He pointed at a trio of dark, low doorways, then gestured at Cleotra, Petru and some of the guards.
“The first third of you, in that chamber. The next third, and the next third. Go on!”
Cleotra peered into the first room. It reeked of something dead and plenty decaying. One narrow rope bed stood in the corner of the unlit stone chamber. The press where she kept her dancing veils was larger. The bedding, if she would dignify it by default, had black and gray streaks on it, she dared not guess from what. Debris, including piles of dried leaves that had drifted or were kicked inside from the plants hanging over the fountain, filled the floor. Furiously, she turned to the official.
“I will not sleep in that rathole. And I do not sleep in a bunkhouse. I will have my own chamber. Now!”
“This is where you are assigned!”
“Nonsense!” Petru bustled up to the steward. He was half again as tall and twice as broad as the skinny Liskash. “We need eight rooms, not three. We will have the entire row.”
“Those are occupied!” the steward said, though he looked frightened.
“Unoccupy them! We are guests. Unless you would like our soldiers to empty them for you?”
“I do not listen to slaves!”
Petru poked the steward in the chest with a sharp, blue-enameled claw.
“We-are-not-slaves.”
The steward looked to the guard captain for help. The captain stood back, his arms crossed, his face impassive. He was not going to participate in any function that were not in his orders. With an aggrieved sniff, the steward began to knock on doors. Self-important-looking Liskash peered out. He murmured to them in an apologetic tone. The Liskash glanced at the Mrem in terror or annoyance and slammed the doors. Cleotra was mortified at the thought that she might have to occupy a chamber with common soldiers, but her worries were soon assuaged. The doors opened again, one after another, and the Liskash within bustled out, their possessions clutched in their arms.
As soon as the rooms were clear, Petru took charge, setting aside the least objectionable chamber for the Dancers, one for Sherril, one for Emoro, four for the guards, and the last for himself. Cleotra sniffed the air. The chambers reeked of mildew and dead rodents, possibly the remains of the previous occupants’ lunch. It would have to be cleaned before she set foot in it, but it might do. She had not slept under a solid roof for some time.
“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.