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 War Leader 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. Fist Master 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 his claws enameled 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 War Leader’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 War Leader 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 War Leader. 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 War Leader’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.”
The lanky Mrem bowed his head.
“As you wish, Fist Master. It would be my honor to serve. I will bring the others back safely.”
And the story of his exploits upon his return would be certain to earn the admiration and attention of several of the females among them, Petru noted, with an inward smirk. He did not mind what the excuse, if it obtained for him a strong escort.
“It is settled, then,” Bau said, nodding sharply. “You may choose a fist of warriors to accompany you. Valet, you have my authority to choose three of our number who are not yet afflicted with the fever to gather these herbs and whatever else you may find in the marshlands. Anyone who is not caring for the sick or protecting the perimeter can accompany you to locate these herbs. Come back as quickly as possible.”
Petru righted himself and brushed off the few grains of sand that had accumulated in his coat.
“I shall do so, talonmaster. I have my workforce in mind already.”
* * *
“How dare you tell the War Leader I would come with you?” Sherril Rangawo complained, not for the first or even fifth time since they had set out from the oasis. He trudged along unwillingly, a pack containing several hide sacs on his back, though he was careful to stay half a step before Petru. “I have many important duties to serve!”
“Nothing is more important than this,” Petru said, fixing a fierce eye on the diplomat’s spine. He could see it was rigid with indignation even under the scanty moonlight of the new claw. “Lady Cleotra has refused to eat anything for more than a day. More than half of the kits are afflicted. They need soft, fresh foods to tempt their appetites, or I fear they may die.”
Sherril ignored him. His long tail switched back and forth to show his annoyance.
“I have a basket for gathering eggs,” Nolda said, shrugging a crate woven from straw and stuffed with rags over her narrow shoulders. She had a veil around her face to keep the sand out of her eyes. Her young kit, now several months old, was back at the camp in the care of a nursemaid who was still in good health. He had not shown signs of fever, but she was worried about his dwindling appetite. “We can surely bring enough back for all the sick. I will ensure they return intact.”
Petru was flattered that she had volunteered to accompany him. As a Dancer she was sacred to the gods, but he knew her to be resourceful and energetic. He regarded her with affection, his pupils enormous in the dim starlight.
“Dear lady,” he said, with a deep bow. “Your grace will aid us in this enterprise. But just let me straighten that cloth for you.” Nolda had not yet mastered the skill at tying a sand-shield. She had it wrapped as though she was going to play the part of Mystery in the sacred dance about the origin of Night. With careful hands, Petru pulled the veil off, shook it out, and wound it over the female’s soft black ears and under her chin, leaving the fabric to bell out before her face without touching it. “That’s better.”
“You take such good care of us, Petru,” Nolda said, with a smile.
“You honor me.”
Sherril snorted. The Dancer turned huge golden eyes upon him in surprise.
“I beg your pardon, Dancer,” he said, unctuously. “Sand in my nose.”
Behind the female’s shoulder, Petru smirked.
Scaro regarded the valet’s fussing with little patience. He turned to the final member of the foraging party, a former slave named Bireena. Slender but no longer emaciated, she had short, bronze-colored fur with a dark streak on her forehead, a lighter throat and chin, and enormous, sensitive ears that he found intriguing.
“How far are the swamps from here?” he asked her.
The Mrem shook herself as though she was surprised to be addressed without violence.
“A half day of fast walk,” she replied shyly. She carried at least two eights of sacks, more than she ought to have borne, but she had insisted, saying that she was used to burdens. She had a sweet, sad face, with a pointed chin that drew attention to her broad cheekbones and forehead. Scaro wished he could find the Liskash who were responsible for her ill-treatment and tear their guts out, but the chances were great that some of the freed slaves had already taken their revenge on those particular dinos. Bireena was a pretty female. If she had had any spirit in her, she might be a fine companion when they stopped to rest, but he had no wish to take advantage of a Mrem who did not feel she could refuse.
Scaro looked up. The sky was clear, and the wind had died down to a breeze. He smelled the salt breeze to their right. It seemed closer all the time. So did the faint stink of Liskash. He couldn’t tell whether the smell came from intelligent lizards or their huge and stupid dino kin. Either way they were bad news. He wished he had more warriors at his side than a single fist. Instead, he took the long, bronze-barbed spear from the pack on his back and gripped it in his fist. He nodded to Imrun and Golcha to fan out to the left and right. Taadar and Nil already were in position to scout ahead and trail behind to ensure they were not being followed.
The smell of Liskash became stronger the farther they walked. He hoped that the lizardkin would follow their normal pattern of being torpid in the cool night. That way, if he stumbled upon them in their somnolent state, they stood a chance of killing a number of them while those he was protecting could escape.
Close to dawn, the sweet decay of the marshland was almost overwhelmingly strong as the sun warmed it. The air was moist if not fresh. The ground underfoot changed from wind-polished sandstone to thin grass to almost lush plant life. Ahead in the nascent sunlight they saw the tips of reeds and the sausage shapes of cat tails waving in the breeze. To everyone’s relief, the temperature was markedly cooler than it was in the oasis. Fresh water flowed downhill from the headlands at their left to join the Great Salt not many hundreds of Mrem-lengths to the right. As they stepped over one of those rain-swelled rivulets, the shapes of the plants were thrown into relief.
“That way,” Petru said, pleased. He recognized those shapes. The reeds were of the type that his grandmother’s book described. This land burgeoned with healing plants. There was more than enough for him to distil tinctures to treat the whole clan and their beasts, and dry herbs against later need. Scaro took the lead. He let out a whistle that sounded like the hoot of a night bird. It was answered by a similar call from Ta
adar, far ahead.
Bireena became almost animated as they walked on in the purple light.
“We are near my old home,” she said, looking around, her pupils enormous. “It was such a beautiful place. We lived at peace for many generations until the Liskash decided they required slaves. I do not know if anyone remains in this area.”
“I don’t smell any trace of Mrem,” Scaro said. “Only Liskash.” He had donned his protective necklet and bronze overclaws, a fearsome weapon that could gut a giant lizard in two swipes. He bore his spear in his left hand and his toothed sword in the other. “Stay close to me.”
“Bah,” Sherril said, looking around him in disgust. “There is nothing out here for the lizards to eat. Why would they be here and not in the citadel?”
Scaro had no time to answer. He used the spear to part the increasingly tall greenery, seeking for stable footing. Shadowy trees stunted by the brackish water that fed them had become covered with twisting lianas. Huge, multi-lobed leaves tipped water on them as they passed. One gigantic, cup-shaped frond unleashed a torrent that splashed all of them. Sherril looked disgusted. Bireena seemed delighted. It must remind her of home.
“I seek triangle-reeds,” Petru said. “Where will we find the greatest number?”
Bireena jerked her head in a rapid nod toward a wall of greenery to the south. “They grow in large clumps along the inner shore of the marsh, just under the drip line of the trees. We will find a broad line of them just on the edge of the water.” She beckoned to the others to follow her.
Scaro hurried to catch up as she all but disappeared into the thick marsh. Vines trailing down from the treetops brushed his shoulders. He jumped at each fresh touch.
By Tooth and Claw - eARC Page 26