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  “No, see, that’s the problem.” Andrea smiled a little. “Not that it matters.”

  “No?” Emlyn asked, and the Emperor was glad he had, for he wanted to know the answer.

  “No,” Andrea said. “Because whether we believe in God or not, He exists. And the only thing a lack of religion does is leave you unprepared for His arrival when He shows up in your life. Usually with a hammer the size of a supernova to use on your head.”

  Emlyn stared up at the ceiling. “I’d like to see that happen to the Chatcaava. Except He’s going to need a much bigger hammer than that.”

  “It’s coming,” Andrea said, low. “Don’t doubt it, if you doubt anything else.”

  “She’s right,” the Emperor murmured. They both glanced at him, wide-eyed, but he had not the heart to say anything else.

  The day passed. Andrea was sent for, and then Emlyn. The Emperor slept. He tried the ramp to the gardens and found it barred to him. He returned to the blanket and pillow and slept again. He did not eat; his stomach curdled at the thought of food, at the thought of sustaining himself at all. All his thoughts were in disorder, shot through with anguish and regret. Sometimes he managed rage, but it was rare. He thought of flying and wept in silence, with the side of a hand pressed to his eyes and his shoulders tight and twisted to shield himself from view. He found himself remembering the Queen at her window, forever staring outside, and hated himself for the wings he had ordered mutilated… and then never had fixed. He had asked the Ambassador if the Alliance could do it. Why had he not asked the Surgeon? Why had he decided the Alliance had to be the source of all the progressive acts that he wanted to see happen?

  He had come to power knowing how variegated the Empire was, how the Chatcaava were not the monolithic evil Emlyn had referred to, but a patchwork of disparate cultures, most of them sustainable. He’d known it. And yet, even knowing that people like the Knife existed and could love their dams, he had preferred to think of love, of loyalty, of tenderness and compassion as alien concepts. That would have excused him from developing those virtues in himself without external influence, wouldn’t it?

  Dying Air—Living Air—how could he have been so wrong? He had begun as one of the disrespected masses. How quickly he’d left all that provincialism behind him. Did it matter that he’d retained those attitudes during his career in the Navy if he’d done so solely to advance his own aims?

  Or was that fair? Maybe there had been a kernel in him that had longed for the values he’d heard from his father’s mouth. Maybe he’d simply packed them deep, where they couldn’t hurt him on the way to the throne. But having gained that pinnacle, what had he done with power? Little of worth. Would he have ever reclaimed his heritage—Kauvauc’s heritage—and made it acceptable again? Or would he have languished in the court, involved in the game that had so captivated him once he’d begun playing it at the level of nations?

  What would become of him if his head never healed?

  He was aware, far too aware, of suffering. Of suffering physically, and mentally… and spiritually. But he didn’t know how to stop, when action had always been his panacea.

  The following evening the guards arrived for him, and they were accompanied by the Steward. It was the latter who addressed him. “Dainty. Be obedient. You go to see your master now.”

  The Emperor was grateful that it was assumed he did not understand Chatcaavan, because responding to this command would have been beyond him. It was in character for him to stare warily at the approaching guards. One of them was the male he’d bitten, and he was grimly glad to see the resentment in that one’s gaze. He was also glad it was the second guard who leashed him, because he didn’t trust the first not to hit him again. He very much wanted to avoid being hit on the head, if repeated strikes could make his condition permanent.

  “So now it’s docile?” the Steward asked, brows lifting.

  “It has a very mercurial temperament,” the second guard said. “Particularly when provoked.” He eyed the first guard.

  The Steward decided to ignore them. “Let’s go.”

  The Worldlord’s suite was at the top of the highest tower. It was fortunate that these towers were not as tall as those on the throneworld; such towers would not have been ideal for a hunting estate, anyway, since part of the pleasure of such estates was the ability to dive on the prey one could see before it had time to flee. But the climb was arduous enough, and the Emperor was disturbed to discover himself out of breath once he reached the top.

  Like his own suite in the palace, the Worldlord’s took up the entirety of the tower’s top. The Emperor was led into the first room, which had the largest balcony for receiving guests. There was a selection of chairs and divans, and a table for small food and drinks, a sideboard, rugs. It was an open chamber, and beautiful, and it smelled like the greening things that had been ruffled by the warm breeze on the way here.

  The Worldlord was seated on the divan, relaxed, with a cup of tea-wine beside him. He was larger than the average Chatcaavan, with an impressive breadth of chest and wings of a size to bear him up. His face had the blunted end of a traditional axehead, but unlike the Admiral-Offense he lacked the gradual slope of the ideal; still, he had a confidence that lacked the brash edge of so many males. The Emperor had expected to find an angry male, one with something to prove, one worn to bitterness by constant clashes with the Navy for primacy over the system. Perhaps he should have known better, if a Naval contractor like Deputy-East had counted him a friend.

  “Worldlord,” the Steward said. “It is good to find you home again.”

  “It’s good to be home, though I’m not sorry to have been about my errand.”

  The Steward smiled. “And how is your fourth son, then?”

  “Doing well. He’s given me a sixth grandson and has established a new estate on the southern continent,” the Worldlord said, pouring a second glass. “He’s found a very lucrative-looking gem mine there. I think that might go well, if the surveys hold true. An additional source of income never goes amiss, particularly with extraterrestrial mines tied up in Naval contracts.”

  “Ah,” the Steward said. “That is excellent news.”

  “Come,” the Worldlord said, holding out the glass. “Drink. Is that the new alien? Does he need to be tied down?”

  “It would be wise,” the Steward said. He tugged the leash and the Emperor followed, resenting the leather and not wanting to be any closer to either of them. He suffered himself to be tied alongside the divan, by the balcony, and watched the Steward accept the glass and sit across from his master the way Second had so often sat across from the Emperor, long ago. When things had been better. Or, not better. Simpler.

  “Do we know for certain this alien belonged to Manufactory-East?” The Worldlord’s eyes were on the Emperor now, evaluating him. The Emperor did not know how to read the other male’s gaze: it was not avaricious, or excited, or lustful, or wary. It wasn’t even curious.

  “No. There’s no record of him having bought one of these slaves. But there might not be. You know how he likes to obfuscate things.”

  “And his servants?”

  “Report that many of his slaves run away,” the Steward replied, wry. “Which we already knew. That they don’t recognize this one isn’t evidence; when we found him in the garden, he wasn’t yet collared, so obviously Manufactory-East didn’t have him long. But I have spoken with the Surgeon and we both think he is one of the rare aliens, the ones being sought so assiduously. Given that, I would not be surprised if Manufactory-East had chosen to shroud his acquisition of this creature so devoutly.”

  “Mmm. I have seen pictures of these aliens. He does look a little like them. The hair, though?”

  “Dyed, we think,” the Steward said. “Perhaps by Manufactory-East himself, to make it less obvious what he had.”

  “We are ascribing a great deal of cunning to Manufactory-East.”

  The Steward snorted. “We ascribe it because it’s the one thing
he’s good at, Worldlord.”

  “Yes.” The Worldlord chuckled. “I suppose. How goes everything else in-system?”

  The Steward rolled his shoulders, his wings rustling. “You will have to ask Deputy-East. But I am under the impression that more ships are arriving every hour. They will have to be launched at some target soon or there will be significant discipline problems.”

  “So long as they don’t have furlough here, that’s not our problem,” the Worldlord said, looking out the window. He sipped from his cup. “The sooner they go, the better.”

  “It is a stirring thing,” the Steward said, quiet. “To finally be launching this war.”

  “You think so?”

  “We could double the size of the Empire,” the Steward said. “Not in space, of course. But in habitable worlds, already developed? And in wealth, and conquered populaces.”

  “Conquered populaces are only useful if they stay conquered,” the Worldlord observed. “Somehow I doubt these will. And then they will tie up significant resources as we keep them pacified.”

  “One rock thrown from orbit will convince them to obey,” the Steward said.

  One rock from orbit, the Emperor thought, would bring them all up in arms. He knew the Pelted a little better than these Chatcaava, now. The only thing an atrocity of that magnitude would accomplish would be to stiffen their resolve.

  “Perhaps,” the Worldlord said. “Fortunately the war isn’t our problem. The Emperor and Second can handle it. Tell me the state of the manor.”

  “Worldlord,” the Steward said, acquiescing, and from there they moved on to a discussion of the minutia of the estate’s management that the Emperor found safe to ignore. He stared out the balcony, wondering if anything he was hearing would ever matter; if he would live to divulge it to someone who could make use of it, and what use would it be. The Worldlord was reputed to be as close to apolitical as possible in a system supporting a major Naval base… should that surprise anyone? It shouldn’t.

  The Usurper was starting the war that would tear the Empire apart. Did he know that end was inevitable? Had he worked through the ramifications? Did he even care?

  The sun was low enough that sunset had begun to empurple the clouds when the Worldlord said at last, “Dainty. Look up.”

  Shocked, he did, because the Worldlord had spoken in Universal. Badly accented, but intelligible.

  They were alone now. When had the Steward left? Did that mean it was time for his torture? He shrank back a little despite himself.

  “Did you really come from Manufactory-East?”

  The Emperor said nothing. Could say nothing, because he couldn’t guess what answer would give him the advantage. If there was advantage left in his situation at all.

  “You cannot expect to escape discipline here,” the Worldlord continued. “I won’t lie. I do not keep unruly slaves. But if you are biddable and do as you’re told, you will be permitted to remain. And lest you think that a minor inducement, I will tell you that Deputy-East has accidentally killed one of his slaves in his distraction, and Manufactory-East tortures his for pleasure, to the point where their bodies are unrecognizable. Here you will not be free, but you will also not be dead.”

  “And if to be dead is preferable to being enslaved?” the Emperor said aloud.

  The Worldlord’s eyes widened. “Then,” he said, “I fear you have no good choices. But where there is life, Dainty, there is hope of change. If nothing else this is something Chatcaava know and aliens would be well to learn.” He sat up. “Come here.”

  The Emperor hesitated, but the Worldlord showed no sign of impatience. Which was worse in its own way. They both knew there was only one outcome to their confrontation, and given that inevitability, the Worldlord could afford to wait. Because to fight that would be to lose, the Emperor went to him, head lowered to hide his expression. His hands on the floor were the wrong shape, the wrong color, too weak, clawless. And yet, they were his, and they delivered him to the Worldlord, who studied him.

  “Stand up.”

  The Emperor wanted to tell him his accent was execrable and his grammar questionable. That he knew Universal far better than the Worldlord ever would because he’d learned its nuances from a lover’s willing mouth, not from a slave’s. But then... the Ambassador had begun as his toy and would no doubt have remained one, had they not enacted the fateful scene that had delivered the Emperor to his epiphany. Had the Ambassador not had that courage, what would have happened? Would the Emperor still be sitting, secure on that throne... secure, and ignorant of the secrets of a universe he had professed to hold dominion over?

  “You are not as tall as I expected this unique race to be,” the Worldlord said. He trailed a hand up the Emperor’s side, and try as he did, the Emperor could not suppress a flinch. “But sensitive. That part they had right. Maybe it’s the skin that does it. The furred creatures might not be able to feel through the pelt as keenly.” When the Emperor didn’t reply, the Worldlord cocked his head. “Not very talkative, are you.”

  “No.”

  The Chatcaavan snorted. His hand glided up to the Emperor’s chest, found the black ring on the nipple, plucked at it, observed the reaction clinically. From there, that hand skated along the Emperor’s neck, an intimacy he found nauseating. It stopped in his hair, combing out the silk of it, then descended to the point of the Emperor’s chin. The Worldlord grasped it in his fingers, the talons arcing over his cheek to rest far too close to his lower eyelid. If the Chatcaavan put a talon through his eye in this shape, would the injury persist into his true body? If he ever gained his true body again?

  The Worldlord tilted his head from one side to the other, watching his face. The Emperor refused to look at him. If that was defiance, then let him earn the beating for it. He no longer knew how to act. Fight and lose his true body, and with it, his soul? Submit and lose his soul before he lost that body? Was there a way out of this that led to wholeness along with survival? He couldn’t see it.

  “Kneel.”

  His legs trembled. The Worldlord was patient, certain that the Emperor would obey because even if he didn’t, he would be made to. Stay upright and be forced down, and have it demonstrated how easily this body succumbed to violence? Kneel, and surrender? In vain he searched every memory of his conversations with the Ambassador... but they were all the same. The Eldritch had kneeled to him only because the Emperor had held the threat of violence to others over his head. Nothing else had forced him to his knees.

  What then was the Emperor’s excuse?

  The Worldlord remained where he was, unmoving, even his eyes steady. It was no use fighting him because there was no way of winning. Except to die.

  The Emperor sank down, arms sliding onto his thighs like the petals of the flowers the Slave Queen used to tend, falling from their stalks as they wilted. He felt like one of those lilies. Perishable. Disposable. Already dead and not yet aware of it.

  “Good,” the Worldlord said. Lifting his voice, he said, “Skein. Send in a guard to take this slave away.” Considering the Emperor, he finished, “I won’t need him again until we host Manufactory-East.”

  Useless to pretend then that he was not terrified. He knew his people too well. A highly desired slave, traded to someone a male wanted to manipulate? Why would the Worldlord decide to spare the new slave the attentions of that male when there was something the Worldlord wanted? The Emperor was washed and fed and placed in his kennel to sleep, and then led out to the room again to sit and curl in on himself and curl in and curl in until he thought all the muscles in his legs and arms and back would knot and never slacken. Over and over again, this daily pattern repeated, and the horrible future drew closer, grew fangs, loured over his shoulder.

  “What was it?” Andrea asked him finally. “Did he hurt you?”

  The Harat-Shar was in the room, for once. The Emperor rarely saw her, save late at night when they were kenneled.

  “No.” To say more... could he force it past his t
hroat? When had talking become so difficult? He thought that from the moment he knew himself betrayed on the flagship, it was as if speech had become a mountain, impossible to scale while wingless. But he owed Andrea for the kindness she had shown him, who had done nothing to deserve it. “He said he wouldn’t need me again until he saw Manufactory-East.”

  Andrea froze. In her corner, Dominika lifted her head from her pillow, frowning.

  “That’s unlike him,” Andrea said. “Threatening you?”

  And because she deserved the answer, he said, “It was not a threat.”

  After that, though, he couldn’t bear to talk anymore. His throat and mouth hurt too much and inflating his lungs felt like too much effort. It was hard enough to push out his breath against the pressure of this unwanted body without adding the burden of speaking.

  By the time they came for him he was almost grateful because the waiting had become unbearable. He dug in his heels but they dragged him, and when he didn’t pick up the pace one of the guards swiped his lower back, opening furrows. Staggered, the Emperor fell forward, distracted by the smell of fresh blood and the heat of it on his too-sensitive skin. When they hauled him up he didn’t fight them, and so they delivered him to the room where the three males were waiting with red streaks interrupting his otherwise perfect monochrome palette.

  The Worldlord eyed the guards askance.

  “He fought,” was all the second guard said.

  “Tie him down, then.”

  They leashed him to the loop on the floor, so close that he had to press his cheek to the tiles to keep from being choked. There was no way to sit with grace or dignity: he was reduced to a twisted, half-kneeling pose that left him feeling far too exposed. The new stripes on his back throbbed.

  “Your escaped pet.” Deputy-East’s voice, lazy. “As you can see, he is so desperate not to be in your power again he earned himself the first serious punishment he’s needed since fleeing you.”