“Yes, sir,” Scaro said. He resumed his place in the file.
“Aedonniss bless me, but if a little dung offends you, then you’d better never eat meat again! Everything poops, boy. Even those ugly warts sitting up there.” Emoro gestured at the merchant, who was very pointedly not listening. “Picture that one squatting, if you want, with those ugly purple trousers down around his ankles trying to grunt out his last meal. Don’t look too dignified, does he?”
The males in the ranks chuckled. The merchant’s neck inflated as if he were a frog. The Mrem broke into open howls of amusement. He turned, his big round eyes bulging out of his ugly flat skull. He clenched his fist. The laughter died away. Sherril Rangawo felt something evil begin to stir around them. A noxious odor flavored the air, clawing at his throat and the inside of his nose. The miserable Liskash was putting a curse on them!
“It would go ill,” he said, aloud, to no one in particular, “if we reached Lord Tae and had to tell him that his invited guests were treated badly by one of his own subjects.”
At the mention of the noble’s name, the rider’s neck pouch deflated. The Liskash turned and hunched over the neck of his mount.
Sherril spat out the terrible taste in his mouth. All of the Mrem rolled their tongues to rid themselves of it. The Dancers in particular seemed most troubled by the sensation. Ysella gasped and extended her tongue as if trying to spit it out. Petru rushed forward to cluck solicitously over Cleotra and Ysella. He hurried back and stopped one of the bearers to rummage among the bundles in his cart. Petru drew from it a stoppered bottle and a bronze goblet chased with a pattern of flying birds. He poured liquor into the goblet and offered it to Cleotra. She took a sip, then nodded. Ysella took her draught and made a face, but got it down.
“Make sure all are treated equally,” Cleotra instructed him. Petru bowed. He brought the goblet to Emoro, then Scaro, then each of the males. Sherril waited impatiently for his turn.
At last the big servant undulated up to his side. Sherril pretended not to notice the delay. Petru offered the cup. Only a few drops remained in the bottom.
“I will need more than that to restore me,” he said.
The words reached the ears of the Dancer a few paces behind him.
“Give him what he needs, Petru,” Cleotra said.
Petru shot a reproachful look at her, though it was tinged with deep adoration. “Lady, I am. He recovered better than most on his own!”
Cleotra widened her eyes. Petru grudgingly tipped a tiny measure of potion into the goblet. Sherril drained it. The strong liquor raced through his veins like hot lightning. The smell of the lizards lessened immediately. He stood up straighter.
“Thank you,” he said, handing the goblet back to Petru. Even better than dealing with the effects of the malicious magic, he had made the valet do something he did not want to. Perhaps he could leverage it into further service. “Now, my fur has become slightly disarranged. If you would brush me, it would settle my nerves. And,” he added with a daring glance, “I would like some of the sparkling powder sprinkled over my shoulders. Perhaps the blue?”
“Now, let’s just address one misconception before we go one step farther,” Petru said, putting his big hands on his hips. “I am not your valet. I do not serve you. I serve the Dancer Cleotra. If I have any time left over from my care of her, that time belongs to this young one, Ysella. They are the most important people in this caravan. I will see to their well-being, their meals, and their grooming. You are the leader. Lead. I will not interfere with that.”
The warriors behind him laughed.
Sherril was disappointed, but he waved a hand diffidently, as if it did not matter at all what the valet did or what the warriors thought. “Very well. Back to your place. We must turn at this next crossroads.”
He knew that Petru glared, but he pointedly did not look back. Too much terrain lay ahead of them, and too many dangers, not so easily dealt with by veiled threats and herbal remedies.
“How ugly!” Cleotra said, staring up at the edifice at the heart of the city. After an entire day’s walk they came to stone-and-mortar walls the thickness of two Mrem-lengths. Upon those walls were carved lines in the language of the Liskash. She puzzled out the inscription, and discovered that it was a warning. Anyone passing inside the walls of Ckotliss was considered to have taken an oath of loyalty to Lord Tae Shanissi. Woe betide those who broke that oath: they would be punished with lashings and spikes. The rest of the carving went on to detail in what way those spikes would be administered. Cleotra shuddered. To either side had been carved likenesses of a noble, with huge crystals set in the eyes. Cleotra found their stony stare unnerving, and was glad when they went through the gate and could no longer see it.
She followed the escort under gates perforated with secret peepholes and arrow slits, and into a courtyard large enough to encompass three or four good-sized Mrem farms. Before they had emerged into the sunlight, they were surrounded by Liskash warriors who leveled pole arms at them and disarmed her escort. Once all spears, bows and knives had been confiscated, they steered the Mrem toward the center of the citadel.
Inside the confines lay dozens or hundreds of smaller buildings, it was difficult to say, since the whole place fluttered with small tents, lean-tos and laundry on lines. Bundor, hamsticorns, krelprep, and many other animals ran wild within the space, looked after by dead-eyed Mrem or Liskash children with little care for their charges. She had always felt an antipathy toward Liskash but fought against it. A Dancer must embrace life, whatever form it took. There was simply something about them that made the hair down her spine stand up in a fighting ridge.
The curtain walls were meant to protect Liskash and their goods and cattle in case of attack. Few of those coming and going that evening lived there. The exodus as they entered was heavy, many thousands of dinos finishing their day’s toil and going home. Lord Tae and his household enjoyed relative isolation in the keep.
Within the walls, the feeling of being imposed upon was stronger than ever. The sensation had built ever since they left the mountainside, until it impinged upon her mind like a headache. She took comfort in the rhythm of the Dance beating in her soul. It meant she was not separated from the other Dancers. They were with her now, as always. The Dance was a protection for which she was grateful. The sun had baked them on their journey, but the air was damp as if the valley was full of water, and now that the sun was setting she felt chilled. While it was a relief not to feel dried to leather, the sensation of being cold and damp added to their perception of vulnerability.
The squared, pyramidal center block loomed over her almost ten Mrem-heights. The walls had been built of stone and covered with painted plaster. The covering must have peeled away often in the humidity. Liskash on ladders with buckets slathered a new coat over the exposed blocks. Cleotra spotted several different levels colored many different shades of ochre. The lip of the tower itself gleamed in the setting sun as if made of gold. Polished metal would make it difficult to hook a grapple or claws to pull oneself up. It could be done, though. In her childhood, she had made much more difficult ascents, she thought mischievously.
One would think that since it was the most prominent building for a hundred leagues that there might be some attempt to make it beautiful. If it had been an animal, Cleotra would have said it was molting because of some parasite.
Flanking it were two smaller, similar towers made of wood, neither close enough to the main tower to leap to it. Lord Tae or his ancestors took no chances of ambush. They were also ugly, their purple-gray timbers clashing horribly with their taller member. If pressed for a compliment, she would have to say that the three towers were nicer looking than any of the clothes of Ckotliss’s inhabitants.