by Alma Boykin
Seetoh gestured to Deek, who lumbered forward from the rear of the dais. “My lords, the Defenders form a separate track and force, with separate pensions, payment, and training, but equal in honor. They will absorb the role currently filled by the reservists stationed on Drakon IV, eventually with their own reserves. Military service with the Defenders will equal in weight that with the Imperials, however it will require more time, ten year-turns cumulative as opposed to six with the Imperials.”
Seetoh had insisted on that, as had Lords Blee and Kaeshari. “Imperial Majesty, if the Imperials do their job, the Defenders will not see combat. They also do not face the risks of interstellar travel. A longer service time balances the safety and will reduce protests of favoritism and unfairness,” Kaeshari had cautioned the Imperial Council. It also meant that more heirs would serve in the Imperials because of the shorter time requirement, something Seetoh found desirable.
No one argued or had further questions for Captain Lord Deek, so Seetoh launched his next topic. “All research into genetic augmentation or manipulation, aside from agricultural cross breeding conducted using living plants and animals, is banned on Drakon IV, along with nanotechnology and weather modification.” He held up a forefoot in its armored gauntlet, forestalling comment and continued, “Research against nano-technological weapons will continue on Pokara, and we will continue following such developments in genetic manipulation as occur among the Empire’s trading partners, but never again on the throne world.” He fisted his forefoot and the sharpened steel talon guards snapped up as Seetoh slammed his forefoot onto the throne. “Never again. Genetic manipulation on the cellular level is declared anathema.”
Only Lord Daesarae protested. The brown noble raised his tan tail, waving for acknowledgment. “Imperial Majesty, were the Makers not able to determine how to reverse what their efforts had begun?”
Prince Seedak answered, “Yes and no, Lord Daesarae. Yes, they learned what to do to reverse it. No, they no longer can because the New Southdown incident killed every single gene technician on Drakon IV. And no, because as a species we Azdhagi cannot risk the scientists making another mistake. We no longer possess any excess population,” the archivist reminded them unnecessarily.
“And because we no longer have excess population on Drakon IV, we must focus on survival for the near future,” Seetoh pushed, not allowing time for discussion. “We must become self-sufficient in food production again, which means all exports of foodstuffs outside of the Empire are prohibited for the next ten year-turns, until a minimum surplus develops. Contracts existing will be honored,” he added, forestalling protest beyond Lord Shu’s agitated tail thrash. “At present, the harvests from Sseekhala, augmented by the crops currently growing on Likhala, should be enough to meet colonial demand, domestic demand, and fulfill all outside contracts. But as the population declines over the next twenty year-turns…” He did not need to finish.
Prince Ahtik, blotched brown and so lean that his brothers once called him “snake tail,” took up the discussion. “Before you panic about autarchy, Tarkeela, Shu, Zhi-king, Beesh, trade in other goods will continue as we have surpluses. But food comes first! You are going to have to diversify into agriculture as well as industry on your Clan lands. Yes, Tarkeela, your holdings are not entirely favorable for commercial agriculture,” Ahtik acknowledged. “But your people need to be as self-sufficient as possible.”
Tarkeela bowed in place, acknowledging the warning but remaining silent and calm. He’d anticipated something like this and had warned the free-town residents, who in turn presented plans for internal exchanges and barter-like swaps of timber for grain, among other ideas.
A voice from somewhere in the gathered pack hissed, “I don’t envy whoever gets to tell the hide-nippers at Zhangki City,” generating a wave of laughter. Even Shu chuckled a bit at the thought of someone else having to face down the oligarchs in the river mouth port city. They acted as if the nobles had inflicted the great population relocation on the merchants as a deliberate attack and insult, even as they charged obscene sums for transportation and other services. Seetoh and Ahtik exchanged glances, but otherwise ignored the remark.
After discussing a few less critical matters, including a restatement about the role of Clan law on Clan lands versus Royal policies and edicts, Seetoh opened the floor. Tarkeela waited until a few others had vented or made their inquires before raising his tail and being acknowledged. “Imperial Majesty, your Highness Prince Ahtik, has there been time to consider my trade license petition?”
“Yes, and it is granted with the stipulation that the company remain separate from TeerClaw Incorporated, and that it restrict itself to the fabric-types listed on the original petition,” Ahtik informed the happy noble. The trade minister cautioned, “I suggest you avoid anything with woven-in figural patterns, no matter the grade or quality, unless they are camouflage for military use.”
“That’s unjust!” someone bellowed, and a clear space appeared around Shu as the tan reptile protested, “Shu Corp already imports textiles and this violates my license protection.” He added, “your highness,” after seeing the glares from the other nobles.
“No, Shu Corp deals in luxury goods and lightweight materials,” Tarkeela replied, calm and with complete self-control. “MoyTeek Textiles focuses on winter-weight goods, with the goal of developing our own new fabrics, with the generous assistance of the expertise of the Royal Household textile experts to show us what to avoid,” and he bowed toward the dais, acknowledging the royal lineage.
A path cleared between the two reptiles as Shu stalked across the room until he stood only a body-length from Tarkeela. “How dare you insult Clan Shu by insinuating that we do not provide everything Azdhagi need,” he snapped.
Tarkeela closed his nostrils against the fermented fish on Shu’s breath. “Not all Azdhagi live below the snows now, my lord,” Tarkeela reminded Shu and the others. “Why should we have to learn from our mistakes when we can learn from others’? Leather and quilted tree-fluff garments will not suffice, and even layers of the lighter-weight synthetics won’t work for all situations. Does Clan Shu wish to outfit the entire Clan in the exosuits used for arctic climates and extravehicular spaceship repairs?” Tarkeela waved a forefoot. “My people can’t afford it and neither can I.”
“Are you saying that you can’t care for Clan Tarkeela? Then give it up, sybarite,” and with that insult Shu turned, stalking off, pleased to have won the battle if not the war.
A chorus of hisses greeted Shu’s comment. Tarkeela released the peace-latch on his long dagger as he called, “You should know, since you lost half your Clan between Shu Center and Dawn Sweep.”
“Eearrrgh!” Shu bellowed, whipping around and charging Tarkeela, spines up and talons slashing. Tarkeela dodged and Shu barely caught himself before skidding into the wall. Now all but blind with rage, Shu leapt onto the younger noble, aiming to flip and then gut the interloper with his hind talons. Tarkeela rolled with the impact, scattering reptiles as people scrambled clear of the brawl. Shu managed to get one vicious rake down Tarkeela’s flank but his other talons caught in Tarkeela’s reinforced carry harness, giving Tarkeela a chance to stab Shu under the foreleg while finding a grip on Shu’s throat.
The clinched nobles rolled back and forth, neither able to gain an advantage and neither willing to let go. “Enough!” Seetoh bellowed, launching himself from the throne and plowing into the grappling pair. The shock forced both to let go and Lord Deek and one of the King-Emperor’s bodymen dragged the bleeding, panting combatants apart. Before the nobles could catch their breath, Seetoh spun around and slapped both their muzzles with his war fan. “You are both banned from Court for the next three double moons unless I specifically summon you. Shu, you owe a thousand tsus for starting the fight. Tarkeela,” Seetoh frowned. “You must pay the first round of import duties out of your account, not Clan Tarkeela, not TeerClaw or MoyTeek. And the next one of you to start a fight here without my express
permission will face my wrath. Is that clear?”
Tarkeela bowed low. “Yes, Imperial Majesty,” he panted. Every breath caused pain as the torn muscles pulled and cracked ribs moved in and out.
“Yes, Imperial Majesty.” Shu managed not to pant but the numbness on his strong side shoulder warned that he needed medical attention soon, as did the wetness under that forefoot.
“Go.” The nobles bowed and staggered or limped out of the hall, each pretending that the other did not exist. I’m not getting any younger Tarkeela forced himself to admit. Cheerka is going to laugh at me, and Rosilia will scold me for not fighting better. Well, at least Shu had not killed him, and he’d gotten the import permit. As he dripped blood onto the pristine tile floors, Tarkeela decided that he would consider it a good day.
9. Changing Times
Five Years After Great Relocation
“You hate snow almost as much as Shu seems to hate me,” Tarkeela laughed, his breath steaming in the bitter late-winter cold.
“I intensely dislike snow,” Cheerka clarified. “I do not hate snow, my lord, nor do I detest it. I simply dislike it greatly.” The big reptile stared out at the unbroken field of white surrounding the ancient building and wished it looked less like the second level of hell.
His liege lord dropped back onto four feet and turned from the landscape to the bustle in the keep’s courtyard. A shootee bellowed outside the walls, the next-to-last to be butchered until spring, if not later. Two forefeet worth of Azdhagi in grey-and-green overcoats bustled about, carrying boxes of supplies from the stacks by the gate into the building’s storage section. A grey-brown junior scampered into the line, catching a few muffled curses until his minder caught him by the harness and dragged the squalling little male back inside. “He’s definitely yours, my lord,” Cheerka observed.
“Doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t. He’s the fourth healthy junior born since the fall equinox. That’s the important thing,” Tarkeela reminded his chronicler. After another glance around the courtyard, the two males retreated into the comparative warmth of the stone building. Neither male would admit it, but the cold reminded both of them that they were not young anymore.
Tarkeela shed his heavy outer layer and handed it to a servant. Cheerka took care of himself, then returned to Tarkeela’s office on the second level of the former fortress. The noble flopped out on a bench in front of an open fire and closed his eyes. The broken ribs that Lord Shu had inflicted on him four year-turns before ached with the cold, as did his hips and one tail joint, the one right in the middle. Two years of scant rations in the time immediately following the massive relocation north also played a role, he suspected. He envied Cheerka’s greater cold tolerance. Tarkeela’s own offspring fared even better, to the point that they could play in the snow for short periods without needing medical help afterwards.
“Bah. If I ever get a chance to go back in time, I’m going to tell young Cheerka to stay out of bars,” the story-catcher, now lineage and business chronicler, grumped.
A snort greeted the burly male’s declaration. “And would young Cheerka listen?”
Cheerka snorted in turn. “No, my lord, he’d hit the person over the head with an empty beer flask for such an insult.”
A servant tapped on the door before pushing a small cart laden with hot drinks and a large container of stew into the room for the two males. They devoured the meat-laden treat. “My lord, has Rosilia found any more of those recipes she kept going on about?”
Tarkeela, mouth full, gestured affirmative. True-dragons and Azdhagi ate many of the same things, just in different quantities, and the True-dragon had provided Tarkeela’s cooks with a number of recipes for cold-weather meals and for game and plants not formerly used by Azdhagi. “I do miss peef,” the noble admitted.
Cheerka rumpled his tail. He’d never tasted it; the import restrictions now made the mammal meat an unaffordable luxury instead of a merely extravagant one. “I miss goldgrain, although that blend of kurstem and watergrain is close in texture, my lord.” He missed the people and the bustle and opportunities of Central City and Sea Gate even more, but he couldn’t mourn forever.
Well, they were alive, and if not exactly thriving yet at least none of Tarkeela’s people had died so far this season. Cheerka still could barely believe it and had said nothing to his employer and friend. He did not want to get hopes up only to have them dashed by a snow-slide or house fire. Instead, he licked the last of the stew off his muzzle and ventured, “Ah, Lord Kirlin inquired about the health of your lineage.”
Tarkeela closed his eyes again. “It remains unchanged.” There would be no succession in Clan Tarkeela—that one promise he intended to keep. “Any more word on the sanctions against Shu Corp?”
“They remain in place, my lord.” Cheerka did not bother to hide his satisfaction. He hated Shu and wished that the tan storm-catch had had the grace to die young or to succumb to an accident.
Before Tarkeela could say anything, a light scratching sound caught his ear and he opened his eyes. The door opened again and a rambunctious junior charged in, followed by a still-lithe female with dark eyes and an attractively striped brown-and-cream hide. “My lord,” Neetai smiled as their son bounced straight for the open fire.
Tarkeela grabbed the junior’s harness before he could re-discover why one did not play with pretty, glowing rocks. Cheerka excused himself, leaving the former courtesan and her mate and junior alone. “He’s going to be an explorer, I do believe,” Tarkeela chuckled.
Neetai nuzzled against him. “If his minder doesn’t decide to hang him from a rafter by his harness until he reaches the age of service,” she sighed.
“I saw the escape attempt,” the junior’s sire told her, pulling the fussing little male up onto the bench. “You have too much energy, Tartai,” he informed his son, who stuck out his tongue and made a blowing noise.
“Tartai! Do not do that to your lord and sire,” Neetai scolded. The junior repeated the noise at his dam, quite delighted by the fuss he’d created.
“No doubt this comes from the Kirlin side of the family,” Tarkeela observed, pushing down firmly on his son’s back until the junior settled and started dozing in the fire’s warmth.
Neetai gave her mate a suspicious look. “Kirlin wants to know if you have found Cheerka a mate yet. Apparently young Keeshti is rather enamored of Cheerka.”
Tarkeela swirled his forefoot. “Cheerka does not care to take a mate for other than mutual pleasure, light of my home.”
“Why not? We have space, he’d be a good sire and provider, he’s not that old, Kirlin’s daughter likes him,” Neetai began.
“I am not free to say. I understand his reason, although I disagree with his decision. Please do not pressure him, Neetai.” Tartai rustled, then began whistling in his sleep, making his parents smile a little.
“Now that is pure Kirlin,” Neetai stated firmly. Tarkeela rumpled his tail—she should know. She moved closer, half-whispering, “You have heard about the new inheritance rules?”
He gestured affirmatively. “I argued against them. It does not matter if a male or a female inherits, but the military service requirement skews the balance toward the males. Although I noticed not everyone agrees with me.”
“Shu does not need five mates, plus his,” she paused. “What do you call them? They are not concubines nor are they slaves.”
“Victims, since I suspect most of the females in question are not throwing themselves at him,” Tarkeela snapped, but quietly enough not to wake his son.
Neetai gestured her agreement. There were stories that floated through the females’ quarters. She’d never mated with Shu—he’d seemed unclean and almost slimy to her, back when she’d been Neetai the Dancing Flower.
Tarkeela interrupted his mate’s thoughts. “On a more promising trail, is it true that the den needs to be enlarged?”
“Yes, my lord. Five more lineages wish to move to Mountains’ Edge, and two of them have multiple
juniors.” Neetai, at first uncertain what to do with herself in “retirement,” took over sorting out those moving to Mountains’ Edge and its satellite villages. Rosilia had all but smothered the female Azdhag with gratitude the first time a hesitant Neetai had offered to help. “One of the groups is from Nightlast, and the others are from East Port North. Apparently the town has sold itself to Lord Zhi-king and those who do not wish to join his Clan must leave by the equinox.”
“Damn,” the noble hissed. He’d so hoped that more free towns would survive. That left only Nightlast, Zhangki City, Schree’s Rest, and Mountains’ Edge, along with Silverock, plus a few holdouts in the south free of direct control by a noble or the Crown. “What about the fifth?”
“They are from the south, just finished working off their passage with Lord Blee. They are not certain about the new Clan Lord, and apparently they know some of the people here, so they are petitioning for settlement. They have two healthy female juniors and a third junior on the way.”
“You know better than I do if we have space, Neetai. So long as they are legally free to relocate and we can make places for them, I see no problems.” Tarkeela left managing such things to Rosilia, Neetai, and Sarka, with some input from Tareshah. Although in poor health, Tareshah served as the leader of Mountains’ Edge’s residents, settling minor disputes and overseeing fire protection and such. His mate oversaw the town’s den—unlike some adults, the juniors did not care that she’d lost her coloring because of chemical poisoning in the aftermath of the Disaster.
“There will be space, my lord. The foresters stockpiled timber before the last snows started, and House Moytu owes us building-grade stone, remember?” She patted the floor, impatient with her mate’s short memory.
He raised a cautioning forefoot. “That’s your job, yours and Sarka’s. My job is fending off predators and keeping all of us fed.” Tartai stirred at his sire’s side, yawned, blinked, and began meeping with increasing shrillness. “Speaking of fed,” Tarkeela moved out of the way as Neetai gathered up their offspring.
