Brrr raised his eyebrow. He hadn’t known interspecies generation ever to work. True, in the wide scope of society, it was inevitable that shady romances between members of separate species would occur from time to time, but they were frowned upon at best and rarely produced offspring in any event. Now, he thought, an aberration that had yielded a most sumptuous type of cat-look at Piyanta lying there, amusing herself by batting at a butterfly-a dollop of femininity curled upon itself, in a coat of golden-brown scallops. An exquisite she, a remarkable she.

“Does the Ghullim clan have a name?” he found himself asking. “As a species, I mean? I can’t quite place you.”

“We don’t need to name ourselves. Let others try,” replied Zibria.

“Merchants of Oppression?” offered Twigg. “Slaves to Your Glorious Past?”

“Soup’s nearly on!” sang out the one who’d been addressed as Stemm. “And yummers, is it a winner today, folks!” He brandished a ladle like a mace. “Who wants firsties?”

“The guest,” said Zibria. “Of course.”

“Not hungry,” said Brrr, thinking poison or the like.

“Still, it’s only polite to accept our humble fare,” said Zibria.

“Not as humble as all that,” said Stemm. “We been working on this batch since sunup. No rest for the weary, that’s what I say.”

“No rest for the idiotic,” said Twigg. “Dish up a portion, brother-at-arms, before I bash your brains in. Not that you have many.”

The tree elves conspired between them to carry a shallow bowl of the viscous liquid over to Brrr and set it down on the ground without spilling too much of it. Potatoes like soft stones gleamed in the broth.

“Garnished with elf spit!” cried Stemm, and made as if to prove it.

“That’s an elf joke,” said Twigg, cuffing him. “Go on, eat up. It’s good.”

“Please,” said Zibria.

“I couldn’t,” said Brrr.

“You should, please,” inserted Piyanta, “for Ghullim custom requires us to hold off our own meal until the guest has partaken, and I am particularly hungry this morning.” She loosed a sour-pink tongue between pearly dirks of tooth. Brrr nearly swooned. Whatever they called themselves, or resisted calling themselves, they were a perfect beauty of a tribe.

He obliged, in the name of courtesy. If he were poisoned and died today, what difference might it make? He’d have perished in golden company, and little complaint at that, among all else to fret over.

And the soup wasn’t bad, actually.

He finished his portion, and the elves then served Zibria and Piyanta-from the same pot, Brrr was pleased to note. He rolled over on his side and stretched his aching legs. He didn’t think Lions had been meant for hillside meandering, not the way his limbs felt today. But to lie here in a wash of faintly pulsing pain and watch those pretty tongues lap and lap…well, he could bear it just now.

Before the elegant pair of damsel Cats could return to conversation, though, a third creature walked through. At first Brrr thought it was Uyodor H’aekeem again, for the stance was regal and the attitude curt and guarded. Then he saw that the newcomer was a female.