The Crimson Claw

by Deborah Chester

  Besides, her barge was coming into harbor under escort from dozens of smaller craft as well as five sleek military cruisers. All flags flying, the barge gleamed in the sunshine, with her splendid fittings of gold and brass polished to shining brightness. Skimmers and shuttles zoomed by overhead, darting here and there so their occupants could catch a closer glimpse of Israi.

  Conscious of all the attention, Israi stood on the bridge deck, gripping the railing and waving merrily. Her scarves whipped in the wind, and her heart thudded fast from all the excitement.

  She had never been so happy.

  No longer did she remember her impatience on the slow, stately journey, dying of boredom with nothing to do but lounge on the deck with her retinue of attendants, courtiers, advisers, and Palace Guards—each and every one of whom was too old for her taste. Worst of all, her egg-brother Oviel had been included in the entourage. He called himself her companion, but she considered him a spy and would never forgive him for having betrayed her during Festival. She ignored him as much as possible, seeking every opportunity to slight him in public.

  Besides Lord Huthaldraril, she was encumbered with Lord Brax, Minister of Finance, and Lord Manhaliz, Minister of Industry. They each came with their own retinues of attendants and servants. Daily they met her with agendas, reports, and boring lists of statistics to memorize. Israi yawned through these sessions, but at least they were less boring than watching the muddy banks of the river slide by. The scenery was usually uninspiring—mostly reedy marshland, sometimes forests that came down to the very banks, sometimes small villages perched beside its meandering course, sometimes factories pouring waste into the water and creating a stink of dead fish and evil-smelling foam.

  Israi could have flown here in three hours aboard a shuttle. It was a much more efficient, more comfortable way to travel. However, her father maintained the imperial river barge as an important tradition. Never mind how slow it was, or how cramped and awkward belowdecks. Her stateroom, although considered spacious by everyone else aboard, was the smallest room she’d ever occupied in her life. She took no delight in tours of the antiquated craft, conducted by the captain himself in his stiff uniform and rows of medals. She felt as though she’d been confined to a relic—one out of date and embarrassing.

  But this morning, as they sailed at last into the broad mouth of the river, where the waters of the Cuna Da’r flowed into the sea harbor, Israi finally understood what the barge was good for.

  Clad in finery and broiling in the sun, she stood on the bridge deck and was brought into port with a slow stateliness that gave her ample time to drink in the adulation pouring at her from the darting skimmers, the sailing craft bobbing on the choppy harbor waters, and the cheering crowds massed on shore.

  She smiled and waved, loving every moment of the pomp and pageantry. The officers of the barge lined up on the foredeck beneath her, standing at rigid attention, and saluted as cannon salvos roared over the harbor.

  Slowly and smoothly the barge docked at last. A cluster of Malraaket officials and aristocrats stood waiting on the wharf to greet her. As the automated gangway projected itself from the barge to shore, Lord Huthaldraril puffed out his air sacs and made a low sound in his throat to catch her attention.

  “Is the Imperial Daughter ready to go ashore?”

  Israi gathered her scarves around her and turned to step into the shade of the open bridge. Complicated machinery surrounded her. The bridge crew stood at attention to one side, and saluted her as she turned to them. The captain himself bowed low.

  Israi had already been coached. She knew exactly what to do.

  “Captain,” she said formally, her melodic voice charming everyone present as it had been trained to do, “it has been the very great pleasure of the Imperial Daughter to sail on this vessel under your command. Thank you.”

  The captain bowed again, his rill flushing with gratification.

  Israi walked off the bridge deck and climbed carefully, with great dignity, down the narrow spiral of steps onto the main deck below. Here, her entire entourage waited for her.

  Oviel stepped forward and bowed. He wore a coat of green and white stripes, the sleeves very wide in the latest style. His rill stood high above an engraved collar studded with a single small Gaza stone. His eyes met hers as he straightened, and he flicked out his tongue.

  “Everything is arranged,” he announced. “I have been selected to escort the Imperial Daughter if it is her pleasure to grant me this honor.”

  Incensed by his brazenness, Israi opened her mouth to protest, but Oviel pushed rudely past Lord Huthaldraril and stepped very close to her. He said softly so that only she could hear, “Take care. You know you must behave yourself on this trip. You are being watched, Israi. Do you want to make another mistake like you did during Festival?”

  Her temper flared hot, but the warning in his words held her in check. She glared at him, hating his smug, mocking tone, but although her rill went rigid and dark blue behind her head, she flicked out her tongue in a pretense of meekness.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Oviel waited, as though he expected her to say more, but when she let the silence stretch awkwardly between them, he bowed and took his place at her side.

  Israi whirled on him fast, hissing in displeasure. “Behind me!” she snapped, pointing.

  Oviel pretended to be contrite. “My error. An oversight on my part, in all this excitement. Forgive me for having provoked the imperial temper.”

  He stepped back a pace in the correct position while Israi watched him through narrowed eyes. Lord Huthaldraril took him by the arm and murmured to him. Turning her back on them both, Israi lowered her rill. She loathed him to the very tip of her tail, but she knew she must never allow her temper to make her underestimate him again. Oviel was sly and ambitious. He circled her constantly, like a naavsk watching the egg nest of a waterfowl, always searching for her weaknesses. He had said she was being watched. Yes, by him. He wanted her to start doubting herself. He wanted her to feel pressured and unsure.

  Israi lifted her head even higher. Oviel was no match for her.

  At the moment she had too much to do to concern herself long with her pesky, overly ambitious egg-sibling. Ahead of her, members of the Palace Guard formed a double line on either side of the imperial red carpet stretching down the gangway. On shore, another double row of soldiers in the sleek, crimson uniforms of the professional army spread out into a large circle surrounding a clear area with a dais. The city officials—arrayed in finery—waited there.

  At the sight of them, Israi realized she would have to endure a speech. She sighed.

  But before she could pout about it, the soldiers saluted in unison and musicians struck up rousing music.

  In the background, vidcams floated above the heads of the cheering, waving crowd, recording everything for the public vidcasts that would be aired across the city and planet later that day.

  One of her ladies in waiting joined her side and hastily rearranged the folds of her disheveled scarves, then tucked down the hem of her gown. Israi was wearing raw silk woven with threads of actual gold. The strands kept catching the sunlight as she moved, so that to the onlookers she seemed to be radiating light itself. Her rill collar was also of gold filigree, as befitted her station, and tiny Gaza stones on golden wires dangled daintily from her rill spines. She had matured into a tall, slender, and infinitely graceful female. The tilt of her large eyes, the arch of her throat, the perfection of her long arms all combined to take the spectators’ breath away. With her golden, flawless skin and flashing emerald eyes, she was in person far more magnificent and beautiful than any vidcast had ever shown her to be.

  As she stepped onto the gangway, coming into full sight for the first time, the crowd gave a collective aah and surged against the protective clear barricades behind the soldiers. Even the officials drew quicker and shorter breaths than before, and their smiles broadened into ones of genuine welcome.

 
; She walked slowly and gracefully down the incline of the gangway, knowing she was radiant in the hot sunlight, knowing she dazzled them all. Everywhere she looked she saw open mouths and faces filled with awe, astonishment, and adoration. It appeared the whole city had turned out just to greet her.

  Tremendous satisfaction filled Israi. At that moment she knew her life to be perfect. She forgot about Oviel walking at her heels. She forgot about the recent months of intrigue, failure, and humiliation. Her father had forgiven her transgressions, and sent her here in his place, representing the glory of the Kaa. Malraaket, far from acting disappointed in having been sent a substitute this year, seemed to be overwhelmed with excitement. Israi smiled, basking in the adulation. This was what she had been born for. This was all that she craved.

  Partway down the gangway, at the point where the row of Palace Guards ended and the soldiers stationed here in Malraaket began, Israi paused with a showman’s sure knowledge of how to please a crowd, and waved to the spectators on both sides.

  Their cheering roared forth, even louder than before, and drowned out the music.

  The officials of the city bowed low and moved forward to greet Israi. Lord Huthaldraril adroitly murmured in her ear, identifying each official in turn. Israi beamed graciously and called each one by name.

  Inside, she was laughing at their provincial ways, at how they swelled with pride and puffed their throats to make themselves look more important.

  “Welcome to our humble city, your imperial highness,” the governor said with another low bow. He launched into his speech, his words echoing over the roar of the crowd, barely heard:

  “. . . later tomorrow the procession . . . unveiling of the statue dedicated to the glory of your imperial highness . . . banquets and a tour of the . . .”

  “Thank you, Lord Unstuleid,” she replied graciously. “On behalf of the Imperial Father, Sahmrahd Kaa, the Imperial Daughter is pleased to be received by you, your officials, and the citizens of Malraaket.”

  A tiny Viis chune, no more than a year or two out of the egg, came pattering forward with a bouquet of exquisite flowers.

  Israi exclaimed with delight and bent to caress her.

  Fresh cheers went up, and the vidcams zoomed closer to record a charming moment that would be aired across the empire. Israi smiled to herself as the chune raced back to her mother.

  Governor Unstuleid eyed Oviel with momentary uncertainty when no one introduced him, but then he adroitly moved to Israi’s right and gestured at the enclosed litter waiting in hoverpark at the opposite end of the wharf. Slowly they walked that way, with Oviel trailing awkwardly behind her. Lords Huthaldraril, Brax, and Manhaliz clustered behind Oviel. They walked past the honor guard while the governor’s young adjutant trailed the other Malraaket officials. Israi’s entourage had not yet disembarked from the barge. They would be transported to the governor’s palace later and were not to be part of the official procession.

  The litters were adorned with festoons and streamers of ribbons in the gaudy Malraaket colors. The governor’s hovered at the head of the line, its doors opened wide to reveal an interior of plush crimson.

  The crowd began to chant, “Israi! Israi! Israi!”

  People surged against the barricades, and Israi’s smile widened. She stopped and waved to them again while Huthaldraril, Brax, and Manhaliz boarded the second litter.

  Governor Unstuleid paused, his smile pinned in place while he waited to assist her in. Oviel puffed out his air sacs and started toward the litter, only to suddenly veer off and circle back to Israi as though he realized he could not board without her.

  More vidcams clustered about Israi, recording her as she stood there, so young, vibrant, and beautiful in the sunshine.

  Some of the soldiers waved the cams off, and while their attention was directed that way, a chune broke through and came running with another bouquet of flowers.

  Oviel touched Israi’s arm lightly to get her attention. “How charming,” he said. “Another little one bearing tribute. It will make a delightful tableau for the vidcasts. You’ve planned this very well. My commendations to your publicity staff.”

  Israi glared at him. “This was not planned,” she said, wishing he would go away.

  She turned to face the chune, but by then the governor had stepped between the little one and Israi.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said impatiently. “You are not authorized to bring those wilted blooms near the—”

  “Stand aside, Lord Unstuleid,” Israi said imperiously, annoyed that he should take it upon himself to interfere. She bent down to the chune and accepted this second bouquet. Unlike the first, these flowers had not been professionally prepared and were not pleasing by Israi’s usual standards. But such spontaneity from one of her youngest subjects delighted her. Aware that she must charm these citizens if she was to begin weaning their adoration away from her father to herself, Israi received the tribute from the chune’s trembling hand and smiled.

  Suddenly there was a shout, and more onlookers poured through, pushing the barricades aside like flotsam. They came surging at Israi and the others, engulfing them before anyone could act.

  Israi found herself surrounded by strangers, all of them eager to touch her, to handle her skin, her clothing. Alarmed, she looked around and realized she was cut off from her guards by an ever-widening sea of people.

  “Stand back,” the governor said, gesturing to the crowd, which buffeted him and ignored him. “Good citizens, please stand back.”

  The guards were coming. Trying to keep calm until they reached her, Israi turned around and reached out to Oviel for his help. But Oviel met her eyes and grimly retreated, pressing himself back from the onrush of the crowd.

  “Oviel!” she shouted.

  But he did not answer as he continued to move away from her.

  Infuriated by his cowardice, she wanted to throw something at him. How dare he desert her like this. He was her official escort, bound by protocol to protect her. She would see that he paid dearly for abandoning her.

  People surrounded her on all sides now, milling against her, touching her hands and skirts while they asked for her blessing. Israi had never been touched by common citizens before. She had never been cut off or engulfed by strangers like this. Horror rose inside her. She gasped and tried to draw away from them. But the crush and jostling grew worse, as more and more people pressed forward.

  Someone lunged at her, shouting her name as though crazed, and yanked off one of her scarves. He ran away with it streaming in his hand, and others reached for her scarves as well. Spun about and grabbed from all sides, Israi found them now reaching for her jewels, her clothing. They pulled her this way and that, suddenly shouting and fighting over her. Someone nearly knocked her off her feet, only the crowd surging against her from the opposite side keeping her from falling to the ground.

  Realizing she could be trampled to death in this mob, Israi was suddenly terrified. She cried out, pleading with them to release her, then commanding them. But in the yelling and shouting, her voice could not be heard. Jerked back and forth, she heard a loud rip of fabric, and now a group of ragged, dreadful creatures swarmed around her. Clad in hooded jerkins and tattered cloaks, they elbowed the citizens aside, fighting their way closer, ripping and grabbing at her gown.

  “It’s got gold woven in it,” one shouted.

  “Get the cloth! Get the cloth!” another yelled.

  Grappling with one of these thieves, Israi knocked back her assailant’s hood and found herself staring into a Viis face, yet one such as she had never seen in her life. His skin was pale green, almost colorless, and mottled with ugly red splotches as though he suffered from some disease. His rill was practically nonexistent, with only a vestigial fold of skin along the back of his skull. The fingers that gripped her arms were too long to be normal.

  Horror swelled through her. Israi was frozen for what seemed like an eternity, her mind unable to cope with the sight of this monster. The
n he raised a crudely made knife and slashed it at the bodice of her gown. Arching back, Israi screamed.

  Her cry carried piercingly over the din. In the next second, there came the cough of a side arm, and the Reject staggered back from Israi with a smoking hole in his chest. Without a sound, he crumpled at her feet.

  The crowd panicked around her, and now people were pushing and shoving in all directions in an effort to get away from the advancing guards. Screams broke out, and the sizzle of stun-sticks could be heard as a path was cleared through the mob. The guards were shoving people aside bodily, striking and pummeling anyone in their way.

  Israi staggered as she was shoved. She nearly fell headlong over the body of the dead Reject. Screaming again, she tried to get away from the corpse, but something hit her in the small of her back, right above the base of her tail, and knocked her down.

  Jolted by the impact of hitting the ground, Israi tried to roll herself to safety away from the trampling feet, but she was stepped on and kicked before someone grabbed her.

  Thinking it was rescue at last, Israi found herself instead in the clutches of another hooded Reject who ripped and hacked at her torn gown. She kicked him with all her might, knocking him away from her, then the guards reached her at last.

  They shot the Reject and anyone else in Israi’s immediate vicinity, even those who were trying to flee. The stench of charred flesh filled the air, and the groans of the dying mingled with the screams of those running away.

  A pair of strong arms scooped Israi up and carried her rapidly out of the riot. Two guards pushed ahead of the one carrying her, clearing a path to the governor’s litter with kicks and blows. Sobbing and unable to catch her breath, Israi had only confused glimpses of the frenzy and panic surrounding her. She saw the scarlet-clad soldiers still firing into the crowd, mowing people down. Others were surrounding the area, hemming the frantic citizens in as they tried to get away.

  The governor’s litter had been turned on its side. Its bright ribbons and festoons had been ripped away, and the interior was slashed and looted. The next litter in line, however, remained intact, with soldiers grimly guarding the nobles who occupied it.