were attempting to weave a complicated knot out of pure energy. He could feel it, though he was far more sensitive to nuance than sensation. Sherril marveled at the ancient story unfolding before him. No matter how many times he had seen the Tale of Creation, it never palled. That young Dancer at the back, though-she needed more work on her portrayal of the Burgeoning Garden. Too clumsy. He would not dare say he could do it better himself, but he wagered his attempt would show more grace than hers. The rest, though, exhibited litheness and power that made him lust after all of them. The beat of the white skin drum, the wild fluting of the twin-pipes, and the pinging of the lyre only made his blood pump harder.
The priestesses leaped over and rolled beneath one another, drawing power in three dimensions. They wore bracelets and anklets of jeweled silver or gold, as well as charms around their tails and in between their toes. The metal glittered in the sun. Their fur seemed to glitter, too, dusted as it was with powder crushed from precious stones. Sherril smelled the fragrance of their fur warmed by their efforts and the heat of the day. A senior Dancer, Cleotra Mreem, caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of a brilliant grass-green eye. She did not waver for a moment, but shot a meaningful look to Cassa Fisook, the head priestess. Cassa Fisook looked toward Sherril. The dance changed, slowing down. The hot energy began to melt away. Cassa Fisook whirled and leaped as lightly as a leaf until she was in the heart of the circle. Her Dancers came to a halt, facing her. Their voices sounded low in their throats, a gentle burr. She made gathering gestures with her arms, collecting the last of the power. Her long hands tucked it into a ball that she offered to the sky.
The chief of the Dancers bore a few gray hairs around her chin and nose, but was otherwise the upright, slim female who had protected, and mothered, the Lailah tribe of the Clan of the Claw for over thirty years. Her training and condition were so thorough that she was not even breathing fast. Sherril was exhausted from having run all the way from the center of the city. Her chief servant Petru Keoh oiled into view. The huge, nearly all-black male was adorned even more ornately than his mistress. His many bracelets clashed together on his heavily-furred arms and legs, and he had dusted himself copiously with golden glitter. Sherril hated to admit it, but he envied Petru Keoh his thick ruff that made the ladies swoon with pleasure, not that the big gelding ever noticed. He brushed Cassa Fisook’s fur smooth and sprinkled her with fresh sparkles, blue and green this time. Tiny, jeweled glints twinkled from the sable depths of her coat. He moved to adorn the rest of the Dancers, more sparingly, with the exception of that imperious senior female, whom he decorated copiously with precious red glitter. Petru Keoh was not above playing favorites, Sherril thought with a snort.
“I see you have returned,” Cassa Fisook said. “Alive and well?”
Anyone with less self-possession than Sherril Rangawo would have lowered his head at the reproof. The ritual had been performed to protect him and his escort on their journey. Dancing magic took a great deal of effort and energy. Not to have revealed himself immediately was an error. The priestesses could have stopped much earlier, but then he would not have seen them dance. To Sherril, it was worth the possible tussle on the ground with the Dancers or their bodyguards. He strutted forward.
“I am here,” he acknowledged. “My mission is accomplished, and I have brought us all back without hurt or loss.”
“What news, then?” a deeper voice inquired.
Anyone with less self-possession than Sherril Rangawo would have jumped through the open roof. The Dancers parted. He saw Bau Dibsea lounging on a pile of cushions at the edge of the Dancing ground. The talonmaster glared at him. It was one thing to preen before the females. It was quite another to show off before a well-tried warrior with many kills to his name and a reputation for nipping holes in the ears of obnoxious subordinates. Inwardly, Sherril Rangawo cowered, but he covered his discomfiture as well as he could. He bowed.
“Leader, I bring news.”
“I assumed as much. Let us hear it.”
Dancer Cassa Fisook settled on her purple-dyed cushion beside Bau Dibsea. Sherril knew Bau was being honored to witness the Dance because of what might come later, but Sherril Rangawo knew differently. He was pleased to have information that the talonmaster did not. Cassa Fisook gestured to him.
“Sherril Rangawo, come forward and tell us what we must know.”
Sherril gestured at his person, flicking a morsel of dust from his breast.
“Your Sinuousness, forgive the state of my fur. I haven’t had time to wash since I returned.”
“No matter,” the Dancer said. “It is more important that we hear what you have to say.”
Cassa Fisook twitched a finger, and Petru stepped forward. The valet held a painted wooden tray on which balanced a beaten-silver pitcher and a silver cup. Not the first-quality cup, as should have befitted Sherril Rangawo’s station. He let out a hiss under his breath as Petru poured out wine for him. Petru retorted with an almost inaudible snort. He knew that Sherril could say nothing. He was going to get away with his insult. One day, Sherril Rangawo vowed, he would make the valet pay. But the Dancer swiveled her ears toward him. Sherril offered a drop to the God, Aedonniss, and his gentle bride, Assirra, then drank deeply. If he had been alone he would have drained the cup in a gulp. Sherril Rangawo didn’t realize how dry his tongue was.
“What says the lizard?” Bau Dibsea demanded.
Sherril looked longingly at the cushions, but Bau Dibsea did not invite him to sit down. Cassa Fisook was kinder. She waved to Petru, who arranged a seat just under the lip of the tent where the heat would beat down on Sherril’s back but his face and toes would be cold. That’s two, he thought. But he curled up on the down-stuffed pouch and tucked his feet beneath him.
“Greetings to you, Dancer Cassa Fisook, and Talonmaster Bau Dibsea, from Tae Shanissi, lord and self- proclaimed deity of the sovereign city-state of Ckotliss, master of ten thousand and a domain of great span and fertility.”
“Gack!” Bau Dibsea spat. “Even their names are sickening to say.”
“Did he hear you out?” Cassa Fisook asked, ignoring the male’s interruption.
“All my words and movements were heard, lady,” Sherril said. He sipped more wine to wet his tongue. The heady fragrance helped dispel the foul dust of the road and the cloying smell of the Liskash city. “He and his lords listened to me in the great hall of that stone keep that we observed from the ridge. He gave me sweet water to drink and flat cakes of some foul grain or bean that I ate only out of courtesy. I explained exactly as I was instructed to that we are peaceful travelers in Lord Tae’s land. The mountains and the sea preclude our passing to either side of this valley, so we must go through. That we want to do as swiftly as possible. I also requested to trade for supplies to see us on our way.”
“And…?” Bau Dibsea asked, impatiently.
Sherril hated to be rushed. The Liskash were more appreciative of his full explanations and the spooling out of the Lailah’s journey from their homeland. He wrinkled his nose slightly, sweeping his whiskers back.
“He is agreed, Talonmaster.”
Bau sprang to his feet. “Excellent! Then we will break camp at once. Will he provide us with guides or maps?”
Sherril patted the air with his palms. “Not so swiftly, my leader. There is a price.”
“A price?” piped up Ysella Ehe, the young Dancer who had stumbled. “What price? They enslave our kind. I hear they even eat them.”
“Ysella!” exclaimed Cleotra, the Dancer with lush, sleek fur dusted with red. “It is not your time to speak.” But it was not a formal council, and the young one had asked a question the rest of them wanted answered.
“We are not to their taste, except as slaves,” Cassa Fisook said. “But it is true, Lord Tae might demand such a price.”
“In truth, I saw many Mrem in the city,” Sherril admitted. The sight of scrawny, ill-kempt Mrem yoked to a wagon as if they were beasts of burden or carrying heavy loads behind their Liskash masters was a deep insult. Their faces wore despair that he could not and did not want to imagine. The Mrem in the noble household looked as miserable, though not as ill-fed or groomed.
“None of us will submit,” Ysella insisted.
Cassa Fisook gave her a look of kindly patience. “No gift is ever really free, my daughter. There is always a price, even if that is simple gratitude. What do they want?”
“It is not as onerous as slavery, Your Sinuousness,” Sherril said. “Lord Tae said that he is a student of our race. He wishes to know more about us. He admitted that once a Mrem’s mind is in his thrall it ceases to think as one of us. Lord Tae said he was perhaps too quick to subsume something interesting. He would know more of our
