The prospector examined their sodden surroundings. “Makes sense.” Glancing back down at poor Masurathoo’s body, he considered how best to proceed. Weakened by nonstop laughter, the Deyzara’s movements were beginning to slow.
Having withdrawn a small cylinder the size and shape of a pencil, Jemunu-jah knelt beside the quivering body. At the Sakuntala’s touch, a small blue light emerged from the tip of the device. Working carefully and deliberately, he touched the beam to each kaema. One by one, they dropped off the Deyzara’s back. Smoke curling upward from the center of their shells, a few scuttled out of sight, burying themselves back in the moss. Those that clung longest to their intended transport suffered deeper burns. When they finally fell off, they lay atop the moss bed and did not move.
Only when the last of the persistent outriders had been expunged did Masurathoo roll over onto his back. As he sucked in air through his breathing trunk, it expanded and contracted with the effort. After a few minutes, he was able to sit up, then stand. With as much dignity as he could muster, he began rewrapping himself with his frayed folds of garishly hued apparel. Warm rain coursed down his face and exposed pink torso.
Grudgingly, Hasa felt compelled to ask, “How you feelin’?”
“Exhausted. Embarrassed. Most highly mortified.” A strip of gold and blue wound itself around his upper body, over one shoulder, and down his back. Though intricate in execution, the mannered procedure of Deyzara dressing was only interesting the first time it was observed. “My entire back feels as if it has been flayed by flies.”