By Tooth and Claw
Page 25
And equitable it would be. They were too reliant on each other for it to be anything else. Their survival and prosperity depended on maintaining the sanctuary of the island. So long as they retained that, no lord of the lowlands—not even one more powerful than Zilikazi—could possibly threaten them.
The position of the Old Faith, however, was quite different. On the one hand, theirs was by far the largest of the three groups. In the end, more than eight thousand of the people Zilikazi brought over the mountains had chosen to remain on the coast.
For lack of any clear alternative, they had all accepted Njekwa as their leader. But while many of them were adherents to the Old Faith, most were not. So what would happen to them, in the end? No one knew, but Achia Pazik suspected that more and more of them would adopt the Kororo creed, as time went on. And she was quite sure that Njekwa shared the same suspicion.
Well, that was her problem, not Achia Pazik’s.
* * *
Later that day, she wasn’t quite as sure.
“What?” She was almost goggling at Chefer Kolkin. “He’s insane! Mrem can’t do that!”
The veteran warrior shrugged. “That’s what I told the youngster. But you know Lavi Tur. He’s headstrong. And always wants to try his hand at everything.”
Lavi Tur
The next morning, though, the brash almost-a-warrior was feeling a rare moment of anxiety and uncertainty. Squatting on his haunches with his hands splayed on the sand, the youngster stared apprehensively at the tritti sprawled a short distance away in the little arena. For its part, the horned lizard stared off to the side. To all outward appearances it seemed oblivious to the Mrem’s presence.
Lavi Tur looked up at Meshwe, who was observing the proceedings with cheerfully-gaping jaws.
As well he might. The old tekkutu was standing outside the enclosure.
“Couldn’t I try first with a huddu?” asked Lavi Tur plaintively. “Or maybe a mavalore?”
* * *
Song of Petru
XIX
Tooth
The Way was Lost
Evil stood across
His Sacred Path
Swords were blunted
Many despaired
To Save us all
He called to Death
Join in my Feast
* * *
Feeding a Fever
JODY LYNN NYE
Come, dearest, just a little bite,” Petru pleaded, holding the piece of browned meat temptingly under Cassa Fisook’s nose. The lead Dancer of the Lailah Clan lay in a nest of cushions on a pallet in her hastily-erected pavilion near an oasis at the edge of an expanse of strange desert. The clan had been forced to halt there the previous noon. Few of them could have made it much farther. Only the blessed presence of fresh, potable water had given the sick and ailing the strength to press on to this point. The encampment had become one large infirmary. Cassa’s long, slender, black-furred limbs trembled with weakness and the fever.
Petru turned the morsel so that the sun peeking through the draped sides of the tent gleamed off it like the burnished surface of an amber pearl. “You wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, would you? This is the most tender portion of that little desert bird, freshly killed and cooked just to savoriness. I would eat it myself, it is so good. Try just a taste.”
The elder female’s upper lip curled a little. The scent of the meat had tickled her sensory glands with delight, but she shook her head weakly. Petru moved his hand toward her lips. From her narrow belly arose an audible gurgle. By her expression, Petru knew the sound had hurt, but he offered the food again. Cassa held up a slender forefinger in protest.
“Thank you, cherished Petru, but I can’t. If I swallow anything, it will go straight through me.”
“Then I despair! I thought you truly loved me,” the valet said, wrinkling his nose and allowing his magnificent sable whiskers to droop toward his shoulders. Though he was of a much lower rank than the Dancers, the shining, long black fur that covered his body made him seem to be of noble heritage. His expanse of whiskers was unequaled in the clan, and he used them expressively.
In spite of her discomfort, Cassa chuckled.
“Oh, I do, you big clown,” she said. “It is just that my poor body does not love me. I am aged, and I cannot throw off a fever the way that I could in my youth. I fear that Assirra calls me to her side. I will not live to see us arrive in our haven.”
“Nonsense,” Petru said with a dismissive wave. It was a casual gesture, but in his heart he feared she might be correct. “You just want us to go on carrying you on a litter instead of walking on your own lovely feet.”
“If my feet could carry me, I would scamper away from this place! The air is so dry my nose is cracking.”
Petru rummaged in his personal basket of cosmetics and unguents. At the bottom—why did things always fall to the bottom when he wanted them?—was a small, heavy alabaster jar sealed with a soft cork. Avoiding Cassa’s hands, he dabbed the herb-scented cream on the leather of her nose. Immediately, the senior Dancer stopped protesting and relaxed.
“Ah, that is better. Assirra must show you special favor. Your lotions are always better than anything the merchants bring me.”
“Of course! That is because I make them with love,” Petru said. He couldn’t keep the note of smugness out of his tone. He was proud of his skill at formulation. “If you will not eat this now, I will soak it in diluted wine and wrap it in a leaf to keep it for later. Shall I open the tent flaps a trifle to let more sunlight fall upon you? Would you like another cushion or two? I have your favorite wool-stuffed pillow right here.”
“Yes, thank you, my dear Petru. You always know what I need. Then, let me rest.”
The big valet arranged the well-loved and battered suede pillow so that Cassa could sniff the heavy oils of the padding, then pulled the nearest drape around the tent pole to let the afternoon sun touch his lady’s feet. With a sigh, she curled into a ball, wrapping her long, slim tail around her body. Petru worried that she would waste away, but rest was the third best restorative, after a cure and food.
He heard a groan and a challenging hiss from the second pallet at the other side of the tent. Cleotra Mreem was having another nightmare. Petru pulled away cushion after cushion until he could uncover the Dancer’s face. Its fur was crusted with dried mucus all around the nose and mouth. With the greatest tenderness, he started to brush it away.
Cleotra’s eyes flew open. Her glowing pupils bloomed widely in the narrow band of green, and she bared her claws. A dry tongue flicked in and out of her mouth. Petru knew she wasn’t really awake. She had a worse form of the disease than Cassa had. She was younger and stronger and could manage food, but suffered fever and hallucinations as well as the choking matter running from her eyes and nose.
“Mistress,” he said. “You have defeated the Liskash! It is dead! Victory!”
“No,” she muttered. “There are too many of them! The clan will die! They will eat our children! We must save the kits!”
Petru reached for the jug of water beside the bed and poured some onto the soft cloth near the washing bowl. He dabbed at her face with long, gentle strokes as if he was her mother.
“No, mistress,” he said, in a low, calm voice that belied his own worry. “The Liskash lies at your feet. It is dead. What could withstand the power of your Dance? Assirra and Aedonniss put their strength into your leaps. It fell, shedding its blood on the ground.”
Cleotra’s eyes widened. She writhed, clawing at the air with her talons. “Yes! I tore its guts out! I dined on its liver!”
“Yes, yes,” Petru said. He jumped back to avoid a swipe. A patch of mucus was dried in the fur just above her left cheekbone. He flicked the flakes and pellets to the floor, and kicked dry sand over them. Cleotra caught him with a wild swing of her leg. Petru tumbled backwards and sat down hard. Dust rose around him. He cringed at the state of his fur. It would take forever to get all that sand out of his tail.
“Forgive me, dearest lady,” Petru said. He knew the diatribe was not aimed at him. It was the illness talking. Cleotra had an evil temper, feared throughout the clan, but she rarely exercised it on him. He took great care not to arouse it. “Oh, no, no, no, mistress, don’t, please!”
Cleotra rose to all fours and arched her back high, flinging her tail out of the way. Petru leaped forward with the cloth held out.
It wasn’t an adequate barrier. Liquid bowel movements sprayed out of her anus. He caught a small quantity, but the rest fell onto her bedding. She immediately began to scratch at the mess as if to bury it, then realized she had excrement all over her hands. She dropped onto her side and began to cry.
“Oh, mistress, calm yourself,” Petru said. He dropped the cloth and scrubbed his pads against the sandy floor. When they were as clean as he could get them, he gathered the Dancer in his arms. She was as a light bundle of sticks covered with dry fur.
Her fever was getting worse. Young as she was, he feared that she might die before Cassa.
Once he had cleaned Cleotra and placed her on a nest of fresh bedding, she was so exhausted by her nightmares that she fell into a deep sleep. Grateful for the respite, Petru went out to clean the stink from his own fur.
* * *
The only water to be had needed to be hauled up a pail at a time from the depths of a single well at the heart of the oasis. It tasted sweet, but the Mrem feared that the encroaching sea, not far to the north, would invade the water table from below and pollute this well and others ahead of them with salt. Once that happened, the Lailah Clan would be forced farther into enemy lands. Reluctant to leave his charges, Petru kept looking over his shoulder at the tent where they rested. He disliked change. Change was the enemy, even more than the hated Liskash.
At least the Lailah had had a few months of peace, more so than many of their distant kinsfolk. They had departed the Liskash satrapy of Ckotliss where they had wintered more than a month before. Each clan had had its own place to live among the stone buildings within the high, strong walls. As much as was possible, the Mrem sought to live as though the Great Salt had not invaded their lives and destroyed their lands. Marriages had taken place in the citadel. A few newborns had been welcomed, and several more begotten. Many councils and much healing had taken place, but not enough to undo the evil of having had to depart their homeland with so little preparation. An ongoing interchange of ideas in council was begun among the fragments of the clans now joined together under the banner of the Lailah, but mainly the Mrem were grateful for a place to live safely.
Since the Liskash lord Tae Shanissi was dead and all his court with him, the remaining Liskash fled from the citadel or existed in a forced truce with the Mrem. The good things were a chance to rest and raise healthy cattle, the crops to feed them and the clan on the road, and time to send out scouts to determine the best way around the new ocean that parted them from the rest of the Mrem and safety. The bad thing was they must eventually set out and continue to the west in hopes of meeting up with the rest of the Clan of the Claw. The Lailah could not hope to hold off incursions on Ckotliss by other Liskash wizards who would surely investigate why their brother was no longer communicating with them. It was not altruism on the part of the lizards, but pure self-interest. An empty castle would be a new outpost for the one who could conquer it. The cold ones were friends to no one, not even one another.
The land became more difficult immediately west of the citadel, a natural defense against invasion. The Mrem had a choice between harsh desert and sheer cliffs that overlooked it, a landscape constructed by a vengeful whim of the gods. But the choice resolved itself farther on—the escarpments, receded farther from the salty shore, leaving an expanse of sand and further in, scanty brush in which birds and tiny lizards flitted. There was little cover, but at least it was an easy road, if a perilous one. The Lailah were grateful that none of the herdbeasts or the krelprep would have precious weight run off them on the long journey ahead. Still, they could not linger. The sea encroached daily upon the narrow neck of land. Beyond lay the great desert and who knew what dangers?
The Dancers mourned those of the Mrem whose lands had been drowned. Many lovely valleys were now beneath the waves, and who knew where the inhabitants had gone? The Dancers had performed many rites to lay to rest the spirits of those who had died. Very few survivors were found who claimed to come from those northern valleys.
The Mrem slaves who had been freed within the compound did not trust their freedom at first. Because of the Liskash noble’s mind powers, they had given up hope of being considered anything but menial servants and the occasional meat beast by the Liskash. Once the spell had been broken long enough, they began to realize that it was true. When they were convinced by the talonmaster Bau Dibsea and Cassa that they deserved better, they could not show enough how grateful they were. Gradually, they regained pride in themselves, caring for their coats and claws once more. In a grand ceremony with their own ill-trained Dancers performing the rite of thanks before Aedonniss and Assirra, they swore their allegiance to the Lailah clan. Those Liskash who left the Mrem alone or who had treated captives well were left in peace. But the former servants took dire revenge on any of the Liskash who had tormented them. New heads were found dangling from cords along the city gates every morning for a month. The bodies were never found.
Petru did not care where they had been bestowed, as long as he did not have to cope with rotting and dismembered corpses. He had enough to do looking after his Dancers. His ladies immediately took the young ones under their tutelage. Already, the newcomers were thrilling and amazing the Lailah with the harrowing stories that they acted out. Even Ysella, most junior of the Dancers, had acquired a fist of students of her own. They had heard of the young female’s heroic exploits, and begged to serve her and learn from her. To Ysella’s credit, the praise and adulation had not changed her behavior toward her betters, among whom Petru counted himself for the moment. Once she had truly achieved the mastery of Dance and become a full priestess, he would naturally cede authority to her, but until then, he tolerated her antics with the patience of a loving uncle.
The former servants threw their full energies to the benefit of their new clansfolk. They knew where everything was hidden in the stone chambers, cellars and corridors. The councilor Sherril Rangawo oversaw the growing inventory with an authority that irked Petru, but he could not help but admit that the results gave heart to the entire Mrem clan. Working throughout the winter months, the Mrem stripped the palace of anything useful, especially weapons, along with tools to make and repair them, carts, lamps and fuel for same, dried herbs and tinctures for medicine and lightweight treasures they could use as trade goods upon the road. Petru himself had gone through Tae Shanissi’s personal chambers in search of adornments. His stores of sparkle powders, scents and other cosmetics were running low, and the Dancers appreciated the small touches he added to their beauty before they performed. Once they knew what was lacking in the citadel’s own stores, Sherril assembled a list of the supplies that the clan would need upon setting out. Every male and warrior female went on the hunt outside the citadel’s walls, and every female, child and elder set their hands to salting meats and drying eggs, herbs and fruit. Wholesome grains and good-keeping tubers were packed into pottery jugs and sealed with wax against insects. Honey, oil, vinegar, and wine were bottled into clay amphorae and set in endless rows in between jugs meant for water that they would fill from the city wells just before setting out. Salt they already had in plenty.
The Mrem had no intention of impoverishing their hosts, for that way lay resentment and possible vengeance. The Liskash themselves must soon move from the citadel, and would require supplies of their own. The Great Salt continued to rise, as much as an outstretched hand a day. The Liskash’s jetties that jutted out i
nto the sea were now entirely surrounded, their pilings nearly drowned already. Sometime in the not-too-distant future the encroaching sea would swamp and envelop Ckotliss. The land occupied by the citadel and its rich fields had little time before it was as much a memory as the Lailah’s ancient home.
Bau Dibsea announced at a council to which he invited all the townsfolk remaining within the walls that anyone who shared their grain or animals would be compensated from Tae Shanissi’s confiscated treasures. Cassa and Bau insisted that the Mrem leave the citadel in as good condition as when they had entered it. As the city would be under water in a matter of moons, it was an empty gesture, but one that they were sure would be approved by Aedonniss and Assirra. They never truly trusted a single Liskash, but they were good temporary masters, and the Liskash responded to that benign treatment. They hated the Mrem, yet they were not soldiers. If they were not misused, they would not try to follow the Mrem westward when they departed to take revenge in the open. Bau was seldom wrong when it came to summing up an enemy. He assumed that the remaining lizards would gather together their goods and animals and flee eastward once the Mrem were gone.
When spring came at last, there was no excuse for remaining. Scouts returned weekly with reports of the terrain to the west. No parties of intelligent Liskash had been spotted; no signs of their passage had been found. The news was not all good, of course. Because the sea had already filled the low-lying farmlands of the north, they would be forced to travel in the open desert.