew. Petru resolved to simmer some in water to make a nourishing soup as soon as he had settled both Dancers.

Ysella had fallen asleep in a corner. He lifted her into her own nest of bedding. What a little, light thing she was. He felt very protective of his Dancers. Petru went through his various cases until he found a vial of calming oils and dabbed a little on her throat at the pulse points. She let out a happy buzz in her sleep. Petru patted her and went about his other tasks. Their jewelry had to be put away, as did his own. He rubbed an unguent into his hands. They became so dry after a night of drumming. But he had been good, hadn’t he?

How irritating of Lord Tae to keep his eyes closed through the performance. He didn’t understand the meaning of what he had seen, or not seen. The Dance spoke of the very essence of Mrem, the savagery in their souls that they channeled into beauty and grace.

A thin crescent moon was just hanging on the western lip of the roof in a lapis-blue sky. Morning was not that far away.

He had a chamber of his own, but he was reluctant to make use of it. Instead, he sat on the stone seat along the fountain and watched the water trickle by torchlight. Something troubled him. It lurked at the corners of his mind like the warriors lurking in the corners of the courtyard. He had faith in the Dance that protected them, but the power of the Liskash was undeniable. The pain in his head increased. He had powders and herbs to soothe ills, but this was an intense hurt.

Lord Tae could help him, he mused. If he obeyed the Liskash lord, he would never feel pain again. Peace awaited him. He must go to his god.

Petru wrinkled his nose. A terrible smell filled the courtyard, distracting him from his thoughts. He sniffed, trying to determine the source of it, and realized it was not in the air, but in his head.

He had to go to Lord Tae.

No! Petru clutched at his forehead, as if trying to pull the thought out. Fury filled him, making his tail lash. That ugly worm was trying to take over his mind! The Dancers. He needed them to strengthen the Dance. Then he would scratch the Liskash’s beady eyes out.

He slipped into the Dancers’ chamber. They were both restless, sensing the intrusion. He must waste no time.

“Priestess,” he whispered, touching Cleotra gently on the shoulder.

She came awake all at once, her claws at his throat. Petru took her by the arms and thrust her away.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asked.

“And smell it,” Cleotra said, furiously. “Awaken the others. We must escape as soon as we can. Ysella!”

The girl sat up in her nest, chirping to herself fearfully.

Cleotra sprang up and grabbed her by the hand. “Come out into the courtyard. Lord Tae works against us. We must Dance to strengthen the bond with our sisters and the gods.”

Petru strode out in their wake. The warriors on duty were less sensitive than he was, but they heard and saw what was happening. They had sent an emissary to wake Emoro before he could. The stocky clawmaster came out to meet him, wiping sleep out of his eyes. Together, the Dancers began to circle one another. Their hands moved in and out toward one another as if feigning blows. Petru recognized it as a ritual to raise energy quickly. He felt the pressure ease considerably, though it did not go away.

“What is going on?” Emoro demanded.

“Don’t you feel it?” Petru asked. “Don’t you smell it?”

“Lord Tae? From all the way over there?” Emoro asked.

“All the city is under his control,” Sherril said, coming out of his chamber. “The city and most of the region.”

“He seeks to take control of us now,” Petru said.

Sherril eyed him haughtily. “What makes you think so?”

“Because I felt an urge to serve him, that’s what.” Petru crossed his huge arms. “My duty is to Priestess Cassa and the Dancers, no one else. I don’t expect you to believe me, but what do you smell?”

“Besides your cloying perfumes?”

“Counselor, enough!” Cleotra said, stepping away from the circle. She closed her hands, sealing the energy she had raised within herself. “This is deadly serious. If we are under attack, we must defend.”

Sherril scowled. He hated it when anyone knew something before him. Petru felt a moment of triumph for having been right first, but the tightening sensation around his brows increased again. He winced. So did Sherril.

“He is trying to pierce through the veil the Dancers put around us,” the counselor said. “He didn’t want an exchange of culture. He wanted to learn how the Dance protects us so he could learn how to combat our rituals.”

“We could ask Lord Tae. I must go to him,” young Gilas piped up, at Emoro’s elbow. The warrior’s eyes looked hazy. “He is calling me.”

Ysella marched to him and slapped him, hard. He staggered backward a pace on the black and white tiles, his feet slipping. He looked at her in shock, but his wits were restored.

“We are doomed,” Sherril said glumly.

“No,” Emoro said. “We must fight free. Lord Tae is too treacherous. We were wrong to trust him.”

“We had to try,” Sherril reminded them. “The alternative is weeks more on the road without adequate supplies. The rest of the clan is behind us. The gates of the city will open at dawn. We must make our way there now.”

“With every Liskash in the city under his control?” Petru said, horrified at the thought of being overwhelmed by lizards. He brushed at his fur frantically. “We would never make it.”

“Then we must make him let us go,” Emoro said, with a fearsome snarl.

“If he hasn’t foreseen our response and moved to counter it,” Sherril retorted.

Almost as he said it, Liskash in full uniform with knives and spears began to pour over the front wall, exactly where Emoro had told him he feared they would.

“Halt! Surrender in Lord Tae’s name!”

“He has,” Petru said. His heart quailed at the sight of dozens of lizards racing from the roof perch to all three ladders leading down to the first walkway. He did not want to be a slave in this place! “We’re trapped!”

“To the rear wall,” Emoro ordered them. “There are ladders there the servants use. They’re thinner and can bear less weight, but they’ll do. There is usually only one guard at the bottom. Go. We will halt them, or at least slow them down. Warriors, to me!” He glared at Petru. “Hurry! Run! Leave your luggage.”

“I will not!” Petru said, outraged at the notion of abandoning his lovely jewelry, his perfumes, or his treasured cosmetics to the lizards.

“It may be your possessions or your life,” Sherril said.

“Well…” Petru chewed on his lip, considering which was worse. Emoro smacked him in the ear like a kitten. His eyes glowed. That was out of character for him. He was usually submissive to Petru. “You’ll pay for that.”

Emoro looked unrepentant. “I will, if it’s what it takes to save your life. Go! I will be right behind you.”

“You had better.” Petru reached out and stroked his cheek. He grabbed a Dancer with each hand and hurried them across the courtyard. Sherril was already clambering upward. They heard wails of warning coming too late from the outside.

If Aedonniss didn’t spare Emoro, He would be sorry when Petru reached his court!

The sky had just begun to glow at the horizon when Scaro heard scrabbling sounds. He woke from the light doze he had allowed himself, propped up against the cool, sweating wall next to the ladder. It was too much to hope that the Mrem girls he had flirted with the night before had come back for a quick assignation. No, this was a truly furtive sound.

Neer had heard it, too. He opened lamplike eyes toward Scaro, and signaled a question. Scaro nodded. It took only a moment for his sensitive ears to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from. His own eyes widened as he counted sounds. Sixty, seventy, over a hundred Liskash!

Treacherous worm, Scaro knew he couldn’t trust him! He wanted slaves, not art! He threw back his head to sound the alarm, and felt that he couldn’t draw a single breath. His abdomen hollowed out as he tried to drag in air, but it was as if his body would not obey. He dropped to his knees. So did Neer and the Mrem on his other side. The Liskash noble was strangling them all at once from afar. Scaro’s vision darkened. He begged Aedonniss for delivery and heard a mocking presence in his mind. Scaro growled, and choked his blocked throat.

You do not control me, he told Lord Tae, fighting to stay conscious. You are not my god. Let…me…go!

He threw his body against the ladder, pushing it over. It clattered to the cobblestones.

Out of the alleyways and doorways opposite the residence, bulky, gray Liskash in leather tunics poured. Their pinched snouts peered out from leather caps. All of them had spears, shelds and knives. In the center of Scaro’s darkened vision, a looming figure with a bronze badge on his cap stooped with a long knife. His throat was to be cut.

Then the grip on his mind loosened and melted away. His belly relaxed. Writhing on his back, Scaro gasped in breaths of air. A sensation of warmth surrounded him, like a mother embracing her kits. The Dancers had reestablished their protection of him and his warriors!

Taking no time for reflection, he saw the knife descend in an arc. He rolled to one side in plenty of time. Thanks be to Aedonniss that the insect-eating Liskash were so slow in their reactions! Scaro sprang up before the lizard officer could react and kicked the knife out of his hand. He leaped, rolled again, and came up with the dagger. The officer was reaching around him for his spear when Scaro stepped in, palmed his chin upward and cut his throat with his own knife. Scaro grabbed for the nearest cold body with dagger and claws out.

His vision brightened. Scaro took in the numbers streaming past him. The first hundred and a hundred more had righted the ladders and were climbing the walls. He signed to Neer and one other warrior to follow them. They kicked as many Liskash off the rungs as they could, fighting their way to the top. Scaro danced on his toes, avoiding thrusts by Liskash soldiers with incredible ease. Lord Tae was no general. He must want to capture the prize that no noble had ever possessed.

“Save the Dancers!” he bellowed.

Six of them could not turn back the tide. Emoro had given his orders once they had seen the quarters in which the Mrem would be housed. Scaro knew which way they would try to escape.

“Mrem, with me!” Scaro shouted. The other three kicked away from the onrush, leaving dead Liskash in their wake.

He had patrolled the perimeter of the cursed building over and over again in the dark. Within a handspan he knew exactly where the ladders at the rear were placed. They rounded the rear of the building.

“Scaro!” A voice echoed down to him from above. He moved out from the high wall looked up and saw Emoro racing along the narrow walkway at the top of the pylon. Scaro counted the warriors with him. Half were missing. They must be defending within. But the Dancers were safe. Ysella’s golden eyes were wide and terrified. Cleotra only looked angry. That was good. “What’s the matter with you, Drillmaster? There were only two hundred of them?”

“Thought you could use the wakeup,” Scaro called.

“Thanks, boy! An eighthday of sleep would have been too much for me!”

“We’ll guard your way,” Scaro said. “I can lead you to the gates. I know several narrow ways where they will have trouble sending large forces after us.”

“No!” Cleotra shouted, furiously. “We’re going for the castle. Every hand will be turned against us unless we stop Lord Tae himself!”

“A Liskash noble?” Scaro asked. But those decisions were not his. “I will get you there safely, Your Sinuousness!”

Each of his warriors had a knife or a spear taken from Liskash they had slain at the front of the building. It wasn’t going to be enough, Scaro knew, but he would die trying.

Cleotra scrambled down the ladder of the third stage, four or five Mrem-heights above him, and stepped aside on the walkway. Scaro realized she was going to jump. She would break her legs! He ran to catch her.

“No!” she shrieked. “Out of the way!” She threw herself into space as dozens of Liskash appeared around both sides of the building.

No Mrem could make that leap and live, but Scaro moved. To his endless admiration, she tucked herself in a ball in midair, and hit the ground rolling. She came up on her feet with a look of satisfaction. She was hardly even dusty.

“My lady,” he croaked. He and Neer hastened to stand between her and the host of dinos now surrounding them. Cleotra moved her body, hands and tail in a hypnotic pattern. The closer he was to her, the stronger Scaro felt.

Less daring than she, Ysella slid down the ladder in Sherril’s wake. Petru and Emoro brought up the rear with the eight and half-eight of warriors. The big oaf of a valet was gasping for breath. He didn’t matter. What did was obeying the bidding of the Dancer.

“Come with me,” he said. He thrust out the dagger and prepared to fight his way through.

“No,” Sherril said. He walked up to Scaro and took the knife away from him. Scaro nearly kicked him in the belly for that, but Emoro waved a hand.

Sherril held up his hands as the countless uniformed lizards crowded them against the wall.

“We surrender,” he said. “Lord Tae wants us as his slaves. We give up. Take us to him.”

“What are you doing?” Ysella gasped.

“Why, giving in to superior numbers, child,” Sherril said, with a pitying expression. “We are overwhelmed. It is obvious that the noble has decided we are too great a prize to lose.”

A spear nudged Scaro in the side.

“Give us the weapons,” another brass-hat said to him.

Sherril passed over the dagger and signed to all the warriors to do the same. His innocent expression put Scaro on alert. He had to give credit to the wily elder. They wanted to get into the stronghold.

Surrounded by an endless field of ugly slate-colored faces, Scaro marched his warriors toward the keep. Above his head, he saw the flash of metal. More Liskash guards awaited them on the first level. His keen sight picked up not only spears, swords and blades, but chains. Lord Tae intended to bind them before he had them dragged into his sight.

“Clawmaster…?”

“Drillmaster, I see,” Emoro said mildly. “Don’t let it happen.”

“Yes, sir,” Scaro said.

“Climb,” the brass-hat said, as they reached the wall. Scaro put a foot on the rung. “The females first!”

“Sorry, I don’t understand your accent,” Scaro said. He swung up, signing to his men to follow him.

When they had all reached the first walkway, lizard guards reached out to seize him.

“Lord Tae wants only the females,” their commander said to the brass-hat. “Chain them and kill the rest.”

Scaro waited just long enough for one of the lumbering fools to come toward him with the chain in its hands. He stepped forward, grabbed the hanging links, and elbowed the guard in the face.

Momentarily stunned, it let go of the hank of chain and clapped its hands to its face. Scaro came around with a roundhouse kick and knocked the guard off the wall. It wailed as it fell. The guards took so long to react that he had time to whip another with the armful of chain. It dropped its pike. Neer seized it and stuck it between the guard’s feet. It, too, screamed in its death fall.

“Go, Dancers,” Scaro gritted, swinging the chain back and forth in a deadly figure-eight. He backed up toward them, keeping the dinos at bay. The enemy tried to pass, but he smacked down one after another. Blood lust rose in him as white bones pierced through gray skin and green blood spattered the walls.

“We can’t get to the ladders!” Ysella cried.

“Put your foot in my hand, child,” Emoro said. He boosted her upward. She scrambled over the edge of the next level and disappeared. Gilas followed her, finding clawholds invisible to the naked eye. Cleotra shinned up as easily as if it was a level floor. Scaro admired her. He hoped he would get to tell her one day. “Stay alive if you can, Drillmaster. I’d hate to lose you.”

Easier said than done, Scaro mused. But the others had gone, climbing the walls like spiders. It didn’t matter now what happened to him. He hissed at the onslaught of Liskash guards.

“Get me if you can, worms!”

Ysella sprang to her feet on the stone walkway and spat out a mouthful of dust. Gilas pulled her up by the elbow.

“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. She wanted to glance over the edge, but the roiling masses of Liskash at the base of the building terrified her. She felt the pounding in her head. Lord Tae was calling them. She would not submit! “Will he die?”

Gilas twisted his mouth and his ears lowered. “I don’t know, but he’s good, Dancer. I have to protect you.”

“Run, Ysella,” Cleotra said. Her eyes glowed with anger, Ysella hoped not at her. “We must reach the throne room.” She sped fleetly toward the next ladder. Two guards panted in her wake. Ysella and Gilas ran to catch up with them.

Their goal was all the way at the corner of the building. Ysella concentrated on reaching it, and not hearing the screams and the clashing of metal. Scaro must live!

A cry came, not from the walkway, but from behind her. Ysella spun. Gilas lay at her feet. Looming down on her was a gigantic Liskash with a metal helmet and a tunic covered with plates. More of his kind were coming up behind him.

He reached for her. Ysella cowered.

“Cleotra!” she cried.

Her mentor was almost to the ladder.

“You are a Dancer, Ysella!” she shrieked. “Act like one! You have the skills! I must reach Lord Tae!”

With that, she leaped for the ladder and swarmed up it. Petru and Sherril stayed close behind her. A claw of warriors went with them.

Emoro ran back with the rest of the Mrem. He wielded a bronze-hafted spear. “Behind me, Priestess!”

“No,” Ysella cried. “Cleotra is right! I can do it!”

She began to weave back and forth before the enormous Liskash. It watched her in fascination as she bounded in past his guard. The ritual of the Destruction of the Great Mountain would serve here. Ysella felt deep inside herself for the connection to the infinite. The power of Aedonniss was with her, as were her distant sisters. She felt the power growing inside her.

Emoro charged past her and struck the Liskash with the polearm. The point caught between the plates on the creature’s chest. It grabbed for the shaft and twisted. Emoro staggered within a hand of falling over the side. His warriors swarmed over the huge guards. They screamed out war cries that stirred Ysella’s blood. She Danced faster.

The guards began to look confused. The throbbing in her head subsided. Lord Tae’s presence was driven not only away from her, but from the Liskash as well!

“That’s it, girl,” Emoro said, encouragingly. He took swift advantage of the first guard’s wavering, and plunged the spear into its open mouth. Green blood spurted out. It splashed on Ysella. She gasped, looking down at the green liquid running through her fur. It was hot.

The shock made her lose her place in the dance. The constricted feeling came back in force. Lord Tae wanted her to surrender, to kneel on the ground. She felt her knees go weak. The hot sun beat down on her head, making it ache more. She trembled with fear. Emoro glanced away from the guard he had just smashed in the teeth.

“Help us, Priestess!” he shouted. “Do it for the sake of that boy, if nothing else! He worships your very feet! If you don’t Dance us out of here, I can’t see how we can retrieve him and heal his wounds.”

“Gilas?” she asked, shakily. “Not Scaro?”

“Yes, Gilas! He’s a good youngster. I want him to grow up and be a mighty warrior. Help us! Help him.”

Ysella put her soul into her Dance, more deeply than she had ever done in her life. Gilas was in love with her. She should not have ignored that. When a heart was given, it was a precious gift!

She flung herself at the enemy. Energy poured through her from the heavens and the earth. She was the volcano, she was the tree, she was the lightning! She Danced under the noses of guards, leading the warriors behind her. They took advantage of the spell she created, breaking Lord Tae’s hold on his slaves’ minds.

Then she made the mistake of looking back, just as Emoro speared one of the guards in the eye. The bursting of the black orb into dark green goo made her stomach heave. Her rhythm faltered. She hummed to herself to get it back, and found she was chirping instead. She should be angry. They had been tricked into the city to become slaves! She didn’t want to die here.

Ysella began the Dance again, but her momentum was broken. The guards’ eyes lost their haze, and they pressed forward, stepping over the bodies of their own dead.

“Retreat!” Emoro shouted, yanking his spear out of a guard’s belly. “Come on, girl, you’ve done well.”

Priestess, she wanted to say. But she hardly felt she deserved the accolade. The warriors closed around her and hurried her toward the next ladder. The lizards feinted toward them. Ysella tried to restore her link to the other Dancers. They saw the same sun she did. They were together in mind and intention. She twirled, trying to gain power.

“Dancer!” Emoro shouted, moving to shield her, but it was in vain. A wall of armored Liskash overwhelmed them. Ysella was knocked off her feet by a heavy weight striking her in the back. Her head hit the stone. Color exploded in her vision, followed by blackness.

“This way, to the north side,” Sherril said, pointing over the lead warrior’s shoulder as they came off the ladder. He heard the war cries behind him but did not look back. “We’ll come down right over the throne room.”

“Yes, sir,” the warrior said. He and the two claws who had sheared off from Emoro’s contingent to escort Cleotra had one Liskash weapon apiece in their grip. Not enough, Sherril feared. Their greatest defenses were the Dancer’s protection against the Liskash noble-and his own brain. He had memorized all the ins and outs of the keep when he had been there. He had flattered Lord Tae mightily to get a tour of the building and its environs, and carefully memorized all that he could about it. The noble knew where they were, but not necessarily where they were going or how they would get there. It was a game of The King Dies, with both sides truly fighting for their lives. Sherril intended to win.

The long stone walkway on the north was deserted except for a frightened female Liskash who leaped back into her doorway as the Mrem raced by.

“Curse it,” Sherril said. “Tae will see through her eyes. We will be interrupted.”

“I will get you through, sir,” the lead warrior of the first claw promised him. He was a big, rangy male with black and gray stripes and a jagged scar where his left ear ought to be.

The sounds of panting behind them caused the warriors to spin in place.

“As you were!” Emoro growled, racing towards them. The Mrem were streaked with blood, both red and green. One male was limping on a badly wounded foot. Others bore bleeding gashes. Emoro himself had a cut on his upper arm that missed his shoulder joint. Cleotra’s eyes widened with dismay.

“Where is Ysella?”

“Down,” Emoro said, his voice tight with pain. “I set her in an empty chamber and closed the door. With luck no one will notice her until this is over. If any of us live.”

“One of us must,” Sherril said, with determination, pointing to the ladder. It had been painted to blend in with the wall, but it cast a shadow he could see. “There’s our way up. Lord Tae hasn’t ordered his soldiers to draw the ladders up. He could trap us, but he hasn’t.”

He pushed past the warriors to be the first on the rungs. Behind him, Emoro let out an exclamation of irritation. Sherril turned to glare, then realized another shadow was looming over him. An enormous Liskash guard with a metal helmet peered over the edge of the level at him. Many more figures were behind him.

“Greetings,” Sherril said, as if he was glad to see them. “Lord Tae called for us. We were frightened by the battle at the front, so we came this way. Will you take us to his presence?”

He hadn’t believed it when it worked the first time, nor could he believe that it worked again. Lord Tae was much too confident in his powers. The big-jawed lizard seemed to chew over this information for a while, then stood back.

“All right. Come ahead.” He beckoned Sherril up.

The counselor ascended, and straightened out his coat with dignity. The others scrambled upward. Sherril noted with dismay that there was only a single eight of warriors left behind Clawmaster Emoro. The Liskash took the hard-won weapons away from the Mrem.

“Escort us. We must abase ourselves in his presence.” That ought to please the wretched worm’s ego, Sherril thought.

Each of the Mrem was flanked by two Liskash guards. Sherril regarded the creatures marching beside him as nonentities, of no importance except as messengers to Lord Tae.

With spears pointed at their backs, the Mrem ascended to the top of the building and made their way along the hammered-metal of the walkway. It was slippery in the dew of dawn. Sherril looked down. He was not afraid of heights, but a misstep would be fatal. Below, in the courtyard, a square formation of guards waited. They all wore the same metal helmets and leather tunics, but Sherril saw that some were the elite guards that had flanked them the night before, and some were Mrem.

Automatically, he turned to the right, making for the ladder on the inside of the west wall. The officer halted the line and put a hand into Sherril’s chest.

“Do you truly wish to serve the god Lord Tae Shanissi?” he asked.

“Of course,” Sherril said, opening his eyes wide with feigned sincerity. “That is my dearest wish.”

The guard grinned. “Then it is the god’s wish that you fling yourself off the building and sacrifice himself in his honor.”

Sherril sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “But I prefer that the god himself watch me perform my sacrifice.”

The guard pointed down. Sherril followed his finger to a shining figure seated on a raised, royal blue dais, surrounded by dull-colored guards.

“Lord Tae is there. Now, jump!”

Sherril moved to the edge, and the guards stayed with him.

“What are you doing?” Cleotra demanded.

“Sacrificing to Lord Tae, of course,” Sherril said. He spread out his arms. Then he dropped onto his back and braced himself. With his long, strong feet, he kicked both guards under their tails. They bellowed surprise as they plummeted to the first walkway below. The first struck the edge with the back of his head and went limp. The second clawed at the edge, then fell helplessly down, bounced, and down again. Sherril grinned.

“Is that enough of a sacrifice?” he called down to Lord Tae.

The commander bellowed and charged at him. Sherril dodged out of his way, avoiding the point of the spear. Emoro signed to his warriors to defend. Petru took Cleotra’s arm and towed her toward the ladder.

Sherril dodged and dodged again. The walkway was a Mrem-height wide, but that wasn’t much room. The lizards had the advantage of numbers. They charged at him. He took to his heels and ran, his slower foes in pursuit.

In the courtyard, Lord Tae shrieked his displeasure. Guards made for the ladders on all sides and began the long climb up to intercept them.

Sherril raced to find a way down that was not filling up with angry Liskash. For once, he had not completely thought out his exit strategy. That is not like me, he chided himself. But at least I buy time for the Dancer. Emoro had her fully surrounded, on the opposite side of the building, heading for the way down. Lord Tae danced and shook his fists in anger. Sherril felt the pressure of his mind, pulling at his muscles to make him slow down. He felt as if he was crawling through mud.

The noise was deafening. Sherril had to concentrate to think. If Cleotra could break his hold over those Mrem below, they would have allies. Perhaps enough to overwhelm the Liskash noble. If not, enough to get the Lailah to the gates of the city would do. They had to survive. He had to survive. He looked for a hiding place. Yes, there was a door standing ajar just past the corner ahead. He threw himself down the ladder, raced in, slammed the door closed, and flung himself against it. The room was full of rolled tapestries and wooden chests stacked to the ceiling. They were too tightly packed for him to hide among.

BAM! The door jerked against his back. BAM! Sherril dug in his heels on the stone floor. BAM!

He was flung forward against the chests, striking his jaw. Sherril lay dazed for a moment, thinking how much his mouth hurt. The door opened and Liskash poured into the room.

Sherril had not always been a pampered counselor to the clan leader. Once he had been the second-youngest kit in a large family. As the Liskash made for him, he sprang up and bared his claws and teeth. He threw himself on the nearest lizard and bit into his neck. He spat out bitter-tasting blood and kicked the still-flailing body away. His claws lashed out at the next guard. The Liskash screamed as his eyes were gouged out. Sherril wasted no more time on him, but flung himself down and kicked upward with his powerful legs. He raked bellies and buttholes with his toe-claws, driving the wounded out of the room.

But there were always more Liskash. Sherril fought as hard as he could, but he began to tire. The walls of the small room seemed to loom up and strike him on the shoulders, the back, the head. Hands grabbed him and pummeled him. He was a mass of bruises, but he could not stop fighting.

He spun and leaped for another Liskash that tried to get behind him, biting his throat and tearing it like one of his feral ancestors.

Suddenly, he felt his head jerked backwards. He found himself looking into the eyes of the commander who had ordered him to jump. He knew Lord Tae was looking out of the creature’s eyes.

“How do you like this sacrifice, slave?” the guard captain asked. He raised his fist, and brought it smashing into Sherril’s temple. The counselor collapsed, disappointed in himself.

Emoro watched the guards pouring upward, but they were pursuing Sherril. Good. Lord Tae was ruled by his ego. Sherril had insulted him, so he must be punished first.

“I hope that leaves us enough time to get down,” he said.

“That way, Clawmaster,” said his lead warrior, Nemru Ssar. He pointed to a ladder that had just been vacated by a contingent, all of which was intent on pursuing Sherril. The counselor led the Liskash down the west wall and down a level on the south. Eights of lizards scrabbled at the door behind which he had barricaded himself.

The mental pressure he had been feeling since they came over the wall eased ever so slightly. Lord Tae had fixed his attention on Sherril. That meant Emoro had a brief gap of time in which he must try and get the Dancer as close to the evil bastard as he could.

“Four of you ahead,” Emoro said. “Lady, Petru, you stay close to them. The other four, follow. I’ll be at the back. Nemru, I’ll trust you to find us a way down.”

“Yes, sir,” Nemru said. He set off running. At the ladder, he stopped to let two warriors proceed the Dancer downward. Petru slid along the rails like a kitten and thumped onto the floor. Nemru went afterwards, with his remaining warrior. Emoro kept one eye on them and the next on the Liskash noble. Petru kept throwing him anxious looks. There was no time to respond. All Emoro’s thoughts must be on helping the Dancer to her goal. She kept her arms and body moving in the rhythm that brought the gods’ protection. As long as she was alive, they had a chance.

Two more levels to the courtyard. The next ladder was to the east. The levels got progressively larger as they descended, so it was a longer and hence riskier run. Emoro watched out for the guards.

Nemru bore grimly down toward a set of steps propped in the southeast corner. It was leagues from where they wanted to be. Emoro almost ordered him to turn back. What they were doing was in full view of Lord Tae. There were no secrets now. It would be a full battle.

Emoro felt the pressure on his mind return. He turned a wary eye to Lord Tae and discovered the noble was watching them. Though there were Liskash on the same level, they did not approach. Tae was letting them come down, into the midst of his elite guards. Arrogant bastard. He was sure he couldn’t lose.

He was about to get a surprise.

“Take the easy way down, Nemru,” Emoro said suddenly.

“But, sir…?”

Emoro cut him off. “It’s a war game now. We need to live as long as we can.”

Nemru led them to a ladder above the eastern wall, facing the entrance to the throne room. The lizards actually let them descend, making room for them at the bottom.

“Your power is impressive,” Lord Tae said, peering at Cleotra. “But I see the weakness in it. Even in a group, you are not as strong as I am.”

“Strong enough,” Cleotra said, her eyes flashing like emeralds. She wove a pattern in the air with her hands and threw them forward as if casting handfuls of sand. “Strong enough to set your slaves free.”

“What?” Lord Tae demanded.

The Mrem who were in the square of fighters fell out of their perfect formation. Confusion was on their thin faces. But not only Mrem; Liskash soldiers wavered. Lord Tae shook his fists.

“You hairy mammals are weaklings! You cannot defeat my strength.”

Emoro grinned. They were about to try. He made a gesture.

Before the noble could restore full control, the Mrem warriors leaped at the guards.

Five whole eights guarding the lizard noble faced only one eight of Mrem. In spite of the fights he had already fought, Emoro was ready for this one.

The floor under their feet had a sheen of water on it from overnight condensation. Emoro used the slick surface to glide around his enemy, an immense, slate-faced Liskash in jingling plated leather. The guard chopped at him, but he was too slow to hit the clawmaster. With the protection and interference created by the Dancer, Emoro almost felt at an advantage, even though he was unarmed. He ducked in under the lizard’s guard and kneed him in the stomach. The guard’s grip weakened momentarily, but long enough for Emoro to disarm him and stab him in the throat with his own weapon. The body began kicking and convulsing. Emoro leaped back, and fell on his tail because of the slippery floor.

“Careful!” Petru’s voice reached him through the din of battle. Emoro glanced up at the valet. Petru stood with his hands on his hips, his broad body and thick fur concealing the Dancer. Only the tips of her fingers and tail were occasionally visible as she Danced behind Petru. She was fighting the battle none of the rest of them could see.

Two of the guards made for Emoro, chopping at him with their rectangular-bladed swords. He didn’t bother to get up, but slashed at their legs with his captured weapon. He gashed one of them on the thigh badly enough that the soldier staggered back.

Lord Tae let out a high-pitched laugh. Emoro scanned the battle to see what had struck him as so funny. To his horror, a circle of Mrem in armor were beating a warrior. The Mrem had fallen to his knees and had his hands over his head.

He glided over the cold stone floor. With the sword in both hands, he swung. The blow severed the spine of the first Mrem. It fell dead at his feet. Emoro felt sorry for the creature, but at least it was a clean, fast death. The others turned toward him, clubs in hand.

Never in his life had Emoro thought he would have to battle fellow Mrem, but he had to see these as puppets, only the skins of good people. If they were lucky, when the battle was won they would have their minds restored, but they were the most dangerous beings in the field at the moment. They did not behave as true Mrem because they were being controlled by a lizard, but they were faster than the Liskash soldiers. Emoro had to dodge swiftly to avoid being bludgeoned.

The Mrem who had been beaten staggered to his feet. With a pang, Emoro recognized Nemru. One eye was swollen closed, and welts stood out under his fur.

Emoro did a quick surveillance of the battle around him. He was pleased to see that there were far fewer Liskash standing than when they had begun.

“We are winning, Nemru,” he assured the warrior. “Keep fighting.”

“I will, Clawmaster,” the male said. He grinned, showing broken teeth in a bloodied mouth. He scooped up a dropped sword and stood tail to tail with Emoro.

Liskash hurried, at Lord Tae’s orders, to supplement the Mrem surrounding Emoro and Nemru. Emoro fought like a savage, seeing only one victim after another. There was no time to oversee the rest of the battle. As long as his mind was clear and his arm was still attached to his body, he would fight. The two of them turned and turned again, shifting across the courtyard.

At last, he saw an opening toward Lord Tae. The only guards near him were a pair of small, spindly red-scales. The Liskash noble had his eyes closed, concentrating.

“With me, Nemru,” Emoro said. He lunged toward them. Nemru followed.

The red-scaled guards saw them coming and shrieked out a warning. Lord Tae’s eyes flew open. They met and captured Emoro’s.

Pain overwhelmed him. Emoro felt as if his head would burst open. He clutched his sword, but he could not see to swing it. He felt his body being pummeled from more than one direction at a time. Nemru’s voice roared hoarsely in his ears. He fought against Lord Tae’s mind, begging the Dancer to intercede for him.

A pillar came hurtling toward Emoro, and struck him in the side of the head. Blessed unconsciousness followed.

“No!” Petru screamed. His voice echoed off the stone walls all the way to the metal lip of the pylon. He strode toward the puny red creatures, pointing a dangerous claw at them. “How dare you lay even a single scale upon my love!”

The Liskash bending over Emoro’s fallen body looked up in astonishment. They got up, brandishing their swords. Hah! Swords! As if that would spare them.

Petru took each around the neck with one huge hand and slammed them into one another until they sagged in his grasp.

Emoro lay covered with blood, his eyes open and sightless. Petru threw the Liskash aside and went to pick him up. He felt pressure and scented the stink from the lizard god, but was in no mood to pay attention to it.

“Emoro, are you alive?” he asked. “If you are dead, I will never forgive you.”

He was not the only thing that Lord Tae controlled. Gray-scaled soldiers in their appalling armor sprang up around him like weeds. One of them dared to reach for his arm.

Petru shook it off in horror, disgusted by its scaly fingers. “Don’t you dare touch me!” Others moved in to grab him. Petru backed away. “I said, don’t you dare. Touch. Me!”

The nearest Liskash chopped at him with a sword. As neatly as a Dancer, Petru swiped a leg upward under the creature’s guard and knocked his head sideways. Before the slow lizard could recover, Petru ducked and grabbed him by the ankles. The Liskash’s helmet flew off. His skull bounced against the floor. Green blood spattered his fur. It clashed with the golden dust he was wearing. Petru was revulsed and offended.

The other lizards rushed him. Petru picked up the Liskash by his feet and swung him like a bat, back and forth. Lizards went flying in all directions.

Slow, deliberate applause reached his ears. He turned to see Lord Tae watching him with amusement.

“Oh, you find me entertaining, do you?” Petru asked, angry beyond any time he could ever recall.

“Very diverting,” the Liskash said. “Very.”

All Petru could think to do was wipe the smile off the skinny lizard’s face. He strode deliberately toward him, flexing and flexing his claws. Lord Tae watched him come, mild curiosity on his face. A Mrem grappling with a Liskash passed between them. Petru kept his eyes on the noble, but he should have looked down.

By the time his foot hit the patch of blood on the floor, it was too late. Petru slid forward his entire length and hit the ground with a thunderous BOOM! The view of the blue sky faded to black.

Petru’s fall opened up the field between Cleotra and Lord Tae for the first time since the Lailah had descended into the courtyard. Her energetic leaps and whirls did not weaken her voice. Her ties to her distant sisters were far too strong, now. Their love and warmth bolstered her. Lord Tae’s thrusts into her mind were mere pinpricks.

“You are not going to want to be here when he awakens,” Cleotra said, in amusement, with a glance at the bulk of her beloved valet stretched at full length on his back.

“Why not?” Lord Tae asked. “A servant knocking himself out?”

“Because having him knock himself out won’t have been his fault. It will be yours. He didn’t just slip.”

“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.