As the smaller keeps were built, so was the larger one. There was no gate. At a ladder, carved and pegged from an exotic wood and polished smooth with wax, the Liskash urged them forward with spears lowered. Emoro counted guards on duty, how far away they were, and how well armed. He might need this knowledge later; he might not.
He sent Scaro up the ladder first with four warriors. They swarmed up and stood waiting on the first stage. Scaro sent him a hand-signal to say that the walkway was wider than on the smaller building. He nodded.
“Up you go, Priestess,” he said, holding out a hand to Cleotra. She scorned him, like the fancy bitch she was, and clambered up without help. Petru passed within a hair’s-breadth of him, grinning under his whiskers. He put his hand into Emoro’s and stepped up onto the rung after his mistress.
Emoro brought up the rear of the party, behind the last warrior. It was a long way up to the smooth metal lip hammered onto the stone around the top, and a long way down. He took a good look at the courtyard before he made the descent.
The building was deceptive in its size. From the outside, it looked much smaller than it was within. The pylon-walls contained a courtyard that could hold a thousand people. The black and white checked floors were made of fitted and polished squares of stone that felt pleasantly cool under the foot, but were no doubt slippery as river eels when wet. The evening dew was falling. Emoro watched his steps cautiously so as not to slide.
“This is horrible,” Petru said, just audible to his fellow Mrem. “I think, yes, that I may be sick. Could this have been worse designed?”
Emoro had to concur. The colors of the Lord Tae’s home clashed on the eyeballs, even by torchlight. Against the walls, which were painted, as far as Emoro could tell, in bright blues and greens from copper minerals, hung vast tapestries of red, orange, purple and brown. They had orange-and-purple checked borders that matched cushions on the couches that had been arranged before these hideous works of art, if a blind Mrem was led up to feel them and told that’s what they were, obviously so people could study them at their leisure. Emoro would rather have gone on maneuvers over shards of volcanic glass with a double-weight backpack.
Two lines of heavyset guards in metal-studded leather armor stood in the very center of the courtyard. Emoro did a quick count and got four eights in each. Three officers commanded each line. They wore bronze plates sewn to their leather tunics and had crested helmets with low snout-pieces. The chief commander, discernable because he had a white Mrem tail depending from his helmet, curse him to the depths of the sea, marched out before the Mrem got within ten paces of the line and shouted.
“Halt there!” he ordered.
Sherril undulated out of the group, elbowing Emoro aside. He made an elaborate obeisance. “Greetings, Commander. We are to meet with the Lord Tae.”
The commander pointed a leather-gloved finger at a pair of doors with a pointed arch behind him.
“There is where you will have your audience. Stay back behind our lines and do not attempt to cross them. Anyone to approach the throne too closely will die! This is the order of His Godliness, Lord Tae Shanissi. State your names.”
Sherril bowed low. “Then we heed the order. We are the representatives of the Mrem of the Lailah tribe. I was here only four days ago. I am Sherril Rangawo. I present the Dancer Cleotra Mreem and her apprentice Ysella Ehe.” That self-aggrandizing heap of fur was going to ignore them! Emoro growled low in his throat. Sherril glanced over his shoulder with a haughty sneer, but he turned back to Tae. “And the senior warriors who have escorted us to your presence, Clawmaster Emoro Awr and Drillmaster Scaro Ullenh.”
Petru cleared his throat meaningfully, but Sherril did not speak again. Emoro stifled a grin.
“Welcome to you, and welcome back, Sherril and your companions.”
A reedy voice echoed forth. Emoro blinked. Through the wide doorway he saw a thin, very short Liskash with pale blue skin the color of a winter sky seated on a stone chair on a platform eight feet or more above the floor. His black eyes bulged in his narrow face. His skull was rounded except for a narrow ridge of scales that ran from just above his eyes over and down the back of his head to his collar. His raiment was bright orange with narrow black lines. Bronze ornaments jingled on his sleeves, and tall, vividly colored feathers stuck up around the collar like a picket fence. Statues of the Liskash lord in various outfits and painted garishly to match stood on plinths all around the room. The costume he wore that night was depicted on the third figure to the right of the doorway. Lord Tae could behold his own image whenever he chose.
“I shall be ill,” Petru said, feelingly.
“That is hideous,” Scaro said, in a rare moment of concord with the valet.
Sherril bowed again. “Greetings, Lord Tae. Thank you for this audience.”
The Liskash beckoned with one skinny finger. “Come forward.”
The first line of dinos formed a square around the Mrem, spears pointed in. Emoro wished again for his battle claws, or one little stabbing spear. The commander gestured them to move. Sherril glanced back imperiously and strode forward, following the double-line of Liskash into the throne room.
Once inside, the doors closed behind the Mrem with a hollow BOOM. Emoro glanced back to see two guards hefting a huge latch into place across a pair of brackets. Easily undone if necessary.
The lines of Liskash spread out again into a double border between the Mrem and Lord Tae. Sherril stepped off, Emoro close behind him. The Liskash shifted with them, keeping their beady eyes fixed on them. The closer they got to Tae, the more the headache he had felt coming on increased. The Dancers were aware of it, too. Both of them had been moving their hands and bodies in light, subtle motions as they walked. Those increased in intensity, and the pressure receded from Emoro’s mind. It was still there, though.
Sherril halted at the prescribed limit and bowed again. Emoro followed suit, signing to his warriors to do the same. His knees felt as if they wanted to bend, too, to take him to the floor where he would prostrate himself. He fought the impulse. It was no doubt coming from the lordling on the throne. Tae was going to keep trying to control them.
“We came here of our own free will,” Emoro growled, forcing the words out as he forced his back to straighten. “We do not bend to yours.”
Sherril turned so the Liskash lord couldn’t see him, and glared. He purred at the Liskash, offering a supplicating gesture.
“I apologize, Lord Tae. It was agreed that I would speak for the group.”
“It was not,” Cleotra snapped. Sherril’s fighting ridge went up at the sound of her voice. “I speak for myself.”
Lord Tae smiled. His face moved but his eyes bore no expression at all. “No offense is taken. All these reactions teach me more of your culture.”
Sherril seemed relieved. “We are pleased to bring you the fruits of our history and our arts,” he said. “I have memorized the sagas of our people, from the cold days until now. There are many heroic poems that you will enjoy, translated into your own language by myself. The first one I would have you hear is of the first Clan Leader of the Lailah. In fact, Soroo was an ancestor of mine. He lived-”