Saksh, the head of Hisshah’s personal guard, pulled his thin hard lips back from his teeth in disgust.
“What I hate most about Mrem is their smell,” he said. “Like herd beasts, but ranker.”
“Except they talk,” Hisshah pointed out.
He clicked his tongue. “That’s so wrong!”
She laughed; he had a point. Maybe she was growing used to them, the smell didn’t bother her as much now. Though they smelled riper than ever as they struggled to teach their fellows what they’d barely learned themselves.
The idea of thousands of them coming to fight made her blood run thin and fast. The sight of their straining bodies instinctively made her want to strike them down.
They’re too strong, she thought. And who knows if they can be controlled by telling them the females and kits will pay if they don’t fight?
That had been her suggestion.
It probably wouldn’t be a factor to a similar number of Liskash, but they’re odd that way.
There was no indication from their behavior today that they knew about the Mrem prisoner. They seemed wholly focused on learning to fight. But they were slaves, good at dissembling. Lies were a slave’s weapons, after all.
Except that we are giving them spears, shields and spears and their skill with lies. And they are Mrem, stronger than we give them credit for.
One of Thress’s guardsmen came trotting up to her. He crouched and offered her a wax message board.
She read: I await your approval of my orders.
Below, those orders were listed. Fury filled her, flashing like lightning through her veins. How dare he prod her!
With every appearance of calm, she said to the guard, “Tell the captain I shall send a messenger in a short while. As soon as I have a chance to review his orders. Perhaps next time he could arrange to send them earlier in the day.”
She smiled as an idea came to her. “Tell him that.” She gestured as regally as her mother. “You may go.”
“Ranowr,” she called as soon as the guard was out of earshot, “come here.”
“The young goddess says that your orders are approved, but that you should substitute Ssen for Thash at the main gate. Also that you are to get your orders to her the night before or early in the morning.”
Kneeling, his hands on the ground before him, his eyes respectfully down, Ranowr waited for the inevitable blow. Thress was known for his temper and his punishments even of other Liskash. To Mrem the captain was still more vicious. He waited, braced, his heart thudding rapidly.
Thress looked down on the Mrem slave, his blood tight in his veins, until he felt as if his scales would stand on end and vibrate. He took a deep breath, and his rigid tail seemed to quiver with it.
“How dare you speak to me so?” Thress finally asked in a calm, steady voice. “I am superior to you in all ways, you filth!”
He raised the short, thick whip that was the mark of his rank and began to strike Ranowr until the skin broke. Thress continued the beating, his breath whistling through his teeth, spittle flying. Liskash from the guard gathered round and watched silently, while Ranowr covered his head and face with his arms as best he could.
“Captain Thress,” a cold voice called. And called again before it was heard. Hisshah stepped between the guards, her hands on her hips. “How dare you beat my messenger?”
“He was overbold in his delivery of your message, Hisshah.” The captain wiped spit from his chin. “I felt discipline was in order.”
“And I feel that you have overstepped yourself, Thress.”
She deliberately drew his name out in a hiss, equally deliberately choosing to omit his title.
Glancing at the bruised and bloody Ranowr, she tsked.
“You will be useless today. Go and find some light duty. But be on the practice field tomorrow morning.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. Ranowr struggled to his feet, bowed his head and staggered off.
“Now, Thress,” Hisshah said turning back to him. “Let me instruct you in how you will treat my messengers in future.”
She drew a small, sharp knife and carefully put a point on one of her claws until the tip was nearly invisible, holding it up and turning her head this way and that to examine it.
Ranowr went to get a drink and to wash his face, splashing the stale warm liquid out of the stone trough and then rubbing at the fur with his wrists. Then he found Tral.
“The skin is broken,” the healer said after examining him. “But not too deeply.” He gently applied an ointment. “You’ll be stiff for some time, and will have to watch how you move or the wounds will open again.”
Ranowr snorted; how he moved was not his choice.
“Who’s doing latrine duty at the prison today?” he asked.
It was a chore for which they all drew the short straw at some time. Lately he’d been exempted because of his training. It was time he took on the unpleasantness. Light duty, the young goddess had said.
“Sigowr is to empty the piss pots today,” Tral said. “He’s chopping wood right now by the smithy.” He gave Ranowr a searching look. “Are you going to try to talk to the prisoner?” he whispered.
“Why else would I volunteer?” Ranowr asked with a pained grin.
“It is forbidden.”
“Everything is forbidden that is not an order. I will talk with him. It’s lucky the Liskash are so fastidious about waste and so are giving me the opportunity.”
That was true; it was an oddity of the Liskash. Leaving the waste buckets to overflow would be yet another indignity they could visit on their prisoners, but even the torturers wouldn’t stand for it.
He slapped Tral on the shoulder and went to find Sigowr to tell him of his reprieve.
I hope they’re not busy torturing their prisoner, he thought.
There weren’t many prisoners locked up at this time and Ranowr quickly found the one he wanted by the smell of his bucket. He walked slowly through the cool dimness of the half-underground prison, beneath the arched stone ceiling that made this like a tunnel. Iron grills showed to either side.
“You there! You’re a Mrem?” he asked softly, turning his face away to keep an eye in either direction and letting the wooden buckets in his hand clatter a little to cover the words.
“I am,” came a tired voice; the words were oddly accented, but easily understandable.
“Who are you? How did you come here?”
“My name is Canar Trowr, I am a scout. Your soldiers captured me. That’s all I’ll tell you.”
“My soldiers?” Ranowr said with a laugh. “Do you think I’m a Liskash? Do I sound like a Liskash? Do I smell like a Liskash?”
“You sound funny,” Canar Trowr answered. “But any Mrem who works willingly for the Liskash is an enemy and I would kill you as soon as I’d kill them. Traitor,” he added.
“Willingly! None of us work willingly for the Liskash. We work so they won’t kill us or starve us or burn us with their minds or eat our kits. I was born here, all of us were and we were told that we were created by the Liskash and only tolerated because we work. If we don’t work, if we try to fight we are killed.
“But where are you from?” Ranowr demanded eagerly. “How did wild Mrem come to be? Did you escape from the great goddess’s domain?”
The prisoner laughed outright, not a sound often heard here.
“Your great goddess lied,” he said flatly. “Hard to believe of the noble Liskash, but they lied. They’re not gods. They never created us. There are thousands of free Mrem and I am one of them.”
Ranowr thought for a moment, stunned. Not gods, the Liskash are not gods.
He forced the thought away and bent his mind to more practical matters.
“I don’t know how many thousands would be. I know hundreds, how many hundreds is that?”