By Tooth and Claw

by S. M. Stirling

  Petru sighed for the good meals they had eaten over the winter. The months of privation before that had been hard on his lush figure, and those of his ladies, of course. Bau took council from those of the Mrem slaves who had lived to the west and could advise him on the shape of the terrain and the dangers of what lizard-kin roamed there, or had when they were last free. The Lailah were as well prepared as it was possible to be, not knowing how long their journey would last, nor into what dangers it would take them. With great reluctance, they set out.

  But the desert was vast. While like any of the Mrem Petru reveled the heat, he disliked immensely the endless dust that their passage kicked up. His thick fur needed to be brushed every time they stopped, or he felt he would look unfit to care for his Dancers. Almost daily, the hunters brought in fresh meat from Liskash-kin and birds. Petru treated the journey as though it was a picnic. When the caravan halted for meals, he prepared dainties for his charges and presented them with as much of a flourish as he could muster. Cassa was amused by his antics. For a while, it was easy enough.

  The Mrem tired quickly during the first few days, but soon fell into the habit of the march. Fistmaster Emoro Awr, one of the oldest and most seasoned of the warriors, stayed at the rear with a fist of his best fighters, to protect the Dancers, but also to keep an eye on Petru, his dearest love. The riders flanked the Dancers as they walked beside the cart containing their tent and other personal goods. Except for the warriors protecting the train, no one rode but the kits and elders. The scouts led the way, riding back and forth between the talonmaster and his officers to give the news on what lay ahead.

  At first the desert looked featureless, all grayish-yellow under a broad blue sky, but Petru soon learned to distinguish differences in the terrain. It was not all sand, but it was hot. Undulating waves of bedrock would suddenly appear in between dunes, leading down into crevasses that were far cooler to traverse than the open surface. Bau Dibsea took counsel from the others, and decided it was wiser to travel at night, when they would not fall prey to the hot sun. Thereafter, the Mrem slept in the crevasses. Some were populated with sting-tails and other perils, but most were safe. Like the scouts, Petru scanned for those darker points of land. When no crack in the earth was available, they trudged over the dunes under the stars, taking their time for the sake of the laboring, panting beasts of burden. The whipping sand covered footprints so swiftly that the best scouts had to wait for the dry storms to abate before leading the train forward. They navigated by the stars and the rising moon. It was in its first quarter, a slender hook the Dancers called Aedonniss’s Claw.

  Their supplies of water ran out very quickly. The Mrem found the shadowy trails of the animals that occupied the desert in between gusts of wind. Following them carefully and patiently so as not to scare the desert creatures into fleeing randomly, they waited, eyes aglow in the darkness, to see where the small beasts went for water and food.

  Some of the scouts that went off on these foraging expeditions never returned, but Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh, a brave Mrem who had proved his worth in Ckotliss as in many other situations before, rode proudly into the temporary shelter, his head held high, with a tale of sweet water, ripe figs, frogs and even fish not half a day’s march ahead.

  “Broad pools, like blue jewels in the pale gold desert,” he said, preening his silver whiskers with pride.

  That was their first oasis. The beasts had to be coaxed up and out of the sheltered passageway, but once they got the scent of water, they could not be held back. The lush, green spot was so small, they could have missed it entirely. Scaro preened at having been the one to find it. A couple of the younger nubile females showed him their gratitude, to Petru’s amusement. But it was the beginning of the pattern into which their journey fell.

  The desert did not give up its gifts freely. The secret of each oasis had to be teased from the terrain and the sands. At their waking at sunset every day the Dancers performed rites to ensure that Assirra pleaded with her husband to show them favor. They never knew how many days would pass in between finding water. The Mrem covered many weary, hot miles, fearing that the wells they sought were only illusions in the minds of the desperate scouts.

  Everyone’s fears came to pass one moon into their trek. After several successes, the forward observers failed at last to find a well. Day after day, the leaders released smaller and smaller rations of water to the clan to make it last. Petru gave up as much of his portion as he could bear to make sure the Dancers had enough to sustain them. The long, dry trek went on so long that the clan was ready to give up hope.

  At last, when they feared they might lose several of their elders and kits to dehydration, the scouts trudged back with good news and half-full amphorae. They had found an oasis, a hollow with several small, deep pools that bubbled up from the depths. It was so remote that the clan passed skeleton after skeleton of lizard kin who had died before they reached it.

  Desperate for water, the Mrem had pressed on to the southwest. A scout waited on the rim of the hidden valley and guided them down the slope into a pocket of greenery. The Dancers and warriors tried to prevent the clan from drinking the water before it was boiled, but some, in the choice between life and death, drank of the pool. What, after all, was the worst that could happen? They drank their fill, then loaded up every vessel with the water, and set out again as soon as everyone had regained their strength.

  The worst occurred. Within a day or two past the green valley, most of those who drank of unfiltered water became ill. Then, horribly, the illness spread, until very few of the clan was untouched by fever, chills and unsettled bowels. The sickest patients grew disoriented, seeing creatures and threats that were not there. Of these many died. Grief-stricken, their loved ones buried them in the desert.

  The talonmaster called a conference of the elders of the clan. With the endless heat like an oppressive hand pressing down upon them, the Dancers and the senior warriors gathered under the waning moon. In the distance, Petru could hear the slither of night creatures. He prayed fervently that Aedonniss would spare the Mrem from the insidiousness of poisonous serpents and stinging insects.

  Sherril Rangawo, as usual, the lazy hairball, spoke for those who wanted to stop. The big gray Mrem argued that they needed to halt for a time to heal themselves. Emoro argued against it, pointing out that the scouts had also noticed the footprints of Liskash of all kinds investigating their trail and spoor. They could not hide, nor could they stand against the main forces of Liskash armies. A good deal of grumbling ensued, but the clan trudged on, stopping frequently throughout the nights to care for those whom the disease felled. Cassa promised that they could stop when they found a place reasonably defensible.

  Instead, one by one, the Mrem sickened. The disease made their bowels loose, filled up their noses and throats with phlegm, but worst of all, the sufferers began to see hallucinations. Big, strong warriors fell into believing they were kits again. They saw monsters and magic-wielding Liskash everywhere. So did their pack and food animals, who startled at shadows or swirls of dust. The patients began to attack even those who nursed them. The Dancers held together the clan through the firmest discipline, but even they began to lose that grip as fewer of them were able to Dance their supplication to the gods. Bau Dibsea, seeing the numbers of sick increase, had no choice but to order the caravan to stop at the next oasis.

  And there they had stayed, for a quarter of a moon, already. The water in the bubbling pool was indeed fresh and sweet. Petru looked down in annoyance at his coat as he went to clean himself. While he was still healthy, and he meant to remain so for the sake of his ladies, he wanted to look his best.

  * * *

  A few of the youngsters still healthy enough to assist were gathered around the well. In the heat of noon, most lolled flat, their black fur making them look like shadows, on the terrace of stones surrounding the pool or the benches at the perimeter. For a moment, Petru marveled at the presence of such constructions. This oasis,
like the last one, was so remote that they had found dead animals in the sands all around it who had lost their bid to reach water in time. Such a contrast to the garden existed within the boundaries of the well’s environs that it could be the difference between paradise and purgatory.

  Some ancient ruler had commanded that stonemasons and artisans furnish this place as if it was a pleasure spot. Tall carvings and trees stood sentry. Three shallow, rectangular enclosures like low tubs a hand’s length in depth stood at the morning, midday and twilight spots around the circles. They were designed for travelers to clean themselves. The drains pointed out of the center, so as not to defile the pure water at the heart of the oasis. One tub was filled with water, and occupied.

  Sherril Rangawo, a diplomat of the Lailah clan, glanced up lazily from the water as Petru stalked toward him. He waved a hand over his head toward the nearest bench.

  “Valet! My wine cup is over there. Bring it to me.”

  Petru felt the fur over his spine stand straight up. Sherril well knew that he served only the Dancers, not minor functionaries such as him. But thanks to Cleotra, he was furnished with the wherewithal to make certain Sherril regretted his boldness.

  “As you wish,” Petru said. He reached over the diplomat’s head. As he did, he dislodged a stinking mass or two from his fur. They dropped onto Sherril’s face, narrowly missing his eyes. Sherril sat up, sputtering and batting at himself with wet hands. It took only a sniff for Sherril to discover what the unexpected missiles were made of. He let out an annoyed wail. Petru also ensured that a small lump or two of dried mucus fell into the wine cup. He handed it to Sherril. The diplomat downed a draught without looking. The taste, if not the texture, hit his tongue. He sat up, spat out the mouthful in a fury, and glared at Petru.

  “Ptah! How dare you? You could have made me ill!”

  “How dare you?” Petru rejoined, propping his hands on his hips in impatience. Despite the state of his coat, he managed an air of magnificent affront. “I have told you before, you do not command me. And every pair of hands is needed to serve those who are ill. Why are you here, and not assisting the healers?”

  Angrily, Sherril cleared his tongue and tossed the wine from his cup into the dust.

  “I organized these young ones to prepare food for the warriors,” he said. He gestured at his wet and now disarranged fur. “Look at me! I had just reached a stage of peaceful serenity!”

  The youngsters had roused from their torpor, and were watching the two senior Mrem with eyes so wide that they could have popped out of their heads.

  Petru pitched his voice so it could be heard a mile away in the desert, let alone to the edges of the oasis.

  “There is no time for peace or serenity! We are in terrible straits. We have been since the new sea rushed in! We will never be calm or safe until we are with the rest of the Mrem clans on the north side of the great valley!”

  Such a speech was not unlike one that Sherril would have made, to rally underlings to do work that he did not want to do himself. The glare with which he favored Petru reflected irritation with a grudging hint of admiration.

  “What would you have me do, in this dry-as-a-bone desert?” he hissed. “I cannot cure the sick, and I certainly don’t want to catch the illness myself.”

  “I fear for the lives of our Dancers,” Petru said. “You saw, as all of the Lailah did, what became of the tribe who lost theirs. It would tear out the heart of our clan. I have been thinking. I think I know what may aid them.”

  Sherril was unimpressed.

  “And what is that? You are no healer!”

  Petru regarded him with haughty displeasure.

  “You have no idea as to my training. To become the primary servant of the Dancers requires instruction in many disciplines, including the preparation of simple medicines. But nothing I make for them will mean anything if they can’t keep food inside them. They require nourishment.”

  “We have food,” Sherril said grouchily. “We spent an entire season in that stinking Liskash compound to ensure supplies for the year.”

  “Dried foods, yes. Grains for the animals, yes. But those are not easily digested. I want to find eggs and bivalves and other soft foods high in protein and tempting to a patient’s palate. The maps that we took from Ckotliss show that we are not many days’ march from a valley with a lush swampland. The Mrem from those lands say the same.”

  “I know that! For the moment, it is time for me to be clean.”

  “Good. I shall be clean, also.”

  Petru climbed down into the bathing pool and nudged the less-substantial diplomat over until the level of the water displaced by both their bodies splashed over the edge. The filth on his coat dissolved out and began to float toward the pool’s other inhabitant. Sputtering, Sherril sprang out in one magnificent leap, landing a yard away. He shook his body, spraying droplets everywhere. The youngsters huffed with laughter. Sherril snarled at them. They cringed. The diplomat stalked away, shaking his fur. The drops of water hitting the hot stones hissed as Sherril undoubtedly wished he could do, but such would not be dignified. Petru lounged back into the water, enjoying not only the sensation, but the air of satisfaction at seeing the other Mrem discomfited. Sherril was always seeking privileges above his station. Petru would never do that himself.

  But the matter of the Dancers’ lack of appetite was something that Petru did take seriously. As night fell, he planned to approach Bau Dibsea with his proposal.

  * * *

  The talonmaster waved him into the tent where he sat with maps outspread over his large folding table. Bau Dibsea was a large and powerful Mrem whose white chest only threw his black coat into greater relief. The fur around his neck was matted down from wearing a bronze gorget to protect his throat in battle, and he had scars that rippled through the thick hair on his arms and legs. He wore none of his protective armor in the heat, but it lay close by on his sleeping furs in case the alarm was sounded. His staff of authority rested against the arm of his camp chair. Fistmaster Emoro Awr and Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh crouched on their long feet on the rugs that covered the sand, peering at the intricately inked hides.

  Emoro gave him a sidelong look as he entered. Petru had taken the trouble to attire himself in his finest necklaces and wristlets, as well as dusting his newly cleaned fur with sparkling bronze powder and enameling his claws with gold, Cleotra’s favorite color. He knew he looked handsome, and was rewarded by the expression in his mate’s eyes. They did not advertise their relationship widely among the rest of the clan, but they knew Bau Dibsea was aware of it.

  At the talonmaster’s signal, Petru cast himself at Bau Dibsea’s feet and writhed to show his throat in a gesture of obeisance. Impatiently, Bau signaled to him to rise. Petru sat up.

  “Talonmaster, I come to you on behalf the Dancers of the Lailah clan, whose well-being is the greatest care in my life, whose beauty delights my eyes upon rising and upon my settling down at night. Nothing matters to me so much as their health and happiness, even my own life . . . !”

  Bau cut him off with a slash of his own, unadorned claw.

  “Speak plainly, valet! The day is not long enough to hear your tale. You serve the Dancers well. This I know. What do you want? You have three breaths to make your point.”

  Cassa might also have demanded the same. Petru was equally prepared to be terse. He dispensed with the rest of his elaborate plea, and laid out his plan in a way that set the talonmaster’s head to nod with approval at its brevity and clarity. With a golden claw, he traced out the path on the map on Bau’s desk that would take him to his goal in the shortest amount of time.

  “. . . So your wish is to go on ahead of us to seek out these medicinal plants?” Bau asked, when Petru had finished speaking. He looked weary, though at least he seemed healthy. His thick, black coat was dusty. So was Emoro’s. Petru longed to offer to brush them, but the talonmaster was not one to accept familiarity from lesser males, and this was not the time nor the place to
groom Emoro. Later, in private, when he could take his time, would be better.

  “Yes, Talonmaster,” Petru said. “The book of ancient lore that I inherited from my granddam describes a fever so like this one that I am certain that the cure must be the same. If our new clan members are correct about what lies before us, the brackish waters ahead of us should contain the appropriate water reeds and thread vines that will stem the symptoms and permit our Dancers to recover. I would also like to gather birds’ eggs and amphibians. Both tender meats might tempt the ladies to swallow a morsel or so. If I travel this way,” his gleaming talon traced a line from the camp and down nearly to the narrowing coastline and the depiction of marsh plants just inland from it, “it will take two days less than if I go this way.” The finger retraced the line. “The dinos are closer to the first way, but I am worried about my ladies surviving until I return.”

  Bau waved a hand. “You shall go, but I can’t send fighters to accompany you. The rest who are still able-bodied must remain to protect those who cannot flee danger.”

  Emoro looked uncomfortable. He was sworn to obey Bau, but he did not like to see Petru exposed to peril. He would make the argument if he could, but Petru didn’t need his help to convince the talonmaster. He opened huge, beseeching gold eyes at Bau, and tilted his head so his throat was revealed again.

  “Please forgive me for mentioning it, great leader, but I am no warrior. Can you not allow me even a single fighter to protect us on this task? It is for the sake of the Dancers, beloved of Assirra. I serve Her as I serve them. Not even one?”

  The talonmaster’s mouth pursed, half in amusement. “Very well. Emoro, who can we spare?”

  The grizzled veteran knew better than to suggest himself. He dropped his jaw to think, revealing the chipped lower fang on the left side of his jaw.

  “Few are they who haven’t had a case of the poops these last few days, Talonmaster, not even the animals,” he said with a rueful grin. “The rope enclosure where the herd beasts are penned up is like a cesspit. Even I’ve been loose around the bowels a little myself. The waking dreams are the worst part of it. I’ve got an eight or so who can’t remember their right names. If Petru can find us a cure, then I’m for it. He knows his craft.” He eyed Scaro. “What about you, Drillmaster? You’ve stayed healthy enough. Petru is right. Even a chance at a cure is better than trying to press on into the teeth of the Liskash in our current state.”