“You, my friend?” Cassa asked, looking down on him fondly. Petru blinked at her.
“Of course. Who will care for the lady Cleotra and Ysella in that barbaric city? Who will see that their coats are brushed smooth and that every bracelet is polished to the sun’s own gleam? Who will see that they have food that is fit to eat? Aedonniss alone knows what filth they consume behind those walls!”
Sherril perked up. A valet in his train? He had felt like such a supplicant in Lord Tae’s court before, with all those lizards running to and fro to serve the noble’s every whim. To show that he was a Mrem of substance, worthy of having a servant of his own, would elevate his status. Besides, should they survive to return, there would surely be an opportunity to take a measure of revenge upon the obnoxious creature.
“I would be grateful if you would allow him to accompany me, Your Sinuousness,” Sherril said.
“Granted, then,” Cassa said. “Prepare, then. We will Dance you a farewell.”
Even Sherril could feel the power rush through him as they left the encampment early the next morning. The Dancers surrounded them, throwing their arms toward them as if casting garlands around their necks, then bowed, arched and twirled again and again. The twenty picked Mrem warriors marching in two files on either side of him looked proud and a little sheepish. They were prepared to die for the clan if they must. Sherril, for his part, had no such intention. If he could impress that skinny, furless creature in the citadel with their magic and wisdom, he would be a hero.
Emoro Awr, with Scaro at his side and Bau hanging over them like a stormcloud, had debriefed him thoroughly as to the architecture and garrisoning of the citadel. He had been made to describe every doorway and window he had seen, the thickness of the walls and the height of every ceiling. How many Liskash were there in the courtyard, and how many within the keep itself? How many captive Mrem? When did the sentries pass? What form of locks on the doors? How many wells and fountains? Had he spotted dungeons or cells of any kind? What about armories?
Sherril was proud that he had forgotten none of these details. Plus, he had offered information for which they had not asked. Lord Tae had a practice of overruling his captains on a whim. All of his people were afraid of him; Sherril could tell by their posture and the way each measured its words when it spoke to him. He had two tasters to sample his food. He kept pets. Six small flying lizards fluttered around his throne, eating tidbits and leaving messes on every surface. They bit visitors, soldiers, servants and whoever else was unlucky enough to get close to their sharp little beaks. Emoro and Scaro exchanged glances. If they needed a distraction, Lord Tae’s flutteries might prove useful.
“And their food didn’t kill you,” Emoro noted. “Good. Better to find out on you rather than someone who’s really valuable, like a Dancer.”
Sherril took that in the spirit that he hoped it was intended, for the greater good of the clan. The playful glint in Scaro’s eye left him uncertain.
He felt like an old hand, leading the others down the sloping track with the rising sun at their backs and morning dew clinging to their leg fur. Some of the scouts who had actually discovered the scarcely used road accompanied them part of the way, then turned back as the party reached the well-traveled, packed-gravel road that led to the city.
They were not traveling lightly. Four young bullocks whose loss the tribe could not really afford hauled two-wheeled carts behind them laden with bags and bundles. Sherril deplored the quantity of luggage, but he had been overruled at every protest. Weaponry and armor for the warriors, that he approved and understood. Anything that the Dancers required for their comfort and the performance of their art, he neither caviled nor begrudged. Food, wine and clean water, naturally, in case nothing came their way along the road. Gifts for the Lord Tae, to show their appreciation for his forbearance. But two carts brimmed with parcels containing the personal belongings of that cursed valet, Petru! It was an outrage. Pots of scent, boxes of glitter, bags and bags of jewelry and other adornments, none of which was necessary to their journey. Grooming tools the likes of which he had never seen, as well as many other things he had glimpsed but did not recognize. Sherril had complained of the additional responsibility of looking after the possessions of a mere servant. The Dancers championed the big nuisance, of course, but to his surprise, so did Emoro. Sherril was surprised. He never thought of a soldier like Emoro even noticing an ephemeral like Petru. Sherril took the information in to muse upon later. He had learned a lot since they had left their homeland, and had been able to use much of it to his benefit from time to time.
Numerous carts with big, heavy, flat wooden wheels creaked along, drawn by thin-pelted cattle or huge lizards with round feet like tree trunks. The drivers, lower-caste Liskash, small of stature, eyed the warriors suspiciously. Sherril scorned them. Liskash were physical cowards. They were even less inclined to physical interaction than he was. They covered their hairless skins in woven cloth that had been dyed in terrible colors and worn in combinations that hurt him to look at. He hated to give Petru any credit, but his garments and adornments pleased the eye at least.
The Mrem felt uneasy in the midst of so many of the enemy. Sherril believed in the power of the gods. Aedonniss and Assirra would help them withstand an attack. Though these merchants all had guards walking with them and a few carried vicious little green-skinned lizards on their carts to prevent pilferers, they were more interested in making it to Ckotliss’s marketplace by the start of business rather than tangling with party of heavily armed Mrem surrounding a stunning, proud, lithe, black-furred Dancer jingling with bracelets and anklets on her dainty limbs. The child, Ysella, trotted along behind, looking like an afterthought.
The smell overpowered Sherril’s delicate nose. He had had the forethought to bring with him a cloth soaked in crushed lily petals. He raised it to his face to mask the odor of the Liskash, their beasts and the endless piles of dung that the creatures deposited.
As Sherril thought it, a green-and-blue-skinned beast over five Mrem-lengths long with baskets of nuts draped across its spiny back lifted its heavy, conical tail and let a heap drop directly in front of them. The Mrem had to hop to avoid stepping in the steaming mass. The drover, sitting on a saddle just at the base of the huge creature’s neck, opened its flat mouth and emitted a staccato hiss. Other Liskash nearby joined in the merriment.
“I’m not sure, but that strikes me as a deliberate insult,” Scaro said, wrapping his long fingers around the shaft of his spear. The merchant stuck his ugly chinless face in the air. Scaro growled under his breath and sidled forward. Sherril put a hand in the center of the guard’s chest.
“The difference in our species means that what strikes one of us as funny will be lost to the other,” he said in a low voice, keeping a wary eye on the Liskash merchant. “That which is cruel or kind is open to a certain amount of interpretation. But, yes, that was an insult, and no, it would be a very bad idea to respond.”
“He should know better than to interfere with us,” Scaro growled.
“I don’t take threats from slaves!” the Liskash hissed.
“Who are you calling slaves?” Scaro demanded.
The Liskash looked superior. “Those mangy bags of fur who don’t know their place.”
“My place is at your throat, tearing it out of your body!”
“Scaro!” Emoro snarled. The lieutenant stood for a moment, staring at the Liskash. “Did you get your pads dirty?”
“No, sir!”
“Do you care if you get your pads dirty?”
“Well…no, sir!”
“Then let the lizards have their joke! We’ll laugh all the more heartily when we reach the other side of the cursed water. Do you hear me?”