by Alma Boykin
A Novel in the Cat Among Dragons Universe
Alma T.C. Boykin
Kindle Edition
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EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-71-3
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-72-0
Copyright 2016 Alma T.C. Boykin, all rights reserved.
Chapter headings set in TT Chocolates by TypeType, used under license.
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
1: Timber, Tales, and Tails
2: Laws and Warnings
3: Pokara and the Past
4: A Call to Duty
5: Something in the Air
6: The Pokara Problem
7: Troubleshooters
8: Digging In
9: Discoveries and Difficulties
10: Separate Ways and Surprises
11: Uncivil Unrest
12: Family Battles
13: Of Packs and Promises
Postscript: Of Ghosts and Genes (1271 A.G.R.)
About The Author
The Colplatschki Chronicles
The Cat Among Dragons Series
Imperial Archivist Prince Seedak stretched his limbs and tail as far as he could, trying to absorb every last bit of heat from the weak autumn sun. His basking platform in the heart of the Imperial family quarters caught a little heat but not enough to soothe old bones. Younger Azdhagi of the post-Relocation generation did not need as much heat, and the Archives felt cold to him, colder than before. He wiggled a little, digging into the padding with his strong-side hip and shoulder, ignoring the little catch as one of his neck-spines snagged a bit of ornamental trim on the bolster. Beyond the edge of the platform’s low railing, the private gardens began, and he could hear a faint trickle of water from one of the fountain-fed streams running between the plantings. He sighed, wondering yet again if an ornamental water feature had ever before decided a succession in the history of the Azdhag Empire.
Seedak and his nephew, King-Emperor Tahdak, had been walking beside the shadow pool in the Imperial family gardens, discussing foreign policy. The still, late summer evening had made both males slow, especially after the large evening meal. When the four Imperial sons came galloping around the curve of the path, neither Tahdak nor Seedak had made any attempt to stop them. Three of the juniors had turned in time, but not pale-green Ahksi. No, the second-youngest male continued straight on into the shadow pool, disappearing under the black waters before either adult could stop him. One of Tahdak’s bodymen saw the splash and managed to hook Ahksi’s harness with a pole-arm, pulling the half-drowned junior out of the water.
“Ahksi, you know that you cannot swim,” Tahdak had begun scolding his son. “Stay out of the shadow pool.”
“What pool, honored sire? I did not see a pool,” the junior gasped after coughing and spitting out water.
Seedak sighed again as he remembered his nephew’s disappointment. Ahksi could not see more than two meters past the end of his muzzle, and that only in bright sunlight. Artificial lenses helped correct the problem, but the leader of the Azdhagi must be free from physical problems, a warrior and the defender of the Pack. That Ahksi would never be.
Seedak rolled onto his weak-side flank as his thoughts wandered back to the days of his brother Seetoh’s reign. They’d kept the Empire together, the brothers had, and that in itself was worthy of an entire chronicle. Despite the loss of almost two generations, the destruction of Central City and the deaths of many of the Empire’s best scientists, and the harbor wave that had erased Sseekhala’s largest port city, Seetoh and the others had held the Empire together. At least, they’d held it together long enough to pass it to the next generation.
What pure will had saved, rumor nibbled on, weakening the Pack bonds like rust weakening iron. Tahdak and his mates produced healthy offspring, but the rumors still swirled. If Ahksi suffered from shortsightedness, what other problems might he have? Were any of his siblings carriers of the corrupt genes? Seedak snorted. As if no other Azdhagi had ever been born shortsighted! But the King-Emperor was the most visible individual in the Empire, and his offspring had to be perfect, especially now. That Ahksi’s dam’s father could hardly see the building that he stood in, even if he was the Empire’s foremost small-weapons designer, seemed not to matter to the whisper-hissers.
Seetoh and his brothers had saved the Empire. Could the next generation do as well? In some ways, the dozing reptile thought, his had been the easier part. As traumatic as the Great Relocation had been, it had also been clear. And then the need to work together to ensure the survival of the Pack had unified the Azdhagi, no matter what Clan or birth or employment anyone belonged to. The need to survive had subsumed all divisions. Seedak still marveled that the unity held for so long. Based on what he’d read in the archives, he’d expected the Pack to begin tail-snipping as soon as the first of the Relocation lords died. Instead, Pack Peace held for almost a full second generation, until the memories of the tripartite disaster turned into memories of the stories of those events. Not that they would ever fade completely, not as long as juniors still died from Deathtouch and Bonecrush.
They’d almost lost the colony on Teelkan from a different sort of genetic engineering, and the near-disaster helped recement the Pack’s colonies to Drakon IV, at least temporarily. No one could have foreseen that the improved fruit would outcross with a rare plant—rare because it only bloomed in very wet years. The Azdhagi on Teelkan had not seen such rainfall in the thirty years of the colony’s existence. Seedak shivered, remembering the images of the poisoned Azdhagi writhing in agony, too far lost in pain even to ask for mercy. That was the end of any genetic engineering within the Empire. The plant specialists agreed to limit their work to crossbreeding. Since the delicious results shipped very well, Seedak thought that decision had been wise. Unlike some others.
We need the Free Towns he thought, rolling so that more of his hindquarters could get sun. I tried to tell Seetoh and Tahdak that, but they did not agree with me. Should I have pushed the matter? He had not, because of Pack unity. Now he almost regretted it. Tarkeela had pushed it, had insisted that space be left for the outClan Azdhagi. But the Great Lords and the Crown nibbled away on those lands much as rumors nibbled away on the strength of the Pack. Daesarae in particular insisted on pushing the borders of his lands into the lands granted to Schree’s Rest, not because he needed space, but just because he wanted them under his talons. That will not end well. Not given who lives there, Seedak yawned. Trouble always starts on the borders and edges. He drifted into a dream about hunting in the hot forests of Sseekhala, back in the days when he was young, strong, and had never heard of genetics or harbor waves.
“Look out! Wild log!”
Reptiles scattered in all directions as the enormous tree trunk tumbled off the pile. Bark chips and sawdust flew as the log rolled over four others, thumping to a stop against a tree. The loggers watched the rest of the load from behind cover. One log shifted but the others stayed in place.
“Anyone hurt? If you’re dead, speak up.” The loggers emerged and Beeltal, the work-pack boss, counted muzzles but found no one missing.
“Get those rails up now,” the load boss, Peelak, ordered. Four Azdhagi rushed to ram metal poles into the corners of the transport trailer, stabilizing the wood until they could get the straps and chains fastened. “Right, fun’s over. Get that storm-caught, furbearing, mate-stealer back where it belongs so we can go home before sunset.” Four more Azdhagi took pry-bars and worked the runaway log away from the tree, then rolled it to where the lifting claw could pick it up.
Tartai scrambled up the log pile, d
ragging one of the security straps. Shleek climbed more slowly, ready to jump clear if anything shifted so much as a talon-width. As soon as the lifter lowered the big log into place on top of the trailer, Tartai and Schleek jammed the ends of their straps together. Shleek ran a fuser over the ends, sealing them into a single, very strong strap. Two more of the crew did the same thing at the other end of the load, stabilizing the wood before hauling the safety chains into place. Tartai waited until everyone else had clambered off the load before descending, giving each log a little wiggle with his hind legs to make absolutely certain that they would not shift.
As soon as Tartai moved clear of the load, the load boss called, “Move out.” With a creak, a shudder, and a spray of duff and dirt, the hauler began groaning its way back to Schree’s Rest. Tartai watched it for a few seconds, but none of the thick-barked logs moved, and he returned to business. The work-pack needed to find and mark four more good, straight trees before they could stop for the day. He’d found a possible candidate, and trotted off to see if it looked as good up close as it had from on top of the load.
“Whatcha got?” The pack boss, Beeltal, walked up as Tartai finished measuring the tree’s girth.
“Twenty li at ten li from the ground,” and Tartai pointed to his measuring points before showing Beeltal the readout on his electronic data pad. “No branches until forty li at least and it seems as straight as they come.”
The pack boss backed up and tipped his head, engaging the distance viewer built into his safety goggles. “Good. Mark it and we can go home.” Tartai reached into his panniers for a marking peg and insertion tool when the two men heard a commotion back in the loading clearing. “Fewmets. Finish marking, then come on.” Tartai did as ordered, slipping the peg into the tree and also painting a splash of permanent dye on the other side of the trunk, reinforcing the claim. But instead of going straight to the clearing, he detoured to where he’d stashed his daypack. Tartai pulled a short-barreled blaster out of one pouch, along with a set of climbing claws. He pulled on the claws, slid the blaster into his pannier, and walked to the clearing as if he had not a care in the world.
A very large, armored male bellowed at the two pack bosses. Four more males loomed behind him, knives in their forefeet and fabric over their armor to hide their lineage identifiers. Not that the disguise fooled any of the logging crew. “You pests have no right to steal wood from Lord Daesarae,” the big male continued, ignoring Tartai’s arrival. “This land belongs to Daesarae and you fewmet-eaters know it. Call that transport back and send it to my lord’s mill, now!”
The load boss snorted and held up an ancient portable radio. “Can’t. They’re out of my line of sight. Unless you want to climb up a tree and call them yourself.”
As Peelak and the bully argued, two of Daesarae’s men spotted Tartai and waddled over to look at him. “You’re awful pale,” one observed. “You sick?”
“Only in the head,” Tartai grinned.
The joke sailed over the dark-brown male’s head. His dark green compatriot eased closer and sniffed Tartai, giving the light-brown-and-tan striped logger a suspicious look. “I heard that chemical bleach passes from the dam. You a bleach-brain?”
“No more than you’ve got deathtouch. Although you look like a carrier.” Tartai started shifting his weight, getting ready to fight.
“You calling me a rotten blood?”
Tartai spread his forefeet a little wider and rocked back almost onto his hindlegs. “No, just saying that you look like you spent too much time under a southern sun.”
“You!” The dark green one charged Tartai. Tartai rose onto his hind legs and slashed Daesarae’s tough with his climbing claws, leaving four bone-deep, blood-spurting gashes on his muzzle. The dark-brown goon started towards Tartai before realizing that the light-colored male stood a lot bigger than he looked. Three other loggers joined Tartai and growled at Daesarae’s bullies. The pair retreated to stand with their leader.
“What?” The chief bully blinked at all the blood spraying from his associate’s muzzle. “What’s going on here?”
“That storm-catch attacked us without cause,” the dark green soldier whined. His partner gestured his agreement while trying to stanch the bleeding.
“Your subordinate expressed concern about my markings. Then he inquired as to the sharpness of my climbing gear, and in satisfying his curiosity got a little to close.” Tartai watched the gears turning in the bully’s head as he sorted out Tartai’s words.
“He’s a bleach-brain.”
“He’s Lord Tarkeela’s oldest male,” the pack boss corrected. Tartai clenched his jaws as Daesarae’s men backed up, now giving Tartai looks of respect. Damn but he was sick of people invoking his sire’s name.
“And you are the ones trespassing on Schree’s Rest land. If you don’t leave, we’ll take your transport and let you walk back to Lord Daesarae.” Beeltal swung his tail in a wide, sweeping gesture and the loggers formed a line, advancing on the soldiers.
The leader hesitated, torn between enforcing his lord’s orders and wanting to preserve his own hide. Preservation won. “Come on. Great Lord Daesarae will take care of these poachers himself.” The loggers continued advancing until the interlopers got back into their vehicle and disappeared into the forest.
Beeltal noted their direction of departure. “I don’t think they checked the nav printout.”
“Nope. It’s just not safe to leave nav equipment unattended. Tends to reboot to default settings.” Peelak, the load chief, reminded everyone. “We’ve got our trees. Let’s go. If we don’t hear the splash, we don’t have to fish them out of the swamp.”
Tartai shivered a little. That water would be very cold. They’d had the first warning frosts two sixts before, and the sun failed to warm the air until later and later in the days. He scrambled up the short ladder into the transport, squeezing himself into a corner where he could catch some heat from the engine. He wondered how the people who founded Schree’s Rest had coped with the cold. If he found the temperatures too low for comfort, they must have been miserable. That or insane and utterly determined, something Tartai thought was equally likely. He ducked as the transport lurched through a hole in the “road,” tossing Keelak half-way onto him. “Oof!”
“Sorry Tartai,” the other male said, pushing himself off of Tartai’s back. “Thought I had the strap fastened.”
“One thing about winter: the roads will be better,” someone opined.
“You going to do the ice test this year?” a fourth voice asked.
“Nah. Been swimming once already. My mate says she likes me better after a hot wash.”
“I bet she does,” and the speaker made a rude forefoot gesture. The other males laughed. Tartai winced, remembering the one time he’d gone out in the winter without adequate protection there. Never again, he had sworn, making all sorts of promises to any passing god, Ancestor, or spirit, if they would keep his privates from getting frostbite. Since Seelah remained happy with him, someone had answered his pleas. At least, she was happy with that part of him.
“So, is there any truth to the rumor that the Palace wants a load of blackbark?” Keelak wiggled to give Tartai more room.
“Not just the Palace, judging by the orders I’ve seen,” Peelak reported from his corner of the bench. “Fifteen cubic li of rough-dressed planks, the wider the better.”
The loggers hissed, whistled, and began running the numbers in their heads. “Fewmets, Peelak, that’s what—fifteen, twenty trees? If we find big ones?” Tartai could hardly believe it.
“I’d say twenty unless we are very, very lucky.” Peelak shifted a little more, reminding the crew, “We get a bonus on the bark because it makes a good dye. But I’m only going to take volunteers, and then only after the marshes freeze hard. I’m not stupid enough to try and float a blackwood log.”
Half an hour later the crew poured out of the transports. After leaving their tools and equipment in the cubbies beside the relaxation a
rea, they confirmed that they’d been credited for the load. Most of the males checked the display in the loading area to get their next day’s assignments, and then joined the line of workers signing out for the day. Tartai pressed his weak-side thumb joint down on the touch reader until the light turned green. He’d been cleared out. He sauntered past racks of wood, pinching his nostrils shut as he passed a load of green heartkiller. The name came from the effort required to cut through the tough bark layers to get to the sap-rich wood. It made beautiful and durable paneling and flooring, but until the wood dried, oh, the stench!
Tartai decided that he needed a beer to wash the wood powder from his throat. He detoured onto a side path, strolling past a row of shops and dwellings until he reached the Bent Branch. It looked uncrowded, so Tartai went in. Once the outer door closed behind him, the inner door slid back and a stream of warm air flowed up from vents below his feet, drying his footcovers if they needed it. He stepped to the side, removing his forefootcovers and looking at the day’s special. Bitterberry already? Well, we’ve had hard freezes, so it’s not that early, but still. He walked up to the casual serving station and waved his tail tip at the dark-brown female working there.
“What can I get’cha?” She asked, adding, “The bitterberry is good. I’ve tried some.”
“Ah, in that case a large bitterberry ale, please.”
“Anything to go with that?”
“No, thanks. My mate fusses if I come home with ‘fried’ on my breath.” He slid his credit chip across the polished wood and metal.
The female decanted a mug, waited until the foam settled, and added a bit more of the pale green brew. She carried the very full mug over to him and set it down without slopping. Tartai added a tsu to the tab for her effort. After a sip he added a second tsu for the recommendation. “My compliments to the brewmaster.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass the word.”
Tartai drank slowly, savoring the full flavor of the ale. The bitterberry kept it from being too rich, and the finish felt clean on his tongue. Two more patrons came in, but they took a table opposite the bar.
