Vanalpè came that same day, shown in by Stallan, and followed by her usual train of assistants and eager fargi. There were too many of them to fit into the small chamber and Vanalpè made all of them, other than her first assistant, wait outside. The assistant put the bundles and containers on the floor while Vanalpè walked around Kerrick examining him closely.
“I’ve never seen a live one before,” she said. “But I know the creature well. I did the dissection on the other.”
She was behind Kerrick’s back when she said this so he did not hear it all. Which was just as well since the Yilanè expression for dissection was the very literal cutting-dead-meat-apart-to-learn.
“Tell me, Stallan, can it really speak?”
“It is an animal.” Stallan did not share the general interest in the ustuzou and wanted it dead. But she obeyed orders and did it no injury.
“Speak!” Vanalpè ordered.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Wonderful,” Vanalpè said and instantly lost all interest. “What have you been using to remove the fur?”
“A string-knife.”
“Very messy. You’ve butchered the animal. Those things are better for cutting meat. Bring me the unutakh,” she ordered her assistant.
The brown, slug-like creature was shaken out of the container onto the palm of Vanalpè’s hand. “I use it for preparing specimens. It digests the fur but not the hide. But only on dead specimens so far. Let us see how it works on a live one.”
Stallan hurled Kerrick to the floor and leaned on him as
Vanalpè pried the rolled-up unutakh open and placed it on his skull. He shivered away from the cold, slimy touch and the Yilanè expressed amusement at the sight. It crawled damply across his skin.
“Very good,” Vanalpè announced. “Flesh unharmed, fur removed. Now for the next problem. The creature certainly needs a pouch. I have this tanned hide, almost a perfect color match. Just a matter of fitting it into place and trimming it. I’ve lined it with modified bandages to adhere to the skin. Good. Stand it up now.”
Kerrick was close to tears at the rough and insulting handling but he forced them back. Murgu would not see him cry. The cold slug still crawled across his scalp and was now over one eye. When it moved away he glanced down at the small breechclout that they were fitting into place. It was no bother to him. He forgot about it as the slug went slowly across the lashes of his other eye.
It would be many years before he would learn that the covering pouch was made from the preserved and well-tanned skin of Ysel, the girl who had been murdered before his eyes.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I have thought about your status for a long time,” Enge said. “I have reached the inescapable conclusion that you are the lowest of the lowest.”
“I am the lowest of the lowest,” Kerrick agreed, trying to concentrate on her speech and ignore the unutakh crawling damply over his skull. This was only the third day that it had cleansed his body of hair and he still found it repulsive. As soon as it was finished he looked forward eagerly to washing off its slimy tracks. He also had a growing respect for the small creature. When he had pried it off the previous morning it had adhered to his finger and consumed most of one fingernail. It was crawling to the back of his head now and he could wipe his browless and lashless eyes clean with the back of his hand.
“Are you giving me all of your attention?” Enge asked.
“All. I am the lowest of the low.”
“But you don’t speak that way. You have never learned to do it correctly. Now you must. Say it this way. Lowest of the low.”
Kerrick noted her bent posture, tail tucked under, and did his best to imitate it.
“Better. You must practice. Because you will soon be in the company of those who are highest here and they will not take insults of language.”
“How do you know that I am lowest of the low?” Kerrick said, phrasing it as a question asked by one of low mentality—when in reality he was getting both bored and annoyed by their talk.