Of themselves, the talonmaster’s claws shot out. Had Zhanns Bostofa said something like that without upholding the scepter, in short order he would be lying on the ground with his throat bitten and his guts torn out. He had to know it, too. But no male could be challenged for what he said with the scepter in his hand. Most of the time, Rantan Taggah thought that was a good rule. Most of the time, but not always.

“Rantan Taggah says we will surprise the Liskash nobles by moving from our longtime grazing grounds. He might be right-they could be surprised to find us so foolish,” Zhanns Bostofa said. “He might be, and they could be. But he is not, and neither are they. And I can prove it. Grumm, come forward.”

His bulk and the presence of his retainers had concealed the sorry starveling male who now stepped out from behind him. A shudder ran through the assembled warriors as they stared at the runaway slave of the Liskash. When a scaly noble took a male of the Mrem as his own, he sorcerously ate the Mrem’s surname. Even if the poor fellow somehow escaped his master, as Grumm had, he was never the same again. Part of him was gone forever.

Making as if to give Grumm the scepter, Zhanns Bostofa asked Rantan Taggah, “May I?”

“Yes, go ahead,” Rantan Taggah answered harshly. “If, that is, I may have leave to question him along with you.”

The black-and-white male inclined his well-groomed head. “But of course.” He handed Grumm the scepter.

Before raising it, Grumm stared into the eye sockets of the Liskash skull. His lips skinned back from his teeth; it was as if he confronted a live noble, not one long dead. Rantan Taggah was far from sure Grumm’s twiglike arms could lift the scepter. After that anxious moment, though, Grumm did raise the scepter high. He seemed easier once he was no longer eye-to-eye with the skull.