“…Well, I know a way you can show your gratitude,” Scaro was saying to a female Mrem with dusty orange fur. He fingered the corner of her jaw. To Sherril’s amusement, the female looked interested in the offer. Ysella no longer looked jealous of his attentions to other Mrem. She sat on the bottom steps of the throne with Gilas, making adolescent small talk.
Word had spread swiftly among the Mrem of the city of Tae’s death. They had been arriving in groups, casting themselves at Cleotra’s feet, to beg to be taken in by the Lailah. Cleotra had accepted their homage as her due. To be fair, she had killed the Liskash noble. That did count for something, Sherril thought grudgingly.
“We will wait here for the rest of the Clan of the Claw,” Sherril said, booting the Liskash’s skull between two pillars and according himself a goal. “I will dispatch messengers to Bau Dibsea and Cassa Fisook. They should send runners. The rest of the Clan should arrive within weeks. We can assemble here, gather the supplies that we need, and move on to the west as soon as we can.”
“Why?” asked Cleotra, gesturing with a graceful hand. “This is a pleasant place. We need food. What we really need is a chance to catch up with ourselves. It is spring. The growing season is upon us. This godhold now belongs to us. Why do we not stay here a season, raise food and fatten our animals? Scattered Mrem will hear of us and join. There will be time enough to set out.”
Sherril, as usual, hated any idea that wasn’t his, but it was a sound one. It all depended upon how he worded the message-without any mention that it came from the Dancer. It would please him to pick out a chamber in the horrible little noble’s keep all for his own. It would remind him of better days, and better yet to come.
“It shall be so, Your Sinuousness,” he said.