Even the Wingless Page 4

  "I will meet you at the top," Third said, and before Lisinthir could speak the male spread his wings and let the wind pluck him off the ground.

  It was nice of the Chatcaavan to make his disregard so obvious. If this was the limit of Third's subtlety he'd have no trouble out-maneuvering him. Lisinthir headed for the stairs: unkind things, without hand-rails, with only the uncut rock on either side to use for braces. The saltwater wind had left the steps slippery. How any of the other ambassadors had navigated it Lisinthir had no clue, given how many of them had had awkward leg arrangements or too great a fondness for food. No doubt the Chatcaava had circled above them as they struggled, laughing at the pathetic progress made by the flightless.

  Years of hunting, fighting and riding had shaped Lisinthir; where most of the Eldritch eschewed physical activities, he had embraced them. When he reached the top of the interminable climb, he grinned at Third and said, "Fine exercise. Where now?"

  Third eyed him. Perhaps the pause was disappointment—Lisinthir hoped so.

  "Now the palace," Third said. "The Emperor has convened the court for your arrival."

  "Lead the way," Lisinthir said.

  Third smiled, all teeth. "We landed late. You will not have time to see your rooms before you are presented."

  "Then this conversation is wasting time, is it not?" Lisinthir said.

  The male stared at him, and this time Lisinthir was certain of the disappointment. Third had hoped to either shove him into the Emperor's regard off-balance and ill-prepared, or had planned to trap him into being late by forcing him to repair to his room to change when the court was already convening.

  Such a petty game. If this was the best the Chatcaava had to pit against him, his assignment would be beyond easy.

  "Are you waiting for something, Third?" Lisinthir asked.

  "You do not need to change?" Third asked.

  "You seem consistently hard of hearing," Lisinthir said, "or else you merely require repetition of all requests before you deign to notice them. I am not amused, Third, and I am certain the Emperor will be similarly disposed when he hears who kept me waiting on the tarmac."

  The male huffed once, then turned and marched toward the towers. Lisinthir followed. If he'd had his druthers, he would have liked to change into something even more ornate than he was wearing now, but he knew very well that his body was exotic enough without adding decoration. The Chatcaava would probably notice his skin and mane before they cared what he wore.

  Curiously, the towers did not insert into a single structure, as Lisinthir would have expected from his own world's custom of castles. Instead, buildings surrounded the towers in a series of delicately tiered arcades, open to the air and landscaped with climbing vines. He'd expected something far more martial in aspect, something to suggest the aggression and violence the briefings had discussed at length. To find the salt tang mediated by the perfume of foreign flowers...

  Third did not seem intelligent enough to pose a danger. But a culture that could decorate its savagery with beauty... that, Lisinthir could fear enough to remain wary, and perhaps, effective.

  The Slave Queen drew herself from the bath beneath the watchful eyes of Khaska and two of her harem's lesser members, water gliding off her skin in silver beads. So much company was rare in the topmost room and the Slave Queen hated it. She hated presentations as a package, but the preparations in particular galled. She walked across the stone floor to the dressing area, avoiding the mirrors presented for her approval. She had no need of them to remember her hated appearance.

  With her back to those who watched her, the Slave Queen ran the hands of her lower arms over her softly scaled sides, brought them up to cross over a flat chest, devoid both of the breasts of true females and the muscles of flying males. Otherwise, nature had been kind: she had slender, graceful limbs and skin a deep pewter that faded to pearly gray over her stomach and throat. The chased silver of the collar, four inches wide, matched her well, set with amber cabochons to recall her eyes.

  And behind her, the rustle forced her to recall the ruin of her wings, cut into a pattern befitting an Emperor. The lace ran across the edges, gouging out great scalloped pieces of the vanes, advancing well up them with long incisions carved after the imperial thorns. The piercing perforated the entirety of both membranes. She remembered well the pain of it, the sizzle of the liquid they'd applied to the fresh edges to toughen them against tears. Once the skin had been supple and light: now the fringes felt lacquered, and only the center of the vanes held any softness at all.

  The Slave Queen preferred to adorn herself, forgoing even Khaska's touch... but the decorations required for the infrequent, formal court presentations were so ungainly they required extra hands. She faced her attendants as they pulled a thick robe from the chest beneath the window and held it open for her. An exquisite piece of work tailored for her abnormal body, its sleeves and sides were of heavy gray silk. Silver chains held these sides in place over the paper-thin layer of translucent white fabric; the yoke of the robe dipped below her wings all the way to her tail-base, exposing the length of her spine. As the females arranged her mane on her back, the Slave Queen shivered at the cool breeze that skated down it.

  Hardest of all, then, the jewelry. Chased silver rings for all of her fingers and toes. Delicate silver anklets. Bracelets for her wrists, the sets with the chains that connected one arm to the other. Rings with depending amber tears for both horns. And finally, the worst of all: the long chain connecting the holes at the edge of each scallop on her wings, threaded with amber stones and bells that mocked her flightlessness, that laid out for all to see the nature of her mutilated existence: a creature taken from the sky and made into an elaborate, breathing statue. An objet d'art. Useless.

  The females stood away from her, waiting for dismissal. The wave the Slave Queen used to do so was freighted with the tinkle of chimes and the clink of gems and beads. She suppressed a sigh of relief as they vanished into the stairwell, then turned.

  "Khaska?"

  The ears appeared first, then the rest of the foxine female: dressed in her collar, silver earrings lacing the entire edge of her ears, bracelets and anklets, tail bracelets and toe-rings and finger-rings. Nothing else, and her fur granted her some scant modesty. The Emperor did not see Khaska much, or the slave would not have kept even that. He'd observed with great interest and perplexity that the furred members of the Alliance reacted poorly to being shaved and for several months had entertained himself by having patterns shorn into every pelted slave he could find. He did not kill as frequently as his predecessors... but humiliation he understood very well.

  "Mistress," the Seersa said, her eyes resting on the Queen's. For the first time, the Queen thought she understood some of the emotions there: sadness, maybe. Regret. Fatigue. Like the expressions on the other prisoners, but more subtle, hidden better.

  "We will be wanted below. Best to go before we are sent for."

  Khaska nodded, and led the way down the stairs. It seemed a longer journey wearing so much clothing, and the bells that dragged at her wings pained her. They passed the harem proper, where the other females were finishing their preparations for the presentation. None of them looked at their hated figurehead and her bizarre off-world companion, not even the Mother.

  At the base of the tower they found the guards awaiting them: angular Chatcaavan males with their fully-functioning wings, livery stark against gray bodies. Their eyes skimmed over them, did not linger on their faces—property, their attitudes read.

  The Slave Queen and Khaska followed them. There was little else to do.

  Entering the Court's receiving room, the Queen could not help but pause. The columns were hung with decorative ropes hung with bells; lesser females of the harem and some of the prettier servants had been bound and painted as statues and set into shadows cast by the palisades. As she and Khaska ascended the ramp to the second level of the open-air hall, she found evidence of a fresh cleaning. Incense burned
from elaborate sconces hidden in corners, draping fragrant clouds among the multiple ramps, stairs and columns. The nest where she and a chosen few members of the harem were usually arranged had been replaced with a few pillows embroidered with crystals, and flowers, gems and silk had been scattered across the ground in lieu of the usual pad.

  Khaska's ears flicked sideways, the jewelry crusting their edges flashing in the candle-light. After the guards chained them to the short columnar posts edging their alcove, the Seersa whispered, "Mistress—"

  "Yes," the Slave Queen said, low. "This is more than a simple presentation for a new ambassador. The Emperor is minded to play."

  They settled in the mound of pillows and silk, and the Queen overlooked the receiving area. The Imperial Court was mostly open to the sky, as befitted a race of fliers. The Emperor's side was an elaborate series of balconies, ramps, and columned palisades. He sat at the highest level—his Queen, slave but still untouchable by those without his permission, rested on a level midway between his exalted state and the ground, where similar palisades afforded some shade from the sun in morning court, and shadows to hide from the moons in evening.

  The night had well advanced by the time the courtiers began assembling. The yellowed light of the candles surrounding the Queen's alcove barely touched their heads as they milled in the starlight, avoiding the glow of the crystal lanterns hung from the columns. Resting her head on one of the soft pillows, the Slave Queen watched the courtiers with their whole wings and crafty eyes. The smell of burning wax and incense dizzied her.

  The chiming of thousands of bells announced the arrival of the Emperor. The Queen could see him only by the reaction on the floor: the Chatcaava arranging themselves into glittering stillness, wedge-shaped heads rising toward the topmost balcony. She sat up and Khaska settled against her side.

  "Tonight," said the Emperor, "We greet the new Alliance Ambassador ad'Chatcaavan Empire. Observe and welcome Lisinthir Nase Galare."

  From beneath the center arch strode a tall humanoid dressed in the color of fresh blood. The ruddiness reflected from the linen and wool lent his cheeks an artificial flush, for his white skin produced none. White hair drifted after him, a cloak that fell to his thighs. He stopped in the center of the room, craning his head back on a long neck to stare up, unblinking, at the Emperor, his grace and self-possession a defiance of its own.

  A tiny choking noise escaped Khaska and the Slave Queen glanced at her, then back at the Eldritch. She closed her eyes. She knew now why the Third had been so richly rewarded.

  "Exalted Emperor. The United Alliance sends salutations and expectations of continued good will." The male had a surprisingly deep voice for such a slender throat, but his accent smoothed the clean edges of the language too much. At least he didn't mince words, like the last Alliance ambassador, who'd had 'hopes' for their future. This Eldritch showed no fear—well for him, given the Chatcaavan reaction to fear. The Slave Queen rustled her wings uneasily.

  The tinkle-chink of her chains and jewelry drew the Eldritch's eyes briefly. His gaze glided over Khaska: the hard lenses of his dark eyes betrayed no reaction.

  "We see you enjoy our possessions."

  The Eldritch tilted his head. "Quite aesthetic."

  Khaska twitched beside her.

  "We have only just added several new and exquisite pieces to our collection. We are prepared to display them for your... strictly visual... pleasure."

  "You are most generous, Exalted Emperor," the Eldritch said. The Slave Queen could hear no sarcasm... no emotion, either. She glanced at Khaska, hoping to gain some insight from her expression, and found as obvious a look of puzzlement as she could have hoped. So this was not how Eldritch were rumored to act. The Queen's brow furrowed in curiosity.

  "Bring the new acquisitions," said the Emperor.

  From beneath the arch the Ambassador had used came six guards. Behind them, attached by thin chains, walked the first two prisoners, and the Slave Queen studied them in the yellowed lights of the lanterns. The Malarai was dark gray with black hair and cream undersides, her wings gray tipped in black. She wore silver jewelry similar to Khaska's, and carried her head high. Her eyes focused directly before her, refusing to meet anyone's gaze... well for her, given the hunger of the courtiers watching from the sides of the aisle. Winged savages were unusual and highly prized for toys.

  Beside her was the other female: Tam-illee in the light, humanoid fox, a red so delicate it seemed translucent on her fur. Dark brown curls matched the tip of her lush tail, and her chains were coppery, matching her jewelry. Unlike the Malarai, she walked as if defeated, shoulders slumped, all beauty sucked from her movements.

  The Ambassador studied them. If the Emperor expected some reaction similar to those he'd gained before, the Eldritch did not oblige; after a few minutes, on some unseen signal, the guards pulled the two females apart, leaving the way clear for the thin figure walking before the final guard.

  The Slave Queen bowed her head. At very least, the Master of the preparation rooms had shown fine taste. The Eldritch female wore a diaphanous shift of white silk that glittered with silver threads. The silver collar at her throat was similar to the Slave Queen's own, but its inset gems were opals. Fettered at ankle and wrist, she still managed a broken sort of grace with her hair falling free and soft as a shroud around her delicate shoulders.

  Not a single Chatcaavan in the court failed to realize the spectacular insult their Emperor had contrived to pay the Alliance. She could read their interest, their amusement in how they leaned toward the tableau, awaiting their newest dignitary's surely entertaining reaction.

  Into this echoing silence, the Ambassador rested his eyes on the Emperor's newest slave and said, "A bit short, don't you think, Exalted Emperor?"

  "For one of your race," the Emperor replied after a heart-beat's pause. "But quite lovely nevertheless. How do you suppose we should display her, Ambassador?"

  "Her kind are fragile," the Eldritch said, and the Queen wondered in amazement just what he meant by 'kind'—females? Slaves? Since he couldn't mean other Eldritch, with such a resounding renunciation of his connection to them. "So I would place her in a setting hard, cold and austere. For... " An artful pause, "the contrast."

  "Delightful! You are more of an artist than we anticipated, Ambassador."

  "You honor me, Exalted." The Eldritch bowed.

  "We admit to surprise. Sufficiently that we will allow you a closer look at our most prized possession."

  The guards started up the ramp to her level. Khaska drew away in surprise as they advanced, detaching the Slave Queen from her post. Stunned, she followed them to the ground floor. In all her time as the Slave Queen to the Emperor, he had never allowed her display on the lowest level. Yet within minutes she stood in the center of the room, two chains leading from her collar held by twin guards on either side of her.

  The Queen lifted her head and spread her mutilated wings, waiting.

  The hiss of fabric and hair against silk accompanied the Eldritch as he took a few steps closer, close enough for her to realize he stood some two heads taller than she. Close enough that she could see now that his eyes were not just dark, but blue also, like a piece of the evening sky pinched off in his gaze.

  "Your Slave Queen," the Ambassador said, never lifting his eyes from hers. She couldn't see past them, had never been good at reading alien eyes, but the intensity of his stare surely meant something.

  "Chosen from the most... recalcitrant of our peoples."

  "Fitting, Exalted Emperor," the Ambassador said.

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  "She is quite stunning, for one of her... unusual... shape."

  "Ah, you understand our ways, then, Ambassador. Do you perceive the true nature of our choice?"

  A cool smile flickered at the Eldritch's mouth, one the Slave Queen could not find in his eyes. "Quite well, Exalted Emperor." He stepped back and looked up. "You have taken a perversion of a female, a female with aspirations tow
ard the power of a male, and mutilated her, and in so doing have stated your power over both men and females. Truly poetic."

  "Ambassador! How is it that the Alliance has at last seen fit to send me a man of subtlety? I am beyond pleasure! Perhaps at last there will be some progress made in our respective nations' relations."

  The Slave Queen's eyes widened. The Eldritch had touched the Emperor's core for him to speak of himself as a person and not an abstraction, a force of nature. And yet she could see why. She had never seen an ambassador conduct himself with more aplomb than this controlled stranger with his unreadable eyes.

  "Emperor, I am here to serve." The Eldritch bowed again... low this time, so low his hair hissed over his shoulders and spilled onto the stone floor where it gathered the light into its glittering strands.

  "We shall sup together. We have much to discuss."

  The Chatcaava on the edge of the court froze, by which the Slave Queen surmised the Emperor had stood. A few seconds later, the chiming of the multiple bells signaled the end of the audience, and the guards tugged her back toward the tower.

  It was difficult to look away from the Eldritch. He cast a glance her way, and this time there was something hard in his eyes that had not been there before.

  Lisinthir stood just outside the court's arcades, struggling to compose himself without revealing the effort. The willpower it had required to remain stoic in the face of an Eldritch slave... he'd known the Empire stole slaves from the Alliance. It was one of his primary reasons for being here. But he hadn't known they'd also taken Eldritch slaves.

  And, God and Lady, that Eldritch in particular! He would never have known her save for the portraits of her he'd seen on Ontine's walls, the spring before the Queen had sent him away. Except in the portraits, she'd held herself straight and smiled at the painter, and in one and all the paintings it had been a sweet and simple smile, an expression free of the court's machinations, cynicism and worldly wisdom.