sacs.
“The smell on my face,” I said to them all. “It’s venom. From a Mandasar queen.”
That sent the five of them into another bout of whisker-twitching shock. With Zeeleepull, the shock only took half a second to swoop into outrage. “Dare you to pretend—”
“I’m not pretending,” I interrupted. “It’s the truth.”
“Then worse!” Zeeleepull yelled.
The burning-wood odor of Battle Musk B began to pour off him like smoke. Thirty seconds of that and he’d go berserk…especially in the dining room’s enclosed space, where his own musk would fill the air and whip him to frenzy. Counselor put her hand to his cheek, and whispered, “Calm, calm,” but Zeeleepull just kept yelling.
“If a hume, dirty awful you, dares to wear sacred venom like…like perfume…”
Uh-oh. It’s too complicated to explain now, but one of the causes of Troyen’s civil war was snooty-pants aliens riling the populace by dousing themselves with Mandasar pheromones. Zeeleepull obviously knew that…and in his mind, he’d suddenly identified me with the troublemakers who drove Troyen over the edge.
The workers were snorting and trembling now, half-scared to death by the Musk B in the air. That particular type of musk always terrifies nonwarrior castes. A scent specifically evolved to stimulate the fear response, a Mandasar scientist once told me. Counselor hollered, “Nai halabad tajjef su rellid puzó,” but Zeeleepull was too far gone for that to have an effect. The words only work when everyone’s cool-headed, not when a warrior desperately wants to run riot.
Any second, there was going to be a fight…and a real fight this time, not just a warrior feeling testy, deciding to drive off an unwanted visitor. Now Zeeleepull had a reason to really hurt me: because he thought I’d committed the deliberate sacrilege of wearing venom as cologne.
I had no room to maneuver inside the house. Even worse, the dome had closed and sealed itself shut after everyone came inside; I couldn’t find the door to get out. Zeeleepull would try to kill me, and the only way to prevent that was to hurt him…bash him unconscious or cripple him so badly he couldn’t pincer me in half. I didn’t want to do it; I didn’t even know if I could do it, because there was so little space for ducking and dodging.
Then…while I was thinking and worrying and trying to figure out what to do, my hands reached out of their own accord. I wasn’t moving them, I swear. I had no idea what they were going to do. But they grabbed Zeeleepull’s snout like I was as strong as a tiger, and dragged his nose around till it was a hair breadth from my face.
He tried to yank away, but couldn’t. I remember thinking, I shouldn’t be able to hold him. In a straight tug-of-war, he outweighs me three to one. But I wrestled him close so that all he could smell was the fresh venom on my face; and I heard my own voice saying, “I am Blood-Consort Edward York, last and rightful husband of Verity the Second, High Queen and Supreme Ruler of all those who tread the Blessed Land. If you fear her name, you will yield; if not, be named her enemy and pay the price of your folly.”
The words came out in a dream. I couldn’t tell if I was talking English or Troyenese; I’d never said such things before, never once tried to bully people by using my position. For all I knew, these Mandasars had no idea Queen Verity ever married a human husband…and even if they’d heard the story, why would they believe I was that man?
But Zeeleepull’s nostrils were full of the odor of queen’s venom: the venom on my face, stronger than the scent of battle musk, or the aroma of fear rising from Counselor and the workers.
Slowly, the warrior crossed his Cheejreth over his chest and closed his eyes. When I let go of his snout, he lowered it to the ground till his whole body was flat on the floor.
“Nai halabad tajjef su rellid puzó,” he whispered.
Counselor was already lying
“The smell on my face,” I said to them all. “It’s venom. From a Mandasar queen.”
That sent the five of them into another bout of whisker-twitching shock. With Zeeleepull, the shock only took half a second to swoop into outrage. “Dare you to pretend—”
“I’m not pretending,” I interrupted. “It’s the truth.”
“Then worse!” Zeeleepull yelled.
The burning-wood odor of Battle Musk B began to pour off him like smoke. Thirty seconds of that and he’d go berserk…especially in the dining room’s enclosed space, where his own musk would fill the air and whip him to frenzy. Counselor put her hand to his cheek, and whispered, “Calm, calm,” but Zeeleepull just kept yelling.
“If a hume, dirty awful you, dares to wear sacred venom like…like perfume…”
Uh-oh. It’s too complicated to explain now, but one of the causes of Troyen’s civil war was snooty-pants aliens riling the populace by dousing themselves with Mandasar pheromones. Zeeleepull obviously knew that…and in his mind, he’d suddenly identified me with the troublemakers who drove Troyen over the edge.
The workers were snorting and trembling now, half-scared to death by the Musk B in the air. That particular type of musk always terrifies nonwarrior castes. A scent specifically evolved to stimulate the fear response, a Mandasar scientist once told me. Counselor hollered, “Nai halabad tajjef su rellid puzó,” but Zeeleepull was too far gone for that to have an effect. The words only work when everyone’s cool-headed, not when a warrior desperately wants to run riot.
Any second, there was going to be a fight…and a real fight this time, not just a warrior feeling testy, deciding to drive off an unwanted visitor. Now Zeeleepull had a reason to really hurt me: because he thought I’d committed the deliberate sacrilege of wearing venom as cologne.
I had no room to maneuver inside the house. Even worse, the dome had closed and sealed itself shut after everyone came inside; I couldn’t find the door to get out. Zeeleepull would try to kill me, and the only way to prevent that was to hurt him…bash him unconscious or cripple him so badly he couldn’t pincer me in half. I didn’t want to do it; I didn’t even know if I could do it, because there was so little space for ducking and dodging.
Then…while I was thinking and worrying and trying to figure out what to do, my hands reached out of their own accord. I wasn’t moving them, I swear. I had no idea what they were going to do. But they grabbed Zeeleepull’s snout like I was as strong as a tiger, and dragged his nose around till it was a hair breadth from my face.
He tried to yank away, but couldn’t. I remember thinking, I shouldn’t be able to hold him. In a straight tug-of-war, he outweighs me three to one. But I wrestled him close so that all he could smell was the fresh venom on my face; and I heard my own voice saying, “I am Blood-Consort Edward York, last and rightful husband of Verity the Second, High Queen and Supreme Ruler of all those who tread the Blessed Land. If you fear her name, you will yield; if not, be named her enemy and pay the price of your folly.”
The words came out in a dream. I couldn’t tell if I was talking English or Troyenese; I’d never said such things before, never once tried to bully people by using my position. For all I knew, these Mandasars had no idea Queen Verity ever married a human husband…and even if they’d heard the story, why would they believe I was that man?
But Zeeleepull’s nostrils were full of the odor of queen’s venom: the venom on my face, stronger than the scent of battle musk, or the aroma of fear rising from Counselor and the workers.
Slowly, the warrior crossed his Cheejreth over his chest and closed his eyes. When I let go of his snout, he lowered it to the ground till his whole body was flat on the floor.
“Nai halabad tajjef su rellid puzó,” he whispered.
Counselor was already lying
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