She must have dozed off because she did not remember him sitting up. He was scratching away at a parchment in his lap. Ink. Must be a final copy. She pulled the soft wool blanket up over her bare shoulder. He was such a minimalist, but the few things he owned were luxurious.
She nuzzled his hip. “Tell me a story.”
“I don’t know any stories.”
“Liar. Tell me what you’re writing, then.”
“Mm. Writing about rith.”
“Gross! Bugs.” She made a face then sighed lightly and watched the muscles in his back flex as he reached for the inkwell.
“The rith aren’t bugs. Bugs are arthropods, rith are rith. Different phylum.”
“They look like bugs. Big bugs.”
“The rith,” he began, taking on his stentorian tone, “are mesotherms. Bugs, as you call them, are only active when it’s warm out. Mesotherms like the rith can regulate their temperature because their exoskeletons store heat from the sun. And other sources.”
“Is ‘rith’ Ilarian for ‘big bug’?”
He looked at her with a disapproving frown. “Ilari, not ‘Ilarian’, and there is no such language. ‘Rith’ is Cantonaïan. And yes, the Cantonaïans are Ilari, but so are a lot of other people. I don’t think you really care about what I’m writing.”
“No, it’s interesting, keep going.” She put her face on his lap, pushing aside the parchment with the top of her head, and closed her eyes. “Go on, tell me more. The exoskeleton.”
“See, they can see heat the way you and I see light.” His voice was getting a little more excited. That was fine. At least he had stopped writing. “So they come out at night in the desert, when it’s freezing, and use their stored heat to keep going. They see your body like a bright beacon that says, ‘come and get it’.”
“Is that why the Clanners ride them?”
“What do you know about the Carrion Clans?” he said, looking down at her.
She looked up at him, feeling the mood shift. “I know they ride rith. Big ones. That look like bugs. But apparently aren’t bugs. I know you stay away from people who ride rith.”
His jaw twitched. Then he shrugged it off, blotting his pen on a sponge on the nightstand. “You can trust sherta riders. At least they aren’t slavers.”
“The sherta are rith? Really? I thought they were birds. They have feathers like birds.”
“Nope. Those aren’t feathers, they’re quillettes.”
His voice had lost its edge, and she realized that she had tensed up. Maybe it was safe to go back to a little teasing. “They look like feathers.”
He grinned and shook his head slightly. “They work like feathers, ‘cept they also channel sunlight to the exoskeleton. A sherta can double or triple its surface area when it fluffs out its quillettes. They like to sit up high on the mountains and gather warmth from the sun.”
“Cliff diamonds,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said with mild surprise, glancing down at her. “That’s exactly what they call them up north. You’re full of little surprises.”
“Hah. You have no idea,” she said, putting a hand on his knee. This was going in the right direction. She snuggled closer and gave a deeper sigh.
“You know, their exoskeletons aren’t like arthropods. They are actually bony, but hollow. With interlocking rings that allow them to flex, but make them super strong, like bamboo.”
“Bamboo?”
“Kind of grass.” He waved vaguely, throwing drops of ink onto the floor. “Grows up north.”
“Grass isn’t very strong.”
“Bamboo is. Never mind, it’s not important.”
She slid her hand up his thigh a bit. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He glanced down at her again, understanding beginning to dawn. He stuck the pen in the sponge and shifted the parchment to the nightstand.
“You ever seen a sherta up close?” she asked.
He turned away to dim the lamp, smiling to himself. “Once or twice,” he said. “Once or twice.”
