“Only filth eat fish,” the one called Slooshasill said at last. “Only ground crawlers eat them.”
“Then catch lizards for yourself!”
“I am Talker.” In her hiding place, Medoor Babji’s mouth twisted in amusement. She had named the creature correctly. “You are flier. You are supposed to catch them. Fliers are supposed to bring food for Talkers. Females are to serve males!”
“Males,” the flier screamed in scorn. “At mating time, Esspill will serve males. Talkers not males. And Slooshasill not even Talker now. Slooshasill nothing.”
They still crouched. “When we get back to Northshore, Slooshasill will again be Talker. You will be punished, then, Esspill.”
“How get there? Cannot fly over water.”
“Did,” said the other in a hopeless tone. “Did fly.”
“Didn’t. Wind carried. Couldn’t stop. Wind brought. Wind will have to take back again. Can’t fly over water.”
A long silence. At last the Talker asked, in a tone that could only be the Thraish equivalent of a whine, “What we do now, Esspill?”
“What you do, don’t know. What I do is get more Tears. Then find human. Put Tears on. Eat it. I be strong then. Fly back. Fear or not.” It was an empty threat. Even to Medoor Babji, unused to the sound of flier talk, it came across as mere bluster. The wings came down in a hard buffet, throwing sand into a quickly falling cloud. Medoor dodged behind the trunk of the tree, afraid to be seen. When she came out again, both pairs of wings were above her, above the land, one in the lead, the other following. She watched them as they circled low above the forest, low above the beach, searching. Never, not even for a moment, did they fly out over the open water.
It seemed unwise, she felt, to stay in the vicinity of the boat, though she did not want to risk losing it. She climbed higher in the tree and took a sighting. It was likely this small bay was unique. The bay lay midway on a line between two tallish hills, one crowned with a monstrous frag tree grove. There seemed to be no other hills within sight.
She came down the tree in a chastened mood, her desire for vengeance chastened by reality. Esspill, the flier, was as large as she. Lighter, perhaps, but with talons and a sharp, hooked beak. Likely those talons could hold Tears without danger to Esspill herself. Herself. Medoor Babji would have been sure of it even without the verification of their speech.
But then what was the one called Slooshasill? A male? Not according to the other one. Not male or female. A kind of neuter thing. A Talker.
Who would have thought the fliers could talk? Queen Fibji had never spoken of any such thing. Of course, there were few fliers seen upon the steppes, but still it was odd that none among the Noor had known. If, in fact, they had not known.
And now? What?
She could hide indefinitely. She was confident of that. She had fruit to eat and would eat fish, which the flier creatures would not. Even if Esspill caught every stilt-lizard on the place, which wasn’t likely, Medoor Babji could be sure of food. But it would have to be a covert, sneaky kind of existence.
Or, she could fight. Reason said that the odds against her would be reduced if she waited a while. That tall Talker creature was half-starved. The flier wouldn’t feed it, and it didn’t seem able to catch food for itself. Given only a little time, it would be dead or too weak to threaten her. So, patience was called for.
Still, it would be a difficult, nervous business, surviving with an eye in the sky looking for her. She went back to her cave, stopping at the snares on the way. Two stilt-lizards, not bad. She would smoke them. . . .
She wouldn’t smoke them. Medoor Babji cursed. Smoke would bring the damn feather mops on her in a moment. Smoke could be seen at great distances on any clear day or moonlit night. She would have to salt and sun-dry the meat. She could eat raw fish with resignation, perhaps even with a modicum of pleasure, but she could not face the idea of raw stilt-lizard. Hot bile stirred at the back of her throat. She needed a smoke oven. Perhaps one of the caves. … .