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Lytaxin
Erob's Clanhouse

ORDERS WERE TO await the captain's word. The captain's word being some time in coming, Nelirikk and Shadia set about exposing the Troop's newest recruits to the intricacies of poker.

Diglon Rifle grasped the rules of play with a speed that would have been notable in an explorer, and was presiding over a solid wall of money-chips when Nelirikk heard the cadence of a familiar voice in the hall.

"Attention!" He slapped his cards face down onto the table and surged to his feet, Hazenthull and Diglon scarcely a breath behind him. Shadia turned in her chair, the better to see the door.

Came the captain and the scout—well enough. And behind them . . . Nelirikk swallowed, heart slamming into overdrive.

Behind his captain walked one of them—a Clutch turtle, slayer of soldiers, destroyer of fleets, despoiler of worlds.

Beside him, Nelirikk heard a small, breathless sound, and dared to move his head the fraction necessary for him to see the recruits.

Hazenthull's naked brown face was stiff, her eyes wide, her lips compressed into a thin pale line. Diglon Rifle had the appearance of a foot soldier ordered to hold the rear against the approaching line of enemy war-wagons.

Scout Shadia, seated and at her ease, inclined her head. "Commander Shadow, Captain Redhead. Your Wisdom. Be welcome."

"Gently said," the slayer boomed in a voice that rattled the brain inside the skull. "May I know your name?"

The scout inclined her head once more. "Scout Lieutenant First-In Shadia Ne'Zame—in the short form. In the shortest available form, I am called Shadia."

"Yet another scout!" The creature exclaimed. "One's elder brother is even now conferring with the scout who is the direct ancestor of our own brother—he whom you this instant greeted as Shadow, which I had not known was a part of his name."

"Only," the scout murmured, "when Scout ter'Meulen is on-world."

Shadia grinned. "That's so, Clonak being an inspiration to us all. I should mind my manners more closely—but truly, sir, it's so apt a naming!"

"Others have remarked upon it as well," the scout said, not without a sigh, and glanced up into Nelirikk's face.

He expected something, then—an explanation, a raised eyebrow, the offer of the scout's own crystal grace blade with which he might honorably cut his throat before the shelled one bit his legs off and left him to die in agony.

It was not, however, the scout who spoke, but the captain. She came forward some few paces, hands behind her back.

"Beautiful. What's wrong with you and the recruits?"

"Captain." He hesitated, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the Clutch turtle. The old battle reports had not overstated the enemy: The horny and impervious hide, the shell that covered the back and the soft, vulnerable belly, the pitiless and unblinking yellow eyes.

"If the captain pleases," he managed, and was ashamed to hear that his voice was not . . . completely . . . soldierly. "Many, many years ago, Clutch turtles handed overwhelming losses across several battle zones to the Troop. The conditions of defeat state that the Troop will, from that time on, be considered the fair and just prey of the victors."

"That so?"

Nelirikk met her eyes. "Yes, captain. It is so."

"OK. You wanna explain what that has to do with you?"

He stared at her, then looked to the scout, who returned him a glance that was blandness itself.

"Captain, it has to do with me and with these recruits that—" He stopped, inwardly cursing himself for an unblooded crechling. Carefully, he saluted.

"Captain. The treaties between Yxtrang and Clutch have nothing to do with those who serve as soldiers in Jela's line."

She nodded. "That's what I thought, too." She pointed, over her shoulder and up, and continued in the tongue of the Common Troop.

"Soldiers, attend me! This is Seventh Shell Third Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmakers Den: The Sheather; field name Sheather. He is the brother-by-oath of myself and the scout. You will serve him and also his brother, who you will meet, as members of Line yos'Phelium. Am I understood?"

They all three saluted. "Yes, Captain!" rang in unison.

"Good. We will shortly be moving on the enemy of our Line." She looked at Nelirikk, and spoke next in Liaden, oathholder to oathbound. "Prepare them as befit, those in the service of yos'Phelium," she said and dropped into Terran. "Draw leathers and arms outta the Gyrfalks stores. Give Diglon a short sleep-learn in Trade, and lay a base in Terran, if there's time. Drill 'em both in the signs and calls. You'll be called when it's time to board ship."

Once more, Nelirikk saluted. "Captain," he said, and then, "If the captain pleases."

"Now what?"

"What is our destination, Captain?"

"Had to ask it, didn't you?" She glanced at the scout, who inclined his head, ironically.

"Liad is our destination, Explorer."

Nelirikk allowed himself a grin before he again saluted his captain and turned to give orders to the recruits

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Framed