Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One

by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson

  “The Lord Tae will send for you when he wishes to see you,” the functionary said, peering down its long, skinny nose at them. “Be quick when he calls, or you will suffer the god’s wrath.”

  “We do not wish to cause trouble,” Petru assured him.

  The steward blinked his black eyes at them. “You already have, but Lord Tae will deal with that.”

  Cleotra steeled herself. She would undoubtedly have to dance for her life. To do that, she needed rest, but there were some lines she absolutely would not cross. She turned to Petru. “I will not sleep in there, not like it is.”

  “I will see to it, Your Sinuousness,” he reassured her. “Stay here by the fountain.” He stroked her shoulder and stalked over to the nearest claw of warriors.

  “We are at a disadvantage here,” Emoro told Sherril. “I don’t have enough warriors to patrol all four walls. We are trapped in this place. Liskash could swarm over those walls and we’d be easy targets. I would feel we could control the situation better in a low building, say an inn?”

  Sherril gave him a peevish glance. “We are being honored with rooms near the main keep itself,” he said. “I had to stay near the main gate when I was here last. Lord Tae is showing us favor. We need his approval. It is better to do what he wants.”

  “What if what he wants is to see how quickly we can die?” Emoro asked.

  “You are not the diplomat here,” Sherril said, his neck ridge rising along with his temper. “You are the escort only. Be silent except where you have advice to offer.”

  Emoro’s eyes glinted. “This is my task,” he said. “Bau sent me to make certain that we would be safe. This is not safe.”

  “It will have to be for now!” Sherril said. He loomed down at the shorter clawmaster. “Make it work!”

  Cleotra sprang up and bore down on both males, letting her voice rise to a war-cry.

  “No more arguing! Unless you both want me to treat you like the kits you sound like!”

  She got up and stalked around the fountain, letting the vines conceal her. She did not want to see her traveling companions for a time, even though she could still hear them.

  “At least the priestess didn’t kick your backside, the way she did on the road,” Emoro observed.

  “I didn’t start it this time,” Sherril said. “Stick to your tasks, and I will stick to mine.”

  Petulant children.

  * * *

  Ysella trembled in a corner as Petru bullied the Mrem warriors into cleaning the foul chamber with broom and shovel. It wasn’t just the stink, but there was something pressing against her mind from the inside. She fought against it, as Cassa and Cleotra had taught her, but it was difficult. She was sensitive to emotion, as all Dancers were, a prime reason that she had been accepted as an apprentice. It made her more receptive to the rhythm of the gods, but it was not that easy to live with.

  When she was nervous, as she was now, she comforted herself by singing the lullaby sound her grandmother made when she was a small kit. It was a cross between a chirp and a trill. If only Scaro had come in with them! He was a male to be reckoned with. None of those horrible Liskash could withstand his might. She daydreamed about falling into his strong arms and being carried away to a romantic bower where they would declare their everlasting love for one another. She knew it was a silly fantasy, since she was a Dancer and he was only a soldier, but perhaps she could find a way to overlook her superior rank. He would be such a splendid mate! The rolling muscles of his back, the way he waved his tail, the spring of his long feet all melted her into a puddle whenever she saw him.

  The elders ignored her as they held a conference outside by the fountain. She could hear them and see them well enough.

  “What do you think, lady?” Clawmaster Emoro asked, properly yielding authority to Cleotra.

  “Lord Tae seeks to control us in here,” the Dancer said. “The force of his mind is oppressive. You can smell him.”

  “I am sure he can hear anything we say,” Sherril said. “And much of what we think, though I feel more protected than I did on my first visit. It must be your presence, Dancer,” he added, as Cleotra glared at him.

  “Do you feel our ritual left you unguarded?” she asked, her green eyes narrowing to slits.

  “Oh, my lady, no!” Sherril exclaimed. “It is only the proximity to the Liskash lord that gives him the strength to probe us as he does. If we were here too long, and without your ties to Aedonniss, our minds would fall quickly under his influence.” He pricked his ears toward the walkways, where Mrem slaves climbed down the ladders with baskets tied to their backs. Any harness or jewelry that those poor creatures had owned in better days had been taken from them, along with identity, history, even independent thought.

  The inference was not lost upon Ysella. If the New Sea had not drowned their homeland, she might never have had to face the horrors of the lizard-kin. Her granddam lived far to the north of her settlement. It used to be all they needed to do to visit the old one’s steading was to travel through the hot, broad valley as the sun crossed overhead twice from right to left. Now, it would take months, if not years, to rejoin her. She was sure that her granddam lived. A faint connection still existed between them. Oh, but Granddam was so far away!

  Ysella yearned for her days as a kit, when she could climb into the old one’s warm embrace and be nestled close. Her own parents had died in some accident—no one had ever really told her the tale. Her brothers had gone to the warriors’ camp soon afterward, and she had been apprenticed to the hall of the Dancers.

  Now all those buildings were gone in the flooding. The elders had all said the sea could not rise higher than the mountains at the west end of the great valley. They talked about the safe crossing they could make there. Behind them, various tribes of the clan had scorned them for retreating so soon. Ysella burned with shame. She chirruped to herself. The warriors looked down kindly upon her, especially one young recruit with a mask and chest of banded bronze fur. In an all black coat, those markings would be considered flaws, but to Ysella they looked like sunlight, a welcome sight in that dark place.

  “May I help you, Dancer?” he asked, holding out a long, slender hand to her.

  Shyly, she put her fingers into his, and was surprised by his strength as he hauled her upright with a quick jerk. She hastily smoothed her fur and straightened her necklaces. She closed her hand on the amulet of Aedonniss and Assirra that she had been given to celebrate making her first Dance as an apprentice and felt a warmth from it that was not from her own body heat.

  “Thank you,” she said. He gawked at her, as what warrior might not? Dancers had an innate grace. She recalled Cassa Fisook’s stern lessons that it should be reflected in their manners as well. “What is your name, warrior?”

  “Gilas Aulor. I know your brothers, Your Sinuousness. They said you were very beautiful.” His eyes shone. They were the same bronze as his breast-fur. “It is true.”

  “Thank…” Ysella began shyly.

  “Presumptuous kit, get on with your tasks!”

  They jumped apart. Scaro stood there, his tail lashing from side to side. Ysella looked up in pleased surprise. The lieutenant must be jealous of the young male! She gazed up at him, her pupils spreading. Scaro moved to one side and took her arm, pulling her out of the way. Ysella preened, enjoying the feeling of his strong muscles and sinews under his fur. Oh, he did care for her! He just could not say it because of the differences between their ranks. She wondered if that day came when, long after Cleotra had taken Cassa’s place as senior priestess, she, Ysella, ascended to that position, she would be able to act upon the feelings that she knew she and Scaro shared for one another. But she couldn’t wait that long. He was here now, and so was she.

  She ran a claw tip along Scaro’s muscular arm. The fur rippled under her touch. She shivered with excitement and peered up at him out of the corner of one green eye. He didn’t look down. Ysella realized that they were not alone. Scaro must not want to
reveal his feelings before an underling.

  Gilas finished sweeping and left the room. Behind him, a female Mrem shuffled in, fresh bedding in her arms. She kept her eyes low.

  “Hello, lovely lady,” Scaro purred. He let go of Ysella’s arm and moved into the path of the newcomer. “And what is your name?”

  She looked up at him with terror in her eyes. Scaro moved closer and took the sheets and featherbeds out of her arms. He tipped her chin up with one finger, the claw carefully retracted.

  “No need to fear me. I’m friendly. I could be your new best friend. Where do you live?”

  Her jaw opened, but no sound came from her mouth.

  “Silence is good, too,” Scaro said, wrapping her in a solicitious arm. “Perhaps you would just like to show me?”

  She shook her head, wide-eyed. Scaro pressed further.

  “Maybe you don’t live alone. That’s fine. I don’t mind having more than one of you at the same time. I think you will find that I am equal to all things. Shall we go?”

  Before Ysella could translate this baffling interchange, a hand smacked Scaro in the ear. His eyes went wide and he whirled, claws out in a defensive stance.

  “I thought I’d find you up to your tricks!” Emoro said, the corners of his mouth upturned. Scaro let go of the serving Mrem and saluted his senior officer.

  “Sir!”

  “I suppose there’s a reason beyond wanting to seduce the locals that you came within instead of remaining on your post?” Emoro asked.

  “Oh, he wasn’t…” Ysella hastened to assure him. “He was just trying to make friends with her! She is very shy. She doesn’t talk.”

  Emoro frowned, his heavy brows making his eyes into yellow slits. “Scaro, it ill befits a warrior to have children make excuses for him.”

  “I didn’t ask her to!” Scaro protested. The serving Mrem slipped out of his grasp and rushed out of the room, her eyes fixed on the floor. Ysella drew herself up at the insult.

  “Clawmaster, I am not a child,” she said. “I am a Dancer. Please treat me with the respect of my rank. I would give my life for the Clan of the Claw as readily as you.”

  “Of course, dear little one, of course,” Emoro said, in a soothing voice. “We all hope it won’t come to that. Well, Scaro? What is it?”

  The officer looked a little sulky. “A messenger came from Lord Tae. He wishes us to visit him this evening. He wants to learn something new today, he said. The rest of my warriors protect the way in to this building. I have come to escort you out.”

  “Right, then,” Emoro said. “Good thing you didn’t shout it from the roof like you do your other business.” He grinned and nudged Scaro with his fist. Scaro grinned back. “No time for that until we get home again, do you understand me?”

  Scaro’s eyes narrowed mischievously.

  “Clawmaster, there’s always time. It doesn’t take that long.” He and Emoro shared a juicy laugh.

  Ysella looked from one to the other in bemusement. They couldn’t mean sex as such a casual encounter, could they? She had always thought every coupling was supposed to be meaningful! That meant that he was trying to…that servant girl…he wouldn’t, not when he was just starting to understand his feelings for her!

  Ysella started to chirp to herself. Emoro took her by the hand.

  “Come on, girl, I mean, Priestess. We have to get moving. Don’t want to leave Lord Tae wondering.” Emoro led her out into the courtyard.

  Gilas hurried behind them, his broom in hand, and saluted. “May I escort the priestess to the court, sir?”

  “Yes, good idea,” the clawmaster said absently. “Look after her.”

  Gilas beamed shyly at Ysella. She flattened her ears in displeasure. A recruit. A green, untested warrior to be her champion? Not likely. She opened her mouth to protest to Emoro, but he turned away from them and bowed to Cleotra. She received him regally. Ysella wished she had her composure.

  “Priestess, my officer has just informed me that Lord Tae wants his visitors tonight.”

  “What?” Cleotra snapped, her tail swishing. “We have had no time to rest or eat!”

  Emoro looked apologetic. “We’re at his pleasure, lady.” He handed her a packet of field rations from his own kit. “Eat this. It will do for the meantime.”

  Cleotra looked at it in disdain. “I am sick of pieces of leather and sticks of wood. And Lord Tae will have to wait until morning.”

  “We must go, Your Sinuousness.” Sherril stood up and smoothed his fur into place. “This is an opportunity to make a good impression. If we are willing to do his bidding in small things, he will take it into account. A small sample of your talents, or the poetry of our people, of which I have memorized the many sagas, will whet his appetite for more.”

  “I do not jump when I am bid to jump!”

  Ysella glided over and knelt at Cleotra’s side. “He will worship you, Cleotra. He will. He won’t even notice the rest of us, he will be so entranced with you.”

  Sherril huffed into his whiskers. Ysella regarded him meekly. He was a very important Mrem. She had probably offended him. She looked to see whether Cleotra was inclined to punish her.

  The senior Dancer seemed much more inclined to take out her temper on Emoro. Her tail lashed impatiently, and in spite of the dimness of the courtyard, her pupils had contracted to slits. She bared her claws and slashed the air impatiently. Ysella winced. Cleotra whirled.

  “Petru! Fetch my green veils and bronze anklets. Bring the sistrum and the dombek.”

  “Yes, Priestess,” Petru said soothingly, from very close by. He appeared at her side, a huge black shadow, his fur dark and fluffy as though he had risen from a restful sleep. Painted hide bags and cases hung from straps over his massive shoulders. “All is prepared already. All you need to do is concentrate upon your art, lady. May I adorn your fur before you go? A little brushing, perhaps, to make you feel fresher?”

  Ysella could feel tension fading from all of them as Petru fussed over the senior Dancer. The hornbacked brushes in his hands whisked down Cleotra’s body, fluffing the sleek black fur up one way, then smoothing it down the other. Fur would have flown in every direction if Ysella had groomed herself like that, but not a single hair seemed to float in the dank air. All of it was caught in the bristles. With a lick of his forefinger pad, Petru slicked back her whiskers, untangling a few until her face was a mask of perfection. From a pouch Petru took a pot of glamour dust and sprinkled it on her fur. This one was gold, meant to impress. It picked up yellow lights in Cleotra’s eyes. Ysella craned her neck hopefully toward him, hoping that he would brush her a little as well.

  Cleotra noticed the state of her fur first. “And the child, Petru,” she said. “I don’t want to be disgraced by her.”

  “You won’t, Priestess!” Ysella exclaimed. But she was happy to be taken in hand by the valet. She luxuriated in the sensation as the brushes danced over her body, from nose-tip to tail-tip. She stretched under Petru’s ministrations, feeling the weariness depart from her. Cleotra favored her with a superior smile.

  “If only you were that graceful in Dance, Ysella,” she said. “And Sherril, please, Petru.”

  The valet paused for a moment to flick a pinch of blue dust over Ysella’s coat. It was the first time she had been allowed glitter. She preened happily, enjoying the pinpoints of light. Petru, with a look of impatience, scrubbed down the advisor with less tenderness than he had used on the Dancers, and sprinkled a bare fingerful of silver dust on his dark gray coat.

  “You look so handsome, Sherril,” Ysella said admiringly.

  Petru let out a small hacking noise. Cleotra ignored it and clambered gracefully up the ladder. Ysella followed her, going over in her mind all the movements of the Dance. They kept her from thinking too deeply about the Liskash awaiting them.

  There’s nothing to fear, a thought slipped into her mind. Trust the noble Lord Tae. He has given you safety here. Calm. Let yourself be at peace.

  It was
good advice. Ysella gave in to the soothing thought, and mounted the first rung.

  She had said she was willing to give her life for the clan; she just hoped she wouldn’t really have to do it.

  * * *

  Emoro took point beside the dino guide, a low-browed, heavyset creature almost his own height with slate blue skin and a flat mandible. He didn’t need to look back to know the rest of his warriors spread out in formation. He was too old a hand not to know that the peril from the Liskash came from the minds of the nobles, not from their snail’s-pace battle tactics. Two skinny, red-scaled lizards held guttering torches aloft.

  “Let’s go,” the guide urged them. His beady black eyes wore no expression. Emoro gave him a blank look in return.

  “Are we ready?” he asked the lady Cleotra, as Petru fussed over her. A small portion of her leg fur had become disarranged as they had come over the pylon’s confining wall. The valet hastened to smooth it out. Emoro watched his sure strokes with admiration and impatience.

  “Not yet.” Petru straightened up and surveyed Emoro with a measuring eye. “You can’t go like that, Clawmaster. You’ll be a disgrace.” He moved in on him and began to brush his short, grizzled coat.

  “No…!” Emoro roared.

  “Yes,” Petru said, meaningfully. Emoro submitted, but with a snarl on his face and lowered ears to show that he disapproved. He wished Petru wouldn’t make a spectacle of him like that in public, but if he ordered him back into line, he’d pay for it later, in private. That payment was often delightful, though. He hoped all those days weren’t behind them. Scaro let out a hiss of scornful merriment. Emoro growled low at him.

  “You wait your turn, Lieutenant,” he said. “We all have to look pretty for court.”

  “Never!” Scaro said, his eyes twinkling. “I’d rather be rough and ready, Clawmaster.”

  Petru snorted. “Ill-kempt is not a fashion statement.”

  Emoro said nothing. Scaro and Petru didn’t make a secret of their disdain for one another. It had come to blows once in a while.