Only the Open Page 30

  “It’s bad,” the Harat-Shar said. “When he first got here, he was angry. Now… he’s withdrawn.”

  “Could be physical trauma,” Andrea murmured. “But it could be stress. It’s hard to tell without a real clinic.” She sighed and smiled. “I don’t guess you have one of those handy? Once we escape.”

  “Are we escaping?” The Harat-Shar’s ears perked.

  “We are not escaping,” the Knife said, slicking his ears back. “You are giving these people dangerous ideas, huntsister. We may not get out of this alive ourselves.”

  Huntsister! Her brows lifted as she glanced at the Knife, but he was staring at the door and missed her incredulous look. “We’ll get out of here,” she said, remembering the Ambassador’s fury. “Over our enemies’ dead bodies, if necessary.” She shook the tension out of her shoulders and hips, sat across from the other two women. “So, while we’re here in need of some way to pass the time… any news you wish you’d been able to hear?”

  “Oooh!” the Harat-Shar exclaimed. “Does Naidya have a new songset out yet? Or is there another 3deo in the Secret Agent Silver Vixen series?”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know. A few years?”

  Laniis grinned. “You’re in luck. There have been at least two.”

  The Surgeon’s room had become one of the least terrifying objects of his excursions from the slave annex, which is why the Emperor should have known that something worse was waiting for him. The guards dragged him, unwilling but too weak to break away, back up the tower to Manufactory-East’s suite, which was not improved by the light of day. This time, Manufactory-East wasn’t the only one there, and he was in the middle of his conversation with Deputy-East when the Emperor was thrown at his feet and tied down to one of the floor hooks.

  “Would you just go,” Manufactory-East hissed. “I’m about to be busy.”

  “No.” Deputy-East brushed off a chair and perched on it, resting an elbow on one raised thigh. “No, because this is stupid, Manufactory-East. You should not be doing this.”

  “We are guests. His table is ours. He is obliged to fulfill our needs.”

  “And he’s specifically said not to use this slave again,” Deputy-East said, exasperated. “Manufactory-East, I don’t like you. You don’t like me either. But you need to not make this mistake.”

  Manufactory-East narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

  “Because,” Deputy-East said, baring his teeth. “Antagonizing the Worldlord with the war about to change everything is a death move. You think him a non-entity because of his neutrality and the primacy of the Navy here, but you’re wrong. He has relatives everywhere, Manufactory-East. In the Navy’s highest echelons. In the rankings of the system lords. And he has wealth, a great deal of wealth. If we irritate him, we might find ourselves replaced.”

  Manufactory-East snorted. “That tells me why you want to curry favor with him, Deputy-East. It doesn’t tell me why you aren’t scheming for my downfall.”

  “Because,” Deputy-East said, “you and I are both outsiders here. Make no mistake, ‘huntbrother.’ We are only contractors as far as the Navy is concerned. Anyone can maintain security on the solar system. Anyone can oversee—” A stress on the verb, “—the mining of rocks. And if the Navy decides that one of its external contractors is of questionable loyalty, they won’t stop at removing one of us. Especially now that Logistics-East is the Emperor. He was already suspicious of anyone he couldn’t slot into a chart. If either of us act out, he’ll just look at the box labeled ‘Naval contractor’ and cross it out. We’ll both go down.”

  The other male canted his head. “So you think.”

  “You are not stupid,” Deputy-East said, dismissive. “You know what’s coming. It will be the Navy against the rest of us, all over again. Except this time, there will be opportunity for the Navy to be suspicious of its own ranks.”

  Manufactory-East walked to the Emperor, crouched alongside him. When the Emperor tried to flinch back, the Chatcaavan wound a finger in his mane and held him still by it. “So?”

  “So for best protection,” Deputy-East said, “We do not make enemies out of people who might rescue us from the Navy.”

  “And the Worldlord can do this.”

  “You have not seen the extent of his investments and contacts off-world,” Deputy-East said, quiet. “I haven’t even, I don’t think. What I do know about is… sobering.”

  Manufactory-East was silent, stroking a talon along the length of the Emperor’s temple. Had the Emperor thought himself beyond prayer? He was praying now to any deity that would listen that Deputy-East would convince his tormentor to send him away.

  “You would have me act out of character.”

  “No,” Deputy-East said with a laugh. “Not at all. That’s why I’m here. In a fit of pique, you have sent for the slave you have been denied because of the Sword’s meddling. That is completely in character. I, however, have arrived to moderate your behavior. And because you are beginning to change, you have accepted my moderation. The slave is still damaged, but not as badly. The Worldlord thinks you are beginning to listen to one of his partisans, because I have long been one of his partisans. And in this way, we bring you into the formation, and convince the Worldlord that we are prepared to become his allies if he decides he is no longer the Navy’s.”

  “And if the Navy decides it is no longer the Worldlord’s ally?” That finger kept stroking, the talon brushing so close to his lashes it made him blink, over and over.

  “Then we tell the Navy we are faithful contractors and give over to them everything we know about the Worldlord.”

  Manufactory-East’s tone became skeptical. “I had no idea you were so traitorous, Deputy-East. I was under the impression that where you gave your loyalty, there it stayed.”

  Deputy-East’s wings mantled and he looked away. When he returned his gaze to Manufactory-East’s, he said, “I know whose side I am on, Manufactory-East. But the forces moving now are much, much larger than I am. If I don’t protect myself, who will?”

  “A motivation I understand. So. You are here to… ‘moderate’ me, is it.”

  “I am.”

  “And how exactly do you propose to do that?”

  “By suggesting we both have our pleasure of the slave, and in the process, I will stay your hand if you lift it too often.” Deputy-East grinned. “If you are at his tail and I am at his mouth, I don’t want you accidentally smacking me on the jaw.”

  Manufactory-East stared at him, then guffawed. “All right. Fine.” And then traced the Emperor’s lips with a talon. “But I want his mouth.”

  “All yours, huntbrother. Yes?”

  Manufactory-East looked up, eyes narrowed. Then: “Yes. Huntbrother.” A grand gesture. “Please. Take your place.”

  The hand that gripped his hair at the back of his neck, lifted him by it… it was bad. It was worse when three more were on him. After that, there was nothing but his rejection of reality, and the howl of negation he could issue only with his mind because his mouth was no longer his.

  “I didn’t think you could do it.”

  Lisinthir looked over at the Worldlord. The remains of a late—and enormous—lunch was scattered on the table between them, most of the platters and discard bowls carried away. Only the wine remained, and a flavored ice being used as a palate cleanser after the meat. They were in a second-floor room in the female’s harem, by the balcony, and the wind was good. His sweat from the hunt had dried long since, but he was far too aware of how hard his metabolism was working to power the roquelaure. Resting felt better to him than he could remember it feeling in a very long time.

  “The hunt,” the Worldlord said. He reached onto the table for the bottle, poured for himself. Lifted it toward Lisinthir, who inclined his head. Settling back on his chair, wings spread on either side of its narrow back, the Worldlord concluded, “I thought you would be competent. Not that you would be better than the rest o
f us.”

  “I admit to surprise myself,” Lisinthir said. “That you should admit this.”

  The Worldlord glanced at him, then back out at the view. The runner herd had recovered from the stress of losing several of its members and was once again grazing, tails switching over striped backs. “You have a great number of interesting perspectives. I thought you would not fault me for the admission.”

  “Because of my perspectives.”

  “Because you look at things and seem to perceive them with unusual... accuracy.”

  Lisinthir snorted, sipped from the cup. The wine was lukewarm. “Be careful, Worldlord. Accuracy is only as important as its primacy over those with power. It is never good to assert a competing reality to those who have the tools to disagree with you… and win.”

  “Is that why you live on the fringes of the Empire? Testing yourself against a foe you know to be your enemy?” The Worldlord brooded over his cup. “How clean that life must be. The fire that took flight from you… there was no reasoning with it. No need to wonder whether it must be cultivated or discarded. It was a fight with an ending.” He sighed. “And yet.”

  “And yet?”

  “And yet you think of the aliens as people. Does that make them your foe? Or does that also complicate your life?”

  “Does it complicate yours to think of them as pets rather than as disposable gifts you can use to pacify your guests and bruit your status?” Lisinthir looked out over the greenery, holding his cup to his mouth. “You wondered that I might be capable of the hunt, Worldlord, but there was no great mystery there. All it takes is to want to win more than you want to be seen as the winner.”

  “Ah,” the Worldlord said softly. And no more.

  Had Lisinthir had Jahir’s ability to read minds from a distance, perhaps he would have tried then, to see if he was playing this game right. But he had survived the court on his own wits and being reduced to trusting them alone did not feel like a handicap. It felt natural. The point of this prince’s game, he thought. To play, knowing that the variables were always changing, and there was no choice but to compensate. Because there was no other game worth the risks he took to win.

  “Your humans,” Lisinthir said. “Are you attached to them?”

  “To them?” the Worldlord said, stressing the final word. “Are you interested in acquiring another pair, then?”

  “My Seersa are beautiful,” Lisinthir said. “But like most Pelted they are prone to... the errors... that afflict Gentle. Humans are less so. It would be less cost to maintain them.”

  The Worldlord huffed, soft. “And if this war makes your product obsolete? What will you do then?”

  “You mean if we conquer the Alliance and convert all its varied populaces to slaves?” Lisinthir asked, arch. At the other male’s gesture of assent, he said, “Well, then. I suppose I’ll let them go.”

  “Let them go!”

  Lisinthir set his cup down. “I live for the contest, Worldlord. To learn the limits of my strength. To push them and grow. If we win the war, then capturing the Pelted is no longer that test. They will already be cowed. What then will I learn from fighting them?” He shook his head. “No. If we win—and I doubt we will—but if we do... then I will move on to the next challenge.” A grin. “Perhaps I’ll take up fighting stars for their secrets and selling those to scientists. We’re due for a new take on propulsion, or weapon systems.”

  The Worldlord was considering him. Did so for long enough that Lisinthir glanced back. Only then did the male say, “I look upon the ideal Chatcaavan.”

  Lisinthir laughed. “You look upon a scarred and isolationist ruffian. But as long as I choose my own battles, Worldlord, I am my own master.”

  “If only the rest of us could.”

  “If you don’t, then there is something you want more than that mastery,” Lisinthir said. “And that is a question each of us must answer for ourselves. What is it that you value more than freedom, Worldlord? And has it been worth the payment?”

  “I don’t know, Sword.” The Chatcaavan smiled crookedly. “Will you use that answer against me?”

  “Worldlord,” Lisinthir said. “You have enough enemies.”

  “Enough!” the other male repeated with a rasping laugh. “Yes. And too few friends. But I suspect I would be bettered greatly if the only one I could claim was you.”

  “I could hardly disagree if I valued myself at all. Which, you have noted, I do.” Lisinthir grinned at him, hoping to lighten the mood, and was relieved to have his expression mirrored back to him. The last thing he wanted was to feel compassion for the male in whose household the Emperor had taken refuge... and not found it.

  “So, the humans,” the Worldlord said. “Are you sure you want them?”

  “I would like to examine them first. Particularly the male. If the injury’s permanent... I don’t know. It may make him more biddable, but it would be a pity.”

  “Shall I send him up to you, then? Later tonight, perhaps.”

  “That would be much appreciated.”

  “Then, with your indulgence, Sword, I shall go see whether my other guests need anything before I address myself to the estate for the day. We can have supper later, visit the harem.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Lisinthir said, and was left to himself and the afternoon. Lifting his head to better feel the breeze on his throat, he let the peace of the estate seep into him. He thought it likely the Worldlord would sell him both humans, might even be convinced to sell him all the Pelted slaves, though the Karaka’An was a dice throw. It would gall to be forced to be grateful to him, and yet... to keep the Empire in one piece, the Emperor would need allies among the males once traditionally numbered among his enemies. If the Worldlord was anything like the other system lords....

  But then, were any of the Chatcaava alike? In the end, they had turned out to be just like every other race: full of individuals, subject to their own pressures, and only predictable with enough data, the one thing they lacked. Lisinthir checked the roquelaure, received a whispered report of his power consumption and the reminder that the Silhouette had not yet logged its return. Lisinthir sighed and let his head fall back. One more interminable afternoon and evening of socializing with the three Chatcaava. Then, maybe, he would meet the human and see, once and for all, if everyone was right and the Emperor was in there, somewhere.

  “What are you doing?”

  The fury in the voice surprised the Emperor, somewhere distant where he could still feel anything. That puzzlement only increased when the shout caused his body to collapse on the ground. It made a sound like meat striking a table. Was that natural? But then, his body was made of it. Meat unhallowed by spirit. A shell of flesh. A vessel for other people’s entertainments.

  Footsteps, brisk. They stopped near his head. “Dying Air. I knew you were impulsive, Manufactory-East. But you, Deputy-East?”

  “Don’t blame him.” A hiss, half amused, half frustrated. “He didn’t let me do half the things I wanted to do.”

  “I was,” Deputy-East averred in a voice half-drunk with satiation, “a civilizing influence.”

  “If this is the result of your civilizing influence, you are not much better than Manufactory-East,” the Worldlord snarled. “Enough! I share my wealth with you both, but I do not extend that to permission to destroy my possessions.”

  “We did kill the stalkers and the runners,” Deputy-East pointed out.

  “The game is for hunting. Slaves are—”

  “For pleasures too vicious to perpetrate on other Chatcaava,” Deputy-East said, and now his voice was taut. “You know that, Worldlord. Our huntbrother Manufactory-East has needs. Will you deny him?”

  Manufactory-East raised a hand. “The Worldlord’s point is well-taken. And I am not so savage that I am incapable of bridling my own desires. Worldlord, I apologize. But if you will examine your slave you will find we have not harmed him. Only used him vigorously. He bleeds from a few scratches, and they are shallow.
”

  The Emperor could have assured the Worldlord of this statement’s validity. It was the endless misery of being helpless to prevent his own violation that had reduced him this way, not any grievous wound. If he laid unresponsive and limp, it was his own deathwish that had spilled him there, sullied with the emissions of hours of idle torments.

  “He looks bad.”

  “He’s weak,” Deputy-East said. “Normally I’d be uninterested but it turns out having company makes even tedious acts compelling. Still, if Manufactory-East tells me he needs no vent for his desires....”

  “The females have their charms,” Manufactory-East said. “I can confine my attentions to them.”

  “They giggle,” Deputy-East warned.

  “I don’t mind giggling. Gives the act a little buoyancy.”

  The Worldlord sounded suspicious. “You think this, truly?”

  “Worldlord, I am your guest. I’ve found I rather enjoy being your guest. In the future, though, may I bring my own slaves?”

  “I... suppose.”

  “It is a fine compromise,” Deputy-East offered.

  “Compromise is vital to the success of the Empire,” Manufactory-East agreed, smug.

  Since when, some part of the Emperor wondered.

  “Very well. Supper is in two hours. I trust I will see you both then?”

  “Of course.”

  Someone was already dragging him... no, lifting him. Had he become too uncertain on his feet to be trusted on them? The Emperor opened his eyes, just enough to see that he was being carried by the second guard. The Worldlord was pacing him, watching him with an expression the Emperor found difficult to quantify. No Chatcaavan male would worry about the fate of a slave, so why the crimp in the brow and the grimace that deformed the mouth?

  He was delivered inevitably to the Surgeon, who hosed him down before setting him on the table for examination. There he was pronounced hale and remanded to the guard. To the Emperor’s remote surprise, the Worldlord was still present.