Clan of the Claw

PROLOGUE

T he plains baked under the sun, and the long yellow grass hissed like the ghosts of angry warriors as the herds grazed under watchful eyes or paused beneath gnarled, thorny trees. The hills stood blue with forest in the distance, and tendrils of their green followed the watercourses; in season the wings of the birds filled the sky. From time-weathered citadels of stone the magician lords of the Liskash folk waged their wars with swords and spells and poison and knives in the dark, rising and falling in a cycle that changed little but the names.

So it was; so it had always been.

But the wild Mrem were coming, and nothing would be the same. Nothing, ever again.

The great hall of the goddess Ashala had walls of sandstone colored like pale gold, with specks of mica that glittered in the hot sunlight of these lands; it rose to the height of three tall Liskash standing on one another’s shoulders. The timbers that bore the roof were of a hard dark wood that had been hauled laboriously from the far mountains and each one was richly carved in images that told of her power and the legends of her ancestors. The air smelled of fear and ancient death.

The wall behind the throne was stuccoed and inlaid with colored tiles in a design of the rayed sun in splendor, Ashala’s personal symbol. Before the tall-backed throne of wrought night-black wood and beaten gold the stones of the floor had been blackened by fire.

That was where the goddess staged her executions. She could burn anything to ash with her mind and frequently did so, especially those who had displeased her. Sometimes it was a limb or an eye, sometimes the whole of them, depending on the depth of her displeasure.

The hall was high but narrow, and nobles crowded back to make an aisle for Hisshah, the daughter of the goddess.

Hisshah stood, nervously waiting for her name to be called, controlling the impulse to flick her tongue over her fangs and thin narrow lips. The dry, musky scent of the packed nobles made her heart beat faster, but her face was calm. She did not think the ultimate punishment would be hers today. She was, after all, her mother’s only heir.

“Let Hisshah approach the Divinity!”

She walked carefully towards the throne, keeping her stride slow and long and the sway of her head and tail regular. All of the high Liskash of the court were gathered and she would not show weakness before them. Hard enough to do as she was shorn of all the jewels that marked her rank, save those embedded in the scales of her forehead in a sigil that marked her as her mother’s.

She’d been proud of the mark at five summers; now at twenty it infuriated her to be claimed, like a piss-pot or a rug.

Her mother wore no jewelry at all; instead her whole body glittered with tiny embedded gems, one to a scale, a privilege she reserved for herself alone. Ashala sat on her carved throne of ebony and gold still as a statue, her yellow eyes cold and the pupils narrowed to an S-slit.

At her mother’s orders it had been two weeks since Hisshah had fed or, more importantly, drunk. Only a people as strong as the Liskash could endure such deprivation. Now she was to be humiliated as the final, and to her, the worst, phase of her punishment. But she would not stumble, she would not weave drunkenly down the aisle; though her head was swimming. She would show herself to be a proper heir to the throne. Knowing that one day she would be sitting there meting out rewards…and punishments…made it possible to endure this.

Ashala watched her daughter’s slow but steady advance and grudgingly respected her for it.

The the weakest and last of my clutch and very disappointing since the moment she broke the shell, which she barely managed to do without dying of exhaustion. Still, mine, which is to judge by high standards .

Hisshah could move small objects with her mind and perform some basic magic, but her powers were trifling and no training had been able to discover much more. The one thing she could do well was ward her mind. She’d gotten that from her father.

The impossibility of reading his mind was what had made Ashala kill him in the end. There was just no telling what he might be plotting. And unlike his last daughter his powers had been formidable.

It’s time I had another clutch, she thought. Try again for something better while time enough remains for the hatchlings to reach maturity while I can guard them.

But she dreaded the negotiations, as well as the proximity of a powerful male and his entourage.

The last one’s minions had spied on everything and then they’d all refused to leave.

No wonder I killed him, Ashala thought with satisfaction.

It had been cleverly done, too, if she did say so herself. They suspected, naturally, but they couldn’t prove anything, which meant less chance of a feud. Of course, those suspicions might make it difficult to find a new mate. But not impossible. Her domain was rich and she had much to offer in the way of favors. It was always a balance, of course; you wanted a strong heredity for your offspring, but not strong enough to make it likely they’d succeed in killing you, and not from a mate so strong that he’d succeed in doing so himself.

If anything her disappointing remaining offspring might be the sticking point. How her children had all managed to kill themselves or each other, except for Hisshah, was a source of amazement. Perhaps she’d erred on the side of recklessness when selecting the sire. Certainly she had always showed an adequate degree of patience.

Yes, she would set things in motion. It was her duty, and duty was not to be shirked.

At last Hisshah was crouched before her in the posture of submission. It wouldn’t have taken any longer if she’d crawled, Ashala thought in contempt.

She waited until she sensed the court getting restless. Her people were still by nature, but their eyes had begun to move, and nictitating membranes to flicker.

“Why, Daughter, do you make me punish you?” Ashala asked.

Hisshah went from crouching to completely prone, plastered to the floor from snout-tip to tail-tip in one long exclamation point of submission.

“I beg your forgiveness, great goddess, it was never my intention to insult you.”

“And yet, you did. By suggesting that I might bring food and drink to you and your cohorts as though I were a mere slave.”

“It was only meant to be a small joke, great one.” Hisshah writhed in humiliation. “No one could ever take such a thing seriously.”

“My dignity,” Ashala snapped, “and your loyalty should never be the subject of jokes! I am tempted to have you flogged for your insolent tongue!”

There were a few shocked, involuntary hisses at that. She would not, of course. Hisshah was, at the moment, her only heir. And there were some things that underlings did not forget; too much disgrace would make it impossible for the heir to reign securely. Again she waited, until the moment was almost too stretched.

“Tomorrow you may drink. The day after you may have food,” she said at last.

“The goddess is gracious,” Hissah said to the floor.

“Rise up!” Ashala snapped. She’d thought of a way to punish her daughter and perhaps help to thwart the danger that marched towards them.

When Hissah was on her knees once more she continued, “Perhaps you have time for jokes because you haven’t enough to do. I have decided that some of the Mrem require training as soldiers. I shall give that task to you.”

“Thank you, great one,” Hisshah said, her voice clear and firm.

Inside Hisshah’s third stomach had clenched. Make the Mrem slaves into soldiers… Clearly impossible!

If it were possible it would also be dangerous. What is my mother thinking?

She knew of nothing that could prompt such a mad idea. Her mother had soldiers enough to make any ambitious neighbor wary, and as much territory as could be dominated from a single holding. It must be a scheme to further humiliate her with an inevitable failure.

“You may return to your chamber,” her mother said. “My steward will attend you to answer any questions you may have concerning the Mrem and whatever weapons are available to arm them.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

Hisshah rose and bowed, then backed away for ten steps until she could turn and leave the hall. When she was gone it would be prepared for feasting as hers was the last business of the day.

Tomorrow I will drink. And the next day I will eat and I will eat well, Hisshah promised herself.

A pleasant thought occurred to her. If she was to make Mrem into soldiers, she would have to discipline and punish them. Perhaps she could eat a few.

I always was partial to mammals, she thought.

Two days later, Ranowr squatted in a circle of friends and fellow slaves, together in the dust outside the low opening of the barracks entrance. There was a sort of familial resemblance amongst most of them. Their short, downy fur was grey with darker grey stripes and most had white bellies and hands. Two were yellow with darker stripes and one was a solid grey.

There was nothing unusual in the circle; they often sat together so, gathered in front of the dormitory where the adult males slept. But tonight they waited for Tral to bring them word that old Sesh was gone, devoting the hours of sunset and night to him, as the heat faded out of the stone walls of the compound and the colored band of stars stretched itself across heaven. This time of the cycle was more natural to Mrem in any case.

The Liskash had decreed that he was too old, sick and feeble to be worth feeding and so should be allowed to starve. There wasn’t enough food to share with him, so Tral, their healer, had given him a sleeping draught from which he would not wake. The circle would mourn him, remember his life and honor his passing.

And so, they sat silently waiting.

That was where Hisshah and her small group of guards found them. The arrival of the Liskash made all of the Mrem crouch, eyes down and hands flat on the ground.

Hisshah, known as the lesser goddess to the Liskash and the young goddess to the Mrem, looked them over.

At least they’re reasonably well disciplined, she thought. But how can I turn creatures so cowed and worthless into soldiers? Mrem haul weights and scrub and carry.

“Which of you speaks for all?” she asked.

“I do, young goddess,” Ranowr said.

“Come here and kneel before me,” she commanded.

When he was before her she studied him. He was taller than most Liskash, and broad and sturdy like all of his kind. He looked healthy and strong, and probably wasn’t really tubby; that was the disgusting fuzz. The steward saw to the health of the slaves. And while it was true that a weak slave was a worthless slave, you didn’t want them too frisky.

Still, if they’re to be soldiers perhaps I should increase their rations, she mused. If anything goes wrong, I can tell my mother than it is all her fault.

That thought made her hiss slightly with laughter; blame flowed downward, gain upward; so the world was. She would ask the steward; he was the expert on Mrem. But for tonight, the first night she would be eating after her long fast, she had other plans.

“Which of your fellows can you spare?” she said, with a hiss of command.

She watched Ranowr carefully for any sign he might make, but he remained motionless. Some of the others were less controlled. One toward the back, with nicks in his ears and a grizzled face, looked sharply at Ranowr. It didn’t take a deep knowledge of Mrem to know that he was older than the others.

She pounced.

“That one!”

The guards moved forward and took him by the arms. Hisshah and her party began to move away.

“He’s a good worker,” Ranowr said, still kneeling, his eyes carefully down. “Skilled in the care of bundor and hamsticorns.”

Hisshah paused and turned to look at him in disbelief. “Are you asking me to show…what is it you call it…mercy?”

The word had a rather odd contour, as if it weren’t really suited to the Liskash throat.

“Please, young goddess,” Ranowr said, lowering his whole body.

“I didn’t think it possible, but you have amused me,” she said. “I am pleased. I shall send you some meat later.” Then she turned and continued on her way.

The Mrem captive gave his companions a long last look before the guards hustled him off.

Ranowr and the others, stunned, returned to their circle.

“Fesa was a good Mrem,” Ranowr said grimly.

It was the ritual phrase that opened the mourning circle. He glanced at the departing group of Liskash with Fesa in their midst.

If the gods created us, why do they treat us so cruelly? Why do they hate us so?

Because they did. They must. Yet it made no sense to create something and then to hate it.

And we hate them.

Just being near them made his skin crawl and pelt bristle and tail stiffen and bottle out, his ears flatten themselves as if for battle. But that could be because they had so much power.

“Fesa was a good worker,” said another, bringing Ranowr’s thoughts back to the mourning circle.

“He was good with the kits,” added Krar.

Truth be told they were all good to the kits. Where any one of them might be your own, treating them all well just made sense. Still some were better at it than others and Fesa had been one of those.

“They’ll be missing him,” Ranowr agreed.

Tral entered the circle.

“Sesh will not wake,” he announced. Looking around he asked, “Where’s Fesa, he should be here, he was Sesh’s oldest friend.”

“Fesa is no more,” Ranowr said. “The young goddess took him away.”

The words were bitter on his tongue. Fesa would die a hard death tonight. And the meat Hisshah would send, if she sent it, would be from his corpse. A calculated insult. But they would burn it to ashes and scatter them in the wind. The only freedom any Mrem could hope for.

Stunned, Tral took his place in the circle.

“Sesh was a good Mrem,” Ranowr intoned.

They spent the best part of the night remembering both of them.

The practice field was hot and silent; the guards on the outer walls moved to look occasionally, and there were bleatings and hootings from the stock pens, and a little twitch of wind flicking sand into eyes.

“Watch carefully,” Hisshah said, feeling loose and confident in the familiar exercise and the welcome heat. “Overhand down-cut, angled right to left.”

She tapped the mock sword on one part of the practice post, then mimed a downward slice that would have struck the neck of an opponent. The sound was muffled, for the training weapon was wrapped in tightly woven grass rope to lessen the jar to the wrists.

“Backhand cut, angled up, right to left.”

She hit the post on the other side, where the gap between the hip-bone and the lowest rib would be-a clear target into the meat, with organs and big veins beneath. Even if it didn’t penetrate, a powerful strike there might rupture something essential; certainly it would knock the wind out of your enemy, leaving them open for a killing blow.

“Then you tie them together with their mirror-image.”

She struck, down, up, down and up, into the space where the angle of the neck would be, letting the blade’s weight carry it down past the target to loop back and up and down at a slant again, like an X.

A muffled clack as padded wooden sword struck the hard pell, then clack and clank again.

She did it again and again, faster and faster until the mock sword seemed to blur and her body as well, weight shifting from one taloned foot to another. When she was finished with her demonstration she tossed it to Ranowr.

“Now you try.”

Ranowr took the practice sword and carefully assumed the stance that Hisshah had taken. Then he swung the sword. He tried going faster and faster as she had until he struck the post square on and knocked the practice sword out of his hand, unconsciously flexing his wrist against the sting. The curved length went end-over-end into the watching group of his fellow Mrem. They dodged aside, and then one caught it and brought it.

“Pick it up,” Hisshah said, “Do it again. Control the location of the strike. You should be able to put it between one scale and the next, as hard and as fast as you can strike. Precision first, then speed, then force. Look into your enemy’s eyes, not at where your sword will strike. See that with your hands.”

The Mrem actually wasn’t bad. She’d done that much sooner during her first try at the post. But then she’d been much younger.

They were working on the small practice field between the outer and inner walls. It held two rows of ten practice posts in a field of clean raked sand and was longer than it was wide; spear and arrow-targets stood at each end. The whole was fenced with rails and it was within smell of the stables.

Hisshah walked back and forth as she watched her first student. She hated being this close to them. Their smell made her sick; a heavy, meaty scent that was suffocating. And the sight of their furred skin was loathsome unless you were hungry. Her mother couldn’t have found a more subtle punishment if she’d tried for seven rainy seasons and a day.

Still, they were strong and supple and reasonably quick, it was just possible that they might be trainable as soldiers. That is if you were looking for troops that were utterly expendable. They’d never have any finesse, being mere brutes, but they might have some utility.

I hope we won’t regret this, she thought. We might regret it more if they do learn than if they don’t.

Weapons in the hands of slaves struck her as risky at best. Even if your own soldiers were infinitely better than the Mrem would ever be.

Speaking of which, there was Captain Thress leaning against the fence observing their progress, dangling his helmet by the strap in one claw and enjoying the hard dry heat. His other hand rested on the stone pommel of his war-sword, and his long narrow head moved slightly as he followed the action.

“All right,” Hisshah snapped, “all of you pick up a sword and begin. If you drop the sword, pick it up and keep going. Watch this one.”

As the Mrem hurried to follow her instructions she walked over to the captain.

“They’re not as bad as I expected,” he observed. “For absolute beginners.”

Which is exactly what I thought, she noted with some pride.

“What are you doing here, Captain?”

“I came to see Mrem learn to fight,” he said. “Thought I might learn something.”

“Mrem know how to fight,” Hisshah said. “Not all of their scars come from whippings.”

He made a wry gesture with his mouth, showing a line of conical fangs.

“True,” he agreed. “Truth is, it is always a…interesting to see what you are up to, lesser goddess.”

She stared at him. He had been going to say amusing, she knew it. One day he would regret his insistence on emphasizing her lacks every chance he got.

“Have you no duties, Captain?”

He slowly blinked, letting the lids sweep in from either side in an insolent gesture.

“I would have come in curiosity at some point. The great goddess’s notion is so unique.”

He glanced at the Mrem. “I think one of them grows weary of your exercise.”

Hisshah’s head whipped around on her long flexible neck. One of the slaves was pausing between strokes. She started towards him, picking up a practice sword from the pile. Maybe she should demonstrate the strokes on a Mrem.

Ranowr sat in his place before the dormitory barracks, feeling aches in muscles he hadn’t known he had. The young goddess had instructed them for hours, demanding more and more speed. He thought they’d done well for their first day.

And Mrem are as fast as they, or are so after the first few strokes. Faster if the weather is not hot, though we do not remind them of that. Most of us are larger and stronger, too.

But if he felt this bad now he dreaded the morning.

The young goddess was training ten of them, including Krar, who was something of a rival. Hisshah had told them that they would be responsible for training other Mrem to fight with sword and spear. He wondered if they’d learn to use the bow.

Or will they keep that weapon for themselves?

That wouldn’t surprise him. What surprised him was that the Liskash were training them at all. It was a mystery like much of what they did and said; as if they walked on the ceiling rather than the floor, or walked backwards.

He suddenly smiled to himself. While the males ate their dinner he’d seen the beautiful Prenna in the distance. The only pure white-pelt Mrem amongst them all, with pink kittenish skin around her eyes and lips and a warm sweet scent. She’d seen him as well, and in the way she’d stood had told him that she was pregnant with his kit.

Ranowr grinned with his whiskers forward, feeling a warmth within at the thought. He would know which kit was his, especially if it was as white as its mother. He sighed in happiness. He’d never heard of anyone knowing their own kit. But he and Prenna, in their brief moments in the mating shed had formed a forbidden bond.

They’d been chosen at random to mate, the way the Mrem always were when the Liskash decided they’d need more slaves in the future. When he’d been thrust into the shed he’d been struck by her beauty. White fur, slanted green eyes and a delicacy of form that surely even the oblivious Liskash must appreciate. When he had gently embraced her, he whispered his name in her ear. She’d met his eyes and answered softly:

“I am Prenna.”

“No talking!” the Liskash guard had snarled.

“He hurt me,” Prenna had gasped.

“You animals are disgusting,” the guard had said. “Don’t hurt her,” he added to Ranowr. “I hate this duty.”

Then he’d turned his back and Ranowr and Prenna had made love.

That’s what it was, Ranowr thought. Making love. Not rutting like beasts.

He did love her and now she was bearing his kit. He wanted to tell someone, but who could he trust? Any such relationship was strictly forbidden.

So it will be our secret, he thought, wondering if they’d ever be together again.

A bitter thought, that someone else might lie with her when the Liskash again decided she should breed. It was like a hot coal in his heart. But there was nothing that could be done about it. He sighed, lonely for her and sad at both their fates.

For a moment he imagined them running away together, living in freedom, just them and their kits.

He shook his head ruefully. It could never be; the Liskash owned the whole world. If they escaped the goddess Ashala they’d be swept up by some other Liskash god or goddess, one who very possibly would be even more cruel.

We’d probably be killed outright.

The way the Liskash seemed to hate Mrem made it almost a certainty; they killed even when it wasn’t in their interest. Here at least they got enough to eat. Not as much as they wanted, but enough. In any case, he’d never put Prenna in such danger.

In his youth two slaves had broken the rule and been found out. The female became pregnant and was tortured until she gave up her lover’s name. They were bound together and the young Mrem were made to bury them alive. He’d never forget their struggles as they tried to keep their heads above the dirt; the terror in their eyes.

Afterwards all the females from the oldest to the youngest were whipped to remind them that their bodies belonged to the Liskash. Now you never saw a female alone. Ranowr sighed and rubbed a sore muscle. He heard a sniffling and looked over at a group of kits. One had his arm around the shoulders of another who shuddered with sobs. He rose and went to them, kneeling on one knee before them.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

The one who had been weeping wiped his eyes and straightened up with a sniff.

“No, sir,” he said in a surprisingly steady voice.

Ranowr smiled. “Good. I thought something must be wrong.” He waited a moment. “Is something wrong?”

The little face crumpled at the sound of a sympathetic voice. “I miss my mother,” he choked out.

“Of course you do,” Ranowr said laying his hand on the kit’s head. “We all do. All I can tell you is that it gets easier with time.”

The kit rubbed his eyes, he must be seven summers old; that was when the Liskash separated the male kits from their mothers.

“Why can’t we all stay together?” the kit asked.

“What’s your name?” Ranowr asked.

“Fesa.”

A cold chill touched the back of the leader’s neck at the name. He thought again of Fesa being led away to his death and took a deep breath.

“Well, Fesa, you’re well grown now and have to learn how to be an adult. Since you’re a male you must learn that from males. The Liskash have decided that males and females should live separately. And so we do. If you ask me why that is, all I can tell you is that is the way things are.”

“But why?” the youngster whined.

“Because that is the way the Liskash want things to be. They are as gods to us Mrem and so we must do as they say or they will destroy us and we will not live at all.”

He stroked Fesa’s head. “Better to be sad and sore than dead, don’t you agree?”

Fesa and the other kits nodded, their eyes big.

“It is something we all must learn,” Ranowr said patiently. “Just as we all must lose our mothers and sisters. You must be strong and learn to find friendships with these your agemates. Do you understand?”

They nodded again, obviously dissatisfied, but knowing they weren’t going to get a better answer.

Ranowr smiled and nodded to them, moving back to his place among the older Mrem.

Such is the path to adulthood, he thought. Full of half explained realities, revealed one layer at a time.

Four weeks later Hisshah snapped:

“Like this!”

She drew the battle sword at her side; it moved like a living thing compared to the clumsy padded practice weapons, glittering as if scaled. Then she demonstrated the complicated move she was trying to teach the idiot Mrem. Its tongue dangled out, and it dripped.

They were so disgustingly damp.

“The spearhead is coming at you. There is force behind it, enough to split your breastbone. But that means the attacker is committed to the line of his attack. His weight is moving forward and he cannot alter that quickly. Strike so and it will go over your shoulder, and the force will carry him forward so that he cannot withdraw the point and strike again at once. Then turn your wrists and body and cut down the shaft at the hands. So and so. Two movements like one. Do it right this time or I’ll flog the skin off you!”

The Mrem slowly imitated the move and got it right.

“If you took that long to do it to the enemy you’d be dead!” Hisshah shouted. “Unless he stops to laugh and hisses the tongue out of his jaws! Do it faster, you fool!”

The Mrem tried and failed. Before he was halfway through the maneuver Hisshah kicked, her taloned foot thudding in the Mrem’s leather-clad middle. The cheap armor took most of the impact, but he wavered breathless, then fell to the ground as she sheathed her sword and reached for the whip slung at her belt.

“Young goddess,” Ranowr said, greatly daring, “I do not think we can do it the way a Liskash could. We are made differently. Our arms and shoulders do not bend in the same ways.”

Hisshah halted with her whip raised and stared at him. Instantly she saw that he was right. They did move differently. Instead of the short, sharp, efficient motions of her people, the Mrem seemed to…to ooze from place to place. They had speed, but it was of a different quality.

We are wind. They are water, she thought with satisfaction. Perhaps I am concentrating too much on form, and not enough simply on what works. Still, I can’t afford to lose face.

She gave the unfortunate Mrem before her one hard stroke with the lash.

“Interesting,” she said smoothly, coiling her whip.

She poked her victim with the whip handle. “Go and practice that maneuver.”

Then she gestured Ranowr over to her. “What is your name again?”

“Ranowr, young goddess.”

He kept his eyes carefully down, but his heart thundered. Who knew what she might do to him for his boldness?

Hisshah stared at him. “Ah, yes,” she said at last. “You are making a habit of asking me for mercy.” She sniggered. “If you are trying to teach it to me you’re wasting your time. I will not learn it, I do not wish to learn it. Look at me.”

Cautiously he raised his eyes and stared into her golden ones. She did not blink, but he did, twice before she spoke again, with the disconcerting up-and-down motion of the eyelids that made the Mrem gaze so alien.

“But it is possible that you may have something to teach,” she said at last. “You are the best of your fellows at following my instructions. Even so, I’ve noticed that you do not imitate me perfectly. Perhaps you are right, perhaps your kind cannot faithfully follow our movements. But I think you can be taught to fight. I shall concentrate on training you. And you and I will amend any moves that you feel are too…sophisticated for your rough form. Then it shall be your task to train your fellows.”

She nodded. This could work. “Now,” she stepped back, “show me how you would perform the move I’ve been trying to teach.”

They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, while the other Mrem practiced their maneuvers unwatched. But Ranowr could feel his people watching him and the young goddess. There would be questions asked this night.

He still found it hard to be around her, but he also felt they were making progress; finding ways to wield the practice sword that matched his limbs and allowed him to gain the speed she wanted.

Hisshah was pleased. Finally they were getting somewhere. And dealing with just one of the creatures was at least a little easier. This one, it seemed, had a brain that he could comprehend.

Ranowr, using the altered overhand cut on the practice post, struck it so hard that the sword broke. He held the hilt awkwardly and glanced at Hisshah in apology.

She stood stiffly, but only said, “Get another.”

Inside she was horrified. The sheer strength of the creature! She’d never seen anyone break a practice sword like that and for a moment she felt cold with fear.

It is good that a slave is strong when you want him to break rocks or haul timbers or lift water, she thought. If the slave can hit you, that is another matter.

If this hairy crew decided to, they could tear her to pieces before anyone could react. She only had two guards with her. Tomorrow she’d bring more.

No one said a word to Ranowr during dinner, at all. He could sense them looking at him, even though he kept his eyes on his food and he wondered when they would have it out.

He was not surprised when it was Krar who spoke first.

“I thought you would get a beating for breaking that sword, Ranowr. The young goddess seems to like you though.”

The others murmured agreement, sounding amused, rather than angry.

“I think what she liked was that we were getting some results,” Ranowr said calmly. “If it keeps her from beating us to death for failing to do what she wants I’m prepared to work closely with her.”

He snorted. “Not that I have a choice.”

The others chuckled at that. But Krar pressed on.

“It’s unnatural, a Mrem working one to one with a Liskash,” he said.

“Well, Krar, if you don’t like it then you can always refuse to cooperate. I’m sure the young goddess will understand and applaud your delicate sense of propriety. You will be groomed by her own paws and given succulent fish to eat from a golden bowl.”

There was outright screeching laughter at that and Krar settled into silence, glaring at Ranowr.

Are you jealous of me? Ranowr wondered. I’d let you have my place beside her if I could. Aren’t you old enough to know that a Mrem has no say in what happens to him?

He finished his food and took the bowl to be washed. Then went in and lay on his pallet, curling up with a paw over his nose. He was in no mood to socialize tonight. He was just drifting off to sleep when Tral came in and touched his shoulder.

“I would speak with you,” he said formally.

Ranowr rose with a grunt and followed the older Mrem out.

Tral led him away from the circle and the dormitories until they stood in an empty space between outbuildings.

Ranowr glanced around. They wouldn’t be overheard here if they were careful. He looked at Tral expectantly.

“I have seen something amazing,” the older Mrem said, his voice trembling. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Just tell me, Tral. I’m all ears.”

His stood erect to show the truth of his interest, and his whiskers bristled forward intently.

“I was speaking to the steward about some of the kits having bird pox and needing to be isolated lest they all get it. When I was walking back I saw some guards leading a Mrem bound with chains towards the prison.”

“A Mrem in chains is something we’ve all seen before, Tral. What’s so amazing about that?” Ranowr asked impatiently.

“It was a stranger,” the healer said. “And he was wearing a warrior’s harness like the soldiers wear, only made for a Mrem. He struggled and they were finding it hard to hold him. He clawed one of them badly and almost broke free. Finally Captain Thress clubbed him on the head and the soldiers dragged him away.”

Ranowr opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and licked his nose instead, taking in a sharp breath of amazement. He felt as though he’d been knocked upside his own head by an overseer’s club. What Tral was telling him was impossible. They’d always been told that they were the only Mrem in the world and that the great goddess’s many times great grandfather had created them to work for their Liskash masters. Certainly they’d never seen any Mrem but those who lived and worked in Ashala’s territory. No Mrem was a stranger. They at least knew each other’s faces.

And for a Mrem to harm a Liskash and not be instantly killed for it was unheard of. And…

“In a war harness, you said?” Ranowr asked.

“Yes, like, but unlike the Liskash gear. Made for a Mrem, no doubt of it and richly made at that. It looked as good as the one Captain Thress had on.”

Ranowr’s legs felt weak and he went to a crouch in the dirt. His whole world was shaken. That there might be other Mrem somewhere had never occurred to him. He’d always believed that the slaves of the Liskash strongholds were the only Mrem in existence.

He stood. “I must speak with him,” he said. “They took him to the prison?”

“The place of pain,” Tral agreed.

Frowning, Ranowr stood in thought. “I will find a way.” He looked Tral in the eye. “Tell no one of this. Swear it,” he demanded.

“I so swear,” Tral agreed.

“Good. You took me aside to talk of the bird sickness among the kits. In fact you should tell me of your meeting with the steward and what he said. It sounds like we’ll be without the kits’ labor for a few days.”

“At least ten days,” Tral said and told him everything.

It was almost a comfort. The other thing…it was too big. When he thought of it, his mind felt like it was reaching for something just out of sight. Meanings kept tumbling in on him.

Hisshah sat at the council table idly staring at the triangular designs of blue and green inlaid in colored stones on the white walls, focusing on the shifting play of light through the narrow windows and ignoring the other eight councilors. They were all were waiting for Ashala and the captain to arrive; the most active thing in the room was a thin blue trail of bitter incense-smoke in a little silver censor.

Thress and Ashala were often together and not for the first time Hisshah wondered if he was her mother’s lover.

Ashala entered the chamber briskly and the council all rose to their feet and bent their necks, as if for a bite. Thress followed on her heels and hastened to his place. The great goddess sat and with a gesture commanded them to be seated also.

“For some time now,” Ashala began, “we have been facing a crisis involving wild Mrem.”

The councilors stared at her for a moment, then cast surreptitious glances at one another. All except Captain Thress, Hisshah noted.

“I had hoped that our neighbors would handle the situation before it reached us, solving the problem and weakening themselves…which would solve other problems,” her mother continued. “But they have failed to do so. It seems several thousand Mrem and their animals are aiming to cross our land in an attempt to join their fellows beyond the new sea. So far, despite the odds against them, they have succeeded.”

She leaned back in her thronelike chair and folded her hands beneath her chin, curving her neck in a meditative S-shape.

“I am of two minds about whether to stop them altogether or to harry them across our domain as fast as they can move. But I’m inclined to the latter. If it were easy or free of cost to wipe them out, someone would have done it by now. Let them go-and become someone else’s concern.”

She glared at everyone at the table, then sat forward, placing her hands before her on the table.

“However, we have a more immediate problem.”

Here she glanced contemptuously at the captain. “We have captured one of their scouts. Which would have been a good thing if the captain hadn’t allowed him to escape in the main courtyard in front of everyone.”

“Is there any way to keep this from our Mrem?” Hisshah asked.

“Do you ever even try not to be stupid?” Ashala snapped. “Of course, our Mrem know about it. I did say this happened in the main courtyard. That matters less than what we make them think it means. If you control meaning, mere facts become irrelevant.”

She leaned back again, raising her hands. “At least I think I did say it happened there in the courtyard.”

“Of course, great goddess,” Hisshah muttered.

Hatred for her mother burned cold in her breast. If she’d had her mother’s power the older female would have been ashes long since.

“The question is how to contain it. I have decided, if it becomes necessary, to tell our slaves that demons have taken the form of Mrem in order to confuse them and must be killed.”

She gestured, three fingers and grasping digit.

“That is why we’ve been training Mrem soldiers. The wild Mrem may be reluctant to kill their own kind and while they’re engaged with the slaves we will flank them and kill as many as we can. Our aim will be to get them running. That should minimize any damage they can do to our herds, buildings, waterworks and such.”

“Great goddess, we should annihilate them!” Thress said, slashing his claws down the table.

“Oh, be quiet,” Ashala hissed, her voice heavy with disgust. “And stop marking the furniture! Our neighbors did not send one word about this invasion. Doubtless they hope we will do exactly what you want, thus weakening ourselves and making it easy for them to strike.”

She glared at her daughter. “Tell me that the slaves have become minimally competent by this time.”

“Some have, great goddess,” Hisshah said. “But not all by any means. It has been only a month. I was not told that I had so little time.”

“A point,” her mother admitted. “You will increase the pace of their training. Our scouts report that we have less than twenty days before we are invaded. I’d rather not lose all our slaves; but if we achieve our main goal it won’t matter. After all,” she said with a smile, “if we made them too competent they’d be too dangerous to have around in any case.”

Glancing at Thress, she continued. “Captain, in light of your idiotic failure this day, I find that you need some oversight.”

She turned to her daughter. “In addition to your training duties I would have you take on that oversight. You will approve the captain’s orders for the day. And he will seek your permission if there is a need to change them or if he needs to request anything. You may issue orders to the guards if you see a need.”

The captain sat up straighter, moving slowly, his face carefully blank.

“Yes, great goddess,” he and Hisshah said in unison.

Hisshah felt pleasure like a long cool drink after a day spent curled on a hot stone. Seeing someone else humiliated, especially one she so despised, made a nice change. She would have to see how she could make this even more unpleasant for him.

“And you may select a score for your personal guard,” the elder goddess added.

Saksh, the head of Hisshah’s personal guard, pulled his thin hard lips back from his teeth in disgust.

“What I hate most about Mrem is their smell,” he said. “Like herd beasts, but ranker.”

“Except they talk,” Hisshah pointed out.

He clicked his tongue. “That’s so wrong!”

She laughed; he had a point. Maybe she was growing used to them, the smell didn’t bother her as much now. Though they smelled riper than ever as they struggled to teach their fellows what they’d barely learned themselves.

The idea of thousands of them coming to fight made her blood run thin and fast. The sight of their straining bodies instinctively made her want to strike them down.

They’re too strong, she thought. And who knows if they can be controlled by telling them the females and kits will pay if they don’t fight?

That had been her suggestion.

It probably wouldn’t be a factor to a similar number of Liskash, but they’re odd that way.

There was no indication from their behavior today that they knew about the Mrem prisoner. They seemed wholly focused on learning to fight. But they were slaves, good at dissembling. Lies were a slave’s weapons, after all.

Except that we are giving them spears, shields and spears and their skill with lies. And they are Mrem, stronger than we give them credit for.

One of Thress’s guardsmen came trotting up to her. He crouched and offered her a wax message board.

She read: I await your approval of my orders.

Below, those orders were listed. Fury filled her, flashing like lightning through her veins. How dare he prod her!

With every appearance of calm, she said to the guard, “Tell the captain I shall send a messenger in a short while. As soon as I have a chance to review his orders. Perhaps next time he could arrange to send them earlier in the day.”

She smiled as an idea came to her. “Tell him that.” She gestured as regally as her mother. “You may go.”

“Ranowr,” she called as soon as the guard was out of earshot, “come here.”

“The young goddess says that your orders are approved, but that you should substitute Ssen for Thash at the main gate. Also that you are to get your orders to her the night before or early in the morning.”

Kneeling, his hands on the ground before him, his eyes respectfully down, Ranowr waited for the inevitable blow. Thress was known for his temper and his punishments even of other Liskash. To Mrem the captain was still more vicious. He waited, braced, his heart thudding rapidly.

Thress looked down on the Mrem slave, his blood tight in his veins, until he felt as if his scales would stand on end and vibrate. He took a deep breath, and his rigid tail seemed to quiver with it.

“How dare you speak to me so?” Thress finally asked in a calm, steady voice. “I am superior to you in all ways, you filth!”

He raised the short, thick whip that was the mark of his rank and began to strike Ranowr until the skin broke. Thress continued the beating, his breath whistling through his teeth, spittle flying. Liskash from the guard gathered round and watched silently, while Ranowr covered his head and face with his arms as best he could.

“Captain Thress,” a cold voice called. And called again before it was heard. Hisshah stepped between the guards, her hands on her hips. “How dare you beat my messenger?”

“He was overbold in his delivery of your message, Hisshah.” The captain wiped spit from his chin. “I felt discipline was in order.”

“And I feel that you have overstepped yourself, Thress.”

She deliberately drew his name out in a hiss, equally deliberately choosing to omit his title.

Glancing at the bruised and bloody Ranowr, she tsked.

“You will be useless today. Go and find some light duty. But be on the practice field tomorrow morning.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. Ranowr struggled to his feet, bowed his head and staggered off.

“Now, Thress,” Hisshah said turning back to him. “Let me instruct you in how you will treat my messengers in future.”

She drew a small, sharp knife and carefully put a point on one of her claws until the tip was nearly invisible, holding it up and turning her head this way and that to examine it.

Ranowr went to get a drink and to wash his face, splashing the stale warm liquid out of the stone trough and then rubbing at the fur with his wrists. Then he found Tral.

“The skin is broken,” the healer said after examining him. “But not too deeply.” He gently applied an ointment. “You’ll be stiff for some time, and will have to watch how you move or the wounds will open again.”

Ranowr snorted; how he moved was not his choice.

“Who’s doing latrine duty at the prison today?” he asked.

It was a chore for which they all drew the short straw at some time. Lately he’d been exempted because of his training. It was time he took on the unpleasantness. Light duty, the young goddess had said.

“Sigowr is to empty the piss pots today,” Tral said. “He’s chopping wood right now by the smithy.” He gave Ranowr a searching look. “Are you going to try to talk to the prisoner?” he whispered.

“Why else would I volunteer?” Ranowr asked with a pained grin.

“It is forbidden.”

“Everything is forbidden that is not an order. I will talk with him. It’s lucky the Liskash are so fastidious about waste and so are giving me the opportunity.”

That was true; it was an oddity of the Liskash. Leaving the waste buckets to overflow would be yet another indignity they could visit on their prisoners, but even the torturers wouldn’t stand for it.

He slapped Tral on the shoulder and went to find Sigowr to tell him of his reprieve.

I hope they’re not busy torturing their prisoner, he thought.

There weren’t many prisoners locked up at this time and Ranowr quickly found the one he wanted by the smell of his bucket. He walked slowly through the cool dimness of the half-underground prison, beneath the arched stone ceiling that made this like a tunnel. Iron grills showed to either side.

“You there! You’re a Mrem?” he asked softly, turning his face away to keep an eye in either direction and letting the wooden buckets in his hand clatter a little to cover the words.

“I am,” came a tired voice; the words were oddly accented, but easily understandable.

“Who are you? How did you come here?”

“My name is Canar Trowr, I am a scout. Your soldiers captured me. That’s all I’ll tell you.”

“My soldiers?” Ranowr said with a laugh. “Do you think I’m a Liskash? Do I sound like a Liskash? Do I smell like a Liskash?”

“You sound funny,” Canar Trowr answered. “But any Mrem who works willingly for the Liskash is an enemy and I would kill you as soon as I’d kill them. Traitor,” he added.

“Willingly! None of us work willingly for the Liskash. We work so they won’t kill us or starve us or burn us with their minds or eat our kits. I was born here, all of us were and we were told that we were created by the Liskash and only tolerated because we work. If we don’t work, if we try to fight we are killed.

“But where are you from?” Ranowr demanded eagerly. “How did wild Mrem come to be? Did you escape from the great goddess’s domain?”

The prisoner laughed outright, not a sound often heard here.

“Your great goddess lied,” he said flatly. “Hard to believe of the noble Liskash, but they lied. They’re not gods. They never created us. There are thousands of free Mrem and I am one of them.”

Ranowr thought for a moment, stunned. Not gods, the Liskash are not gods.

He forced the thought away and bent his mind to more practical matters.

“I don’t know how many thousands would be. I know hundreds, how many hundreds is that?”

“Ten hundreds is a thousand,” the prisoner said. “And we are more than ten times that many. We journey toward a land of Mrem hundreds of thousands strong.”

Ranowr caught his breath. So many, unimaginably many. He heard the prisoner shift his weight and chains clinked.

“Can you get me out of here? I will lead you to them. You could come with us.”

“Get that dung cart moving!” a guard shouted.

Ranowr hastily emptied the bucket and shoved it back through the hole.

“I’ll try,” he whispered and moved on.

Through his shock and the whirling awe of a world huger than he could have imagined, resolve hardened in him. He would free the prisoner, and Canar Trowr would lead all of them to freedom. Now that they had a place to go.

“Today when you deliver my message you are to stand straight and look Captain Thress in the eye,” Hisshah commanded.

She was smiling, quite happy at the thought of Thress’s reaction to such boldness. She’d have to be hard on Ranowr’s heels to make certain the captain didn’t kill him, because she intended the slave to be her messenger every day.

Her message was much the same as the previous one, his orders were approved with minor changes. But, oh! how he would burn.

The damn smerp means to kill me, Ranowr thought bitterly.

He blinked. This was the first time, even in his thoughts, that he’d been so disrespectful. But he felt justified. Thress would undoubtedly beat him again.

“Yes, young goddess,” he said aloud. He took the wax tablet from her and trotted off.

This time Thress went at him with claws and teeth. Ranowr dodged and backed, covering his face with his arms and letting a swipe knock him down; then the kicks started, the killing claws poised.

It was almost worth it to hear the frustrated rage in Thress’s hisses, the rage that could not be assuaged. Would still scorch like lava even if Ranowr died.

Once again, more quickly this time, Hisshah intervened; Ranowr coughed cautiously, felt no broken ribs grating, and stood blinking in the bright dry sunlight. As they returned to the practice field Ranowr could tell that she was elated by the captain’s humiliation.

“Tonight you will deliver a message to the gate guards, I’m changing the password. You will do this every night.”

“He will kill me, young goddess,” Ranowr said.

“No, he won’t,” she said blithely, with a lithe flex of tail and neck. “He wouldn’t dare. If he were to displease me so much the great goddess would punish him. He is being disciplined and he knows it. He would be very unwise to resist his punishment. Don’t worry, I won’t let him go too far. It is my plan that he should come to recognize you and dread your coming. That should please you, Ranowr. That a Liskash will dread your coming.”

She laughed gaily. Ranowr throttled a snarl with a massive effort of will that left his male ruff bristling; thankfully a Liskash wouldn’t know what that meant. The hideous thing was that it was almost worth it to think of the guard captain trembling in fear at the sight of a Mrem face.

Nevertheless, Thress will kill me.

Necessarily, slaves were better at reading their masters than the reverse, and Thress was on the verge of madness. Ranowr would have to find a way out soon. First he must find a way to kill the great goddess. She had the power to burn out their eyes if they were anywhere near her. If she didn’t just set them all alight. He glanced at Hisshah. She was so full of hate, perhaps she hated her mother, too?

“Perhaps the great goddess would not want him too humiliated,” he ventured.

Hisshah pressed her lips together. “He will not show weakness by complaining,” she said, with notably false confidence, and added:

“Be silent now.”

And she hastened her pace. Ranowr’s heart smiled within him. She didn’t trust her mother. And that probably meant she hated her.

Though she probably feared her, too. How could you not fear the great power of fire born from the mind? In a way, it was a pity that the younger Liskash had only the small power of-

Ranowr blinked. A thought scurried, like a little seed-eating beast in dry grass. His mind stalked, ready to pounce.

That night Ranowr cornered Tral away from the others.

“You can talk to the females’ healer,” he said. “I need to know how many females and kits there are. Also I need to know what supplies they have charge of, where such are located and how much they have. I will find out how many of us there are.”

“Are you trying to take over the steward’s job?” Tral asked, puzzled.

“No, I am preparing us to leave. I will free the prisoner and he will lead us to thousands of free Mrem. He doesn’t know that yet, but if we come with our own supplies I don’t think he can complain.”

Tral was aghast. “Free?” he said and went silent. “What are thousands?” he asked at last. “Are they soldiers?”

“Thousands is a number. But I think they all are soldiers; if they were not, would not the Liskash have killed them or made them slaves?”

Agreement dawned in the healer’s eyes, and his astonishment-slack face firmed.

“We just have to find them and we’ll be too many for the Liskash to attack.”

Shaking his head the healer warned, “It could never work, Ranowr. The Liskash are armed and they are more than we are. We can’t just all decide to go, it’s impossible. Think of what the great goddess will do! Think of the kits!”

“I am,” Ranowr said grimly. “I’m thinking of them growing up thinking the Liskash are gods and therefore impossible to fight. I am thinking of something we’ve never known, Tral. Freedom! We can do it, I know we can. If I can work it right they’ll be too busy to worry about us. But first I need to know how many wagons we have, how many krelprep, how much food we can carry. Where are the bundor and hamsticorn herds and how many of them can we take with us. And we need to know all of this soon.”

“What makes you say that?” Tral was clearly frightened.

Perhaps by the size of the idea, perhaps thinking his friend had gone mad.

“They’ve sent out a scout, the one the Liskash have captured. The Liskash have moved our training forward. Why else have these things happened if not because the free Mrem are close and coming closer every day.”

Ranowr clawed the air before his own face and lashed his tail. “We must act!” He put a hand on Tral’s shoulder. “Are you with me?”

The healer took a deep breath and held it, then nodded.

“Maybe freedom is worth dying for,” he muttered. He looked up at Ranowr. “Can I tell the female healer why we’re doing this? She’ll want to know; she’s not stupid.”

Ranowr thought about it; it was a danger, but Tral was right. He was going to have to trust people if this was going to happen. Hard to do; the Liskash had raised them all to watch one another and to report any strange behavior. But for this to work it couldn’t just be him and the healer.

“Yes,” he said. “And she should tell those she trusts.” He smiled. “Be convincing, my friend, be very convincing.”

When they got back to the circle before the dormitory Ranowr began to question Retys, who supplied the herders. Asking him what exactly he did and how many he served.

“There are eighteen herders for the hamsticorns, we have less of those, only about three hundred or so. Twenty-three take care of the bundor, four hundred of them at least and they’re more frisky. I just bring them supplies and take their count of the herds for the steward’s records. What I mostly do is stare at the back end of my krelprep as I go from one herd to another.”

“What’s it like to drive a krelprep?” Ranowr asked. “Are they difficult to manage?”

“Why do you ask? Are you angling for my job, Ranowr? Being the young goddess’s favorite too hard on you?”

They all laughed, for by now the others were listening.

“No,” Ranowr said casually. “I was just curious. Sesh once said to me that knowledge is never wasted.”

He shrugged. “And I’ve always had an interest in krelprep. Did you ever ride one?”

Retys burst our laughing. “Me? Do you think the Liskash would let a slave mount their precious riding beasts? They’d whip me for thinking of it, and you too, so you’d better watch out.”

Ranowr decided to take that advice and watch out. Tomorrow he’d ask someone else something just as casually. The need to hurry was on him. Who knew what shape the Mrem prisoner was in by now or would be in a few days?

And the great crowd of free Mrem were on the move; he couldn’t risk his people being left behind.

Thress had taken to carrying a club for the sole purpose of using it on Ranowr. He could always get in at least a few solid hits before Hisshah stopped him.

“Why do you persist in annoying me?” Hisshah asked the captain after once again catching him at beating her messenger. “You know I’m the great goddess’s only heir. One day I will sit on her throne and your life will be in my hands.”

“In your hands?” Thress sneered. “What would you do to me? Pout me to death? You will never sit on her throne, never! She could still have a clutch. And then you would have a whole new set of young rivals to worry about.”

He stopped short as though shocked at his own temerity. But he didn’t back down. Hisshah felt as though she’d been doused in icy water. She glared at him.

“One day,” she said softly, “you will regret those words.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked away, Ranowr following.

“Young goddess,” he asked, “why do they think you have no powers?”

“Because it’s true,” she snapped. “I can move small objects with my mind and that’s it.”

“Could you tie a knot inside a bottle?” he asked.

She hissed a scornful laugh. “Yes, easily. And what good would that do me?”

“If I could do such a thing,” Ranowr said fervently, “I wouldn’t have an enemy left alive.”

Hisshah missed a step and then continued on her way.

“You have enemies?” she asked casually.

“Not many, but I do have them. Thress for one.”

She spun and slapped his face. “You grow overbold,” she snarled. “Do not think because you can use a practice sword that you are more than a slave. You will be silent now.”

They walked on in silence, but Ranowr was pleased. He knew he’d planted the idea he wanted in her mind.

Hisshah’s mind churned. Thress would never have suggested the great goddess having another clutch if he hadn’t heard her mother mention such a thing. This was bad. Her whole life hinged on being the goddess’s sole heir. Without that prospect she’d be nothing.

And what did the slave mean about tying a knot inside a bottle? Did he mean what she thought; that you could tie a knot inside someone’s head and kill them that way?

She liked the idea. No one had ever thought of it before. It was…it was deliciously sneaky. It meant you didn’t need to be strong enough to destroy in bulk, from the outside, battering at someone.

It hinted that the Mrem were even more vicious than her people, which was unnerving. She listened to the slave’s footsteps behind her. She should practice…

No, this one is too useful. I don’t think Thress would be as insulted if I sent a new Mrem messenger. I’ll start on small animals. There are always smerp in the barns.

Satisfied she walked on, busily thinking up tonight’s new password.

Then she hissed laughter. She would make the password Mighty is Thress.

Because if you pronounced that with the soft, wet, mushy accent a Mrem’s mouth-parts gave to the words, it meant something a little different, or could be mistaken for such. If you had been driven mad by frustration anyway.

Tickle me, Thress.

Her hissing grew as loud as water flicked on a heated bronze griddle.

In the short time he’d had Ranowr had collected just about all the information he needed. People were growing curious about his newfound thirst for knowledge, but so far no one seemed to find it too strange. The kind of strange they’d report to an overseer.

But now he needed to bring in more people. Today he would start with the hardest to convince. Krar.

He did not like Krar, who was a rival and a close one at that. Ranowr was speaker solely because he was marginally more popular. There was no room in their relationship for being friends. But he respected the other Mrem. Krar was smart and capable when he wasn’t letting jealousy get in his way and would be a valuable ally.

Tral had volunteered to come along to back up what Ranowr had to say.

They found the other Mrem mending a fence in an empty practice field.

“Krar, I would speak with you,” Ranowr said.

“You can speak with me during supper,” Krar growled. “I don’t intend to court a beating by chatting with you when I should be working.”

Ranowr picked up one of the fence rails and held it in place. “Now I’m helping you. So you shouldn’t suffer any ill.”

“What about Tral?” Krar asked indicating the healer with his hammer. “What’s his excuse for being here?”

“I need to confer with the speaker about something. Don’t worry, they won’t ask what.” Tral glanced around, then continued, “Though there’s no one to ask.”

Krar gave an impatient hiss and began hammering in a peg. “What do you want?”

“I want to be free and to free all of our people,” Ranowr answered.

Krar snapped back as though Ranowr had burst into fire, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Are you mad?”

“No. And there is a real chance for us.”

Ranowr told him about the strange Mrem and what his arrival portended. Then he explained most of his plan, holding back only the parts he himself was uncertain of. When he was finished he studied his rival, waiting for his response. If it was the wrong one he was prepared to kill him. But he hoped that Krar would see things his way.

“I can’t believe this,” Krar said, shaking his head.

“It’s true,” Tral said. “I’ve seen the prisoner myself.”

“But so much relies on chance,” Krar insisted. “Does everyone know what you’re planning?”

“Just us,” Ranowr told him. “But we’ll have to tell everyone soon. If we wait too long they’ll kill the prisoner, or the free Mrem will be past the great goddess’s territory.”

He waited, watching his rival think. After a long pause he asked, “Are you with us?”

Krar took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s so much to think about.”

Ranowr shook his head. “I can’t give you time to think about it,” he said. “We need to know now if you’re with us.”

He leaned close, holding the other Mrem’s gaze with his own, letting him scent his determination.

“Think quickly, but carefully.”

“Think what this could mean for all of us,” Tral said passionately. “To do what we wish, when we wish, to own our own bodies, to know our kits. To be free!”

“It’s madness,” Krar said.

“Madness to stay when we could go,” Ranowr told him. “This is our one chance. If we don’t take it then we deserve to be slaves.”

Krar nodded slowly his eyes on a distant thought. Then he met Ranowr’s eyes.

“You know I hate you.”

“You don’t hate me,” Ranowr said with a laugh. “You just want me not to exist.”

“You can say that because you’ve never had to live in your shadow.” He licked his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

“Back us up when we talk to the others. Help me convince them in spite of their fear. And help me make any possible traitors more afraid of us than of the Liskash.”

Ranowr held out his hand.

Krar looked at it, then up at his rival.

“You don’t want much, do you?”

“I want to be free. I want you to be free. Then if you wish, we will take spears or swords or knives and you can see about making the world one where you don’t have to think about me.”

A smoky light came into Krar’s amber eyes.

“Take his hand,” Tral said impatiently. “You know it’s the right thing to do.”

With another deep breath Krar shook his head, but grasped Ranowr’s hand.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” he muttered.

“Maybe we all will,” Ranowr said. “But it’s still the right thing to do.”

Hisshah approached her mother’s riding krelprep cautiously; it was an unpredictable beast that liked to kick and bite. It pulled its muzzle out of the feeding trough and looked at her across the polished saccar-wood railing, its skin gleaming with health and careful grooming.

It had bitten her, almost trampling and killing her twice while her mother looked on, waiting to see if her daughter could control it. The animal was a beauty though, strong and sinuous with fancy yellow-and-green markings. She hated it. She stood looking at it for a few moments, then she struck.

First a push at the nervecord within the spine, which caused the beast to bellow in confusion as its legs collapsed. That was delightful, but painfully loud, and Mrem slaves would come running to see what the trouble was-they would pay for any injury to the prized beast. So she cut off its air, just a little pinch within the windpipe. She watched it thrash helplessly, its golden eyes rolling in panic. Then she ended it, grasping at the delicate tissues of its brain, like dragging mental claws through jelly.

It collapsed, kicked, voided and died in less time than it took to think the words, so much dead meat, its colors dimming already and its tongue lying out across its teeth.

Hisshah smiled. Her mother would be displeased; she’d been proud of her mastery of this willful beast. But Hisshah was thrilled. This had been the first large creature she’d tried out her new power on. And it had gone exactly as she’d expected. Her whole being was alight with joy. She had a great power. As great as her mother’s if less spectacular.

I feel…I feel so happy. Happy as I have not been since I was a little hatchling.

She looked around; no one had heard the commotion, it seemed. With a soft laugh she turned and walked from the stable. Her mother would be so annoyed.

The guard struck Ranowr with a couple of light blows, almost for form’s sake. Then he said wearily:

“What’s the password for the day?”

“ Mighty is Thress, master,” Ranowr said cautiously.

Three of the closest Liskash warriors hissed uncontrolably. One of them clapped both hands to his snout, covering his nostrils in horrified surprise. Another’s spear clattered on the stones, its steel head clanging with a discordant ring that died into the sudden stillness of the morning. A third was backing away, his lips and nose squeezed tight, his whole head jerking with the need to hiss laughter.

“ What was that? ”

“Master! I said Mighty is Thress! ”

This time he did say it, working to keep his tone hard-edged and crisp like one of the rulers. He was almost as horrified as the guards at the-unintentional-slip. For a moment he thought Thress would die then; veins were visible under the fine scales beneath his throat, and his pupils opened until they were ovals that were almost round.

It was exactly the sort of petty but cunning spite the young goddess would come up with.

“Go,” Thress said, his hands trembling; his voice was beyond rage, almost pleading. “Go, go.”

The Liskash was turning to his subordinates even as the Mrem backed away. Hissing and snapping-stone shrieks rose as he walked away.

Soon, Ranowr thought as he walked away rubbing his arm.

He had everything in readiness; the wagons and tack were arranged for a swift departure under the guise of a new efficiency. Stores of food and blankets and tents were ready to hand, allegedly in the event of a neighbor attacking. So far they’d gotten away with everything and the steward was pleased that they were working so diligently.

It’s easy to work hard when it’s for your own benefit, Ranowr thought grimly. We’d never have shown them how hard we can work, otherwise.

“You were seen leaving the stable,” Ashala screamed, her voice echoing through the hall. She pounded her fist on the arm of her throne. “Tell me what you did to my krelprep!”

“What makes you think I did anything to it?” Hisshah asked her mother boldly.

Ashala paused. This was most unlike her daughter, who, though on her knees where she belonged, was otherwise upright, instead of her usual cowering posture and was meeting her eyes. She leaned back in her throne. If there was one thing she’d learned in her years as ruler of this domain it was that such a change of attitude could be dangerous.

“What were you doing in the stables?” she asked.

“I merely visited my own krelprep to see how it fared.”

“You never visit your beast,” Ashala reminded her. “You hate krelprep.”

“I’m not fond of them, it’s true. But we’re about to go to war and I don’t intend to walk.”

Hisshah paused. “What happened to your krelprep?”

Ashala glared at her. “As if you don’t know,” she growled.

The younger female returned the glare with a look of innocence.

“You know I would never go anywhere near your krelprep. It’s tried to kill me twice. What could I possibly have done to it without getting in reach of its teeth?”

“It’s dead,” Ashala said through clenched teeth.

“What happened to it?” Hisshah asked.

Hiding her glee was as hard as anything she had ever done. Boldness seemed to be working. At the start of this conversation she’d thought she’d be receiving a whipping by now. Possibly that she’d be a bubbling grease-stain on the stones.

“We don’t know. There isn’t a mark on it,” the great goddess said.

“There’s been some sickness in the barn, the hostlers have been complaining of dead smerp and worrying that whatever killed them will spread to the krelprep. Perhaps that’s what happened to yours.”

Indeed I know for a fact that’s what happened to yours, Hisshah thought. “Perhaps we should clear that barn and burn it down.”

Ashala was still visibly angry, but also thoughtful. What her daughter had said was not unreasonable.

Thress leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“You could have poisoned my beast,” the great goddess said.

Hisshah gave an exaggerated sigh. “If I tried to give food to your krelprep it would have taken off my hand. And if I bribed a stabler to give it food he would report it to you instantly.”

She raised her hands. “Has anyone made such a report?”

It was beginning to feel like she was going to get away with this.

Once again Ashala looked thoughtful, once again Thress whispered.

“Did you kill my krelprep?” she demanded.

Hisshah stared at her for a long moment.

Why not now? she asked herself. Now is as good a time as any.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Her mother’s eyes flared and she knew herself in danger. She still thought she was safe from burning, but she could see that her mother was thinking about it. She readied herself to strike.

“That thing hated me,” Hisshah said. “It wanted to kill me, but I didn’t want to die. It was me or the krelprep, Mother. Which would you rather have alive?”

Ashala actually blinked in surprise to hear her daughter call her mother in open court. She looked out at the assembled courtiers and then frowned at her heir. If Hisshah was clever enough to be able to kill a beast so much stronger and more vicious than she was then perhaps she was too dangerous to have around. She prepared to strike her.

“You can be replaced,” she said at last.

“No, I can’t,” Hisshah said.

The great goddess stiffened and her eyes rolled back in her head, foam formed at the corners of her mouth and her body bucked three times. Then she slid bonelessly from her throne to lie on the burned spot where so many others had died.

Hisshah licked her lips and brought her breathing back under control. She’d felt a wave of heat just as she struck and knew she’d survived only by dint of the unexpectedness of her attack.

She mounted the dais and sat on her mother’s throne.

She smiled at the stunned courtiers.

“Remove that,” she said to the guards, gesturing at her mother’s body. “But save the gems, I’ll be wanting those.”The guards looked from her to Thress and she felt a flash of anger.

“It is by no means settled that you should take the great goddess’s place,” the captain said. “I demand that you rise from her throne!”

He grabbed her arm and yanked. Hisshah made his legs fail him and he almost dragged her from the throne as he fell. She put her foot on his chest and kicked him over backward. He drew a dagger as he fell and would have thrown it but she struck again, leaving him paralyzed from the shoulders down.

“Stop her!” he shouted. “Strike her down; she can’t get all of us.”

“Oh, yes I can,” Hisshah assured them, though she wasn’t sure herself. “I’m keeping the captain alive because I have a score to settle with him. But any of you who wish to die on his behalf I’m willing to oblige.”

She met the eyes of those she thought might rebel and saw them acknowledge the truth of what she was saying. She looked at the captain’s second.

“What is your name?” she asked, though she knew. She knew everyone in the compound.

“Sheth…great goddess.”

Hisshah smiled at him. “You are now captain of my guard. Have Thress taken to the prison.”

Once again she indicated her mother’s body. “Have that removed.”

“Can’t you see what she’s doing?” Thress screamed. “She’s a murderer, she must be stopped!”

Well, so was my mother, Hisshah thought. Many times over. She killed my father and countless others, often for nothing more than her own amusement. Where was your outrage then, my little captive captain? She considered taking his voice, but no, she wanted him to have a voice. Soon she would hear him in full cry.

“Captain Sheth?” she prompted.

The new-made captain gestured to the guards and they began hauling the two bodies away.

“You will regret this!” Thress warned them. “She’ll kill you all!”

Once the still shouting former captain was gone Hisshah turned to her court.

“I am prepared to accept your oaths of fealty now,” she said kindly.

The scent of fear was dense and sharp, and her nostrils flared. This wasn’t as spectacular as burning, but in its way…

Better, she thought, and smiled.

One of the nobles stumbled as he came forward to grovel and swear.

Much, much better.

Tral hurried up to Ranowr where he was practicing strokes with Krar.

“I just saw them drag the body of the great goddess from the hall,” he gasped. “It was really her, the body was glittering with jewels and the guards were dragging it by the feet and they were dragging Captain Thress out, too.”

Ranowr stared at him, his breath frozen. This was it. This was what they’d been waiting for.

“Set everyone to gathering the food and the wagons,” he said to Krar.

To Tral he said: “Inform the females and then meet me at the prison with two Mrem and a handcart. Bring your medical kit.”

Then he headed for the guards.

“The young goddess needs you in the great hall,” he told them. “Something terrible has happened. I think Captain Thress has struck down the great goddess.”

Saksh, the head of Hissah’s guard stared at him for a moment, then slapped him.

“How dare you say such a thing?” He pulled out his whip. “I’ll have your back in shreds for that!”

Just then a guard came running up to them.

“The great goddess is dead!” he gasped. “Captain Thress is fallen!”

Saksh stared at him, then at Ranowr. “You and your fellows go back to your dormitory and stay there!” he ordered and ran off with the other guards trailing him.

Ranowr then nodded at Krar who began rallying the other Mrem and then headed for the prison at a run.

“The young goddess has commanded all the guards to report to the great hall,” he told the guard at the prison gate.

The guard looked uncertain, but he’d been given orders by this Mrem before. He immediately turned the problem over to his superior.

“We’ve just been given charge of Captain Thress,” that one said. “Why would she order us to abandon him?”

“Because he’s safely locked up and she needs your support?” Ranowr suggested.

The guard weighed that in his mind and decided that it made sense; everyone knew rewards and punishments flew full and wild during a change of power. He blew a whistle and the other guards came running.

“Fall in,” he ordered and they marched off.

Ranowr watched them go in disbelief. This is going almost too well, he thought and headed into the prison. As he rushed down the corridor he heard Thress’s voice from behind a door. Pausing to glance through the grill he saw the captain lying motionless on the dirt floor.

Seeing him, Thress narrowed his eyes. “You! Her pet! Come to gloat, have you?”

“No, Captain,” Ranowr said. “I have neither the time nor the interest.” And he was gone.

He removed the bar from the door of the Mrem’s cell and entered. Canar Trowr lay panting on dirty straw, no longer chained. Chains were no longer needed. His feet were a bloody mess as were his hands. As was most of him. Ranowr’s heart went cold. If they were too late it was all for nothing. Tentatively he reached out and touched him.

Instantly the prisoner sprang alert, only to sink back again.

“Who are you?” he asked in a voice that grated.

“Ranowr. I’ve come to get you out.”

Canar Trowr laughed weakly. “Surely you could have waited a bit longer?”

“Not if we want to get out of here. Can you walk at all?”

“No. But I will anyway. Help me up.”

He did so. There wasn’t a place he could touch that wasn’t wounded, but aside from a few groans the prisoner kept his pain to himself. Then, when he was upright and leaning heavily on Ranowr they stumbled awkwardly from the cell.

Once outside Tral and the others were there to meet them with a handcart. They stared at the prisoner; the two helpers in amazement to see a stranger Mrem, Tral in horror at his wounds.

“Take him,” Ranowr said, “hide him. As soon as you’re ready head for the gates. That’s where I’m going now.”

“That is what the new great goddess has commanded,” Ranowr said for the third time.

“But it makes no sense!” The guard said.

“Still, those were her orders. Perhaps it’s a loyalty test,” Ranowr suggested, hoping that would move the stubborn fool.

The guard looked over the Mrem’s shoulder and blinked. Ranowr followed his gaze. The first wagons were coming in sight and the gate remained closed. He’d been telling the guard that the Mrem were all to gather at the great bundor herd until Hisshah called them back, but the guard persisted in resisting.

Ranowr turned back to him, his face and manner calm. Everything about him proclaiming, “I am following orders. What about you?”

At the wagons’ inexorable approach the guard’s resistance crumbled and he shouted to his fellows to open the gates.

Watching them go through Ranowr saw Prenna sitting in one of the wagons. She met his eyes and raised a hand shyly. He smiled and gave the barest nod and ruffle of whiskers, then she was gone.

Now his people were on their way, he had one last thing to do. Towards the end of the slow-moving column he found Tral.

“The sleeping draught that kills,” he said, “does it work on Liskash?”

“Even better than it does on us,” Tral said. “They’re so much smaller.”

“Give me what you have,” Ranowr said. “And give my love to Prenna for me.”

Tral handed over the flask. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“It may be some time before I catch up. Don’t wait for me,” Ranowr told him. Then he turned and trotted away.

Hisshah was glowing with pleasure. She had accepted the oaths of all of her mother’s court, her court now, and had just finished deciding a case that her mother had been neglecting in favor of the plaintiff she hated least.

Suddenly Ranowr was there, offering her a goblet of wine.

“You must be thirsty, great goddess,” he said, smiling.

She was parched, but also suspicious. How had he gotten into the great hall? And whence this good will?

But then…he has been very useful. Dangerous, but useful. A cunning Mrem could be even more useful in the future. I must sleep. If I make him hated enough, he will help guard me…perhaps a Mrem guard? I need never fear their trying to overthrow me…

“It is the custom here,” she said, “for the one who offers wine to taste it first.”

He took a sip, then offered the goblet again.

“You might as well drink it all,” she told him. “I won’t drink from the same cup as an animal.”

Still, part of her was gratified to think that even the Mrem were pleased to have her as the new great goddess.

Ranowr hesitated. “It is so fine,” he said. “Never meant for the likes of me.”

“Drink it,” she insisted, watching him closely.

He did, gulping it down in four swallows. “It’s good!” he said. “Thank you, great goddess.”

She laughed and reached out a hand for another goblet. He took another from the tray and filled it for her. Then she also gulped the fine wine down, gaily smashing the cup to the floor where it shattered, the dregs splattering a few unlucky courtiers. She laughed at that.

“Wine for everyone!” she said. “I would have us drink a toast to my new reign.”

As the servants began to circulate, she gestured to Ranowr for another cup and he quickly filled one for her.

When everyone had been served she raised the goblet she’d been sipping from and exclaimed, “To a new day!”

And the cup slipped from nerveless fingers to shatter on the ground.

She was suddenly ice cold and her heart was laboring, darkness was narrowing her vision. Hisshah drew a deep breath and tried to rise only to find it impossible.

No! she thought. Not now! Not when I’ve won! She turned her eyes to Ranowr. It was him. He’d killed her!

She tried to speak, tried to curse him, tried to kill him. Nothing worked. Her breath was coming hard now and the dark was closing in.

Ranowr suddenly dropped to his knees, dying himself from the poison he’d put in the wine.

“You…die…too,” she manged to hiss.

“I…die…free…and for…my people,” he said, laboring. “You…just…die.”

Her eyes closed. There was one last whispered sound:

“Prenna…our kit.”

Then nothing.