Even the Wingless Read online

  The woman—no, the girl, for she was barely over her majority by Eldritch standards despite being older than most of the Chatcaava leering at her tonight—would never wear that smile again. And if he failed to win her free of this place quickly enough, he doubted she'd continue to draw breath.

  A guard in black and red livery led him up a long, sculpted ramp past countless statues to a high door into the tallest tower of the collection. Two more statues framed it, and it was while waiting for the guard to unlock the door that Lisinthir suddenly realized one of the statues was looking at him. The paint sprayed across the male's skin had been patterned to mimic marble, and the ropes that bound him ensured he did not move, not even to quiver. But the rolling of the eyes—that, no ties could stop. Repressing his start of surprise, Lisinthir hastened after the guard and into the Emperor's tower... and not into a room, but onto a landing.

  The guard started up the stairs and Lisinthir followed. He followed until the arches of his feet trembled with fatigue. Until the joints in his hips complained. And still they climbed.

  At last the stairs crested and the guard jerked the end of his beak at the door and the sentries awaiting there. The long climb had dulled his worry over what awaited him, at least, and when the sentries waved him into the sumptuous but intimate room with its single table and twin chairs, Lisinthir merely chose one and sat to await the Emperor's pleasure. The room itself bore little decoration, save an impressive view through the balcony doors, both open to permit a breeze. Two silent males waited in the corners with trays, but they moved so little Lisinthir soon ceased to be aware of them.

  Some time later, Lisinthir's question over whether the Emperor was already in the tower was answered by the shape that plummeted toward the balcony and braked at the last moment, snapping open matte black wings with a sound taut and deep as a drum.

  During the presentation, it had been very difficult to see the Emperor save as a black shape with glowing yellow eyes on the distant platform. The shock of the Emperor's dramatic arrival paled beside the shock of his presence. He was black from tip to toe with the largest crown of horns Lisinthir had seen; and he'd seen several score males while walking down the long carpet to the front of the Emperor's court perch. Every move the male made was pregnant with menace and power, and his eyes when he turned them on Lisinthir were not merely yellow, but fluorescent, cannily intelligent, wickedly amused.

  Here at last was the whip that had cut down all the men and women who'd come before him to serve in this capacity.

  "I am surprised," the Emperor said bluntly. He had entered nude and now took down a black satin robe to pull over his arms and beneath his wings. "You did not retch at the sight of my slaves."

  "Would it have served any purpose to do so?" Lisinthir asked.

  "No," the Emperor said, then hissed a laugh. "Save perhaps to entertain me."

  "I grieve that I missed an opportunity to entertain you, Exalted One," Lisinthir said. "Perhaps another time?"

  "I'm sure of it," the Emperor said and made a motion with a claw. One of the servants woke from his statuesque repose and brought a decanter, pouring something blood-dark into both their glasses. "I am also surprised by your Alliance."

  "How so?" Lisinthir asked.

  "They send an Eldritch to speak for them? I was under the impression the Eldritch were allied with the Alliance, not servants."

  "Your understanding is correct," Lisinthir said. "But the Alliance thought to try something new."

  "Ah. So it would have nothing to do with your people wanting a stake in the relationship?" the Emperor asked.

  "No," Lisinthir said.

  The male plucked his glass from the table and looked at Lisinthir over its rim. "You speak clearly. I am pleased. I tired of the endless twittering of your predecessors. They had neither fire nor steel in them."

  "On behalf of the Alliance, I apologize for having bored the Empire with pansies," Lisinthir said, lifting his own glass. "I will do my best to redress this terrible wrong."

  The Emperor paused, then gaped his beak in a grin both terrible and fascinating. "Ha-ah! Very good." He pulled back the chair and dropped onto it, then bent a talon at the second servant. "So, is my Eldritch slave really too short?"

  "The females of my species are almost as tall as the males," Lisinthir said, keeping his tone casual. "Your specimen is... substandard. Whoever sold her to you cheated you. You might consider a refund." He sipped of the wine, expecting fruit and drawing fire instead.

  "You like it?" the Emperor asked, watching him. "It made one of the Seersa hack up a great wad of mucus."

  "It reminds me of brandy," Lisinthir said. "Usually we take such drinks after dining, not before."

  "We drink whenever I like here," the Emperor said. "And as for a refund... alas, not possible, since no money was paid for her. Still a substandard Eldritch is better than none at all, given how difficult they are to obtain, yes?"

  "Ah, but you have an Eldritch now," Lisinthir said.

  "Do I?" the Emperor grinned again.

  "And not a substandard one, I might add," Lisinthir said.

  The Emperor ducked his head, a motion that let him look at Lisinthir with both eyes and that also sent a tendril of black mane uncoiling down the length of his nose. "Ah, but males are of less use to me than females. No offense meant, Ambassador."

  "None taken, Emperor," Lisinthir replied.

  The doors into the room were knocked open as a servant dragged in a struggling beast the size of a lapdog that nevertheless managed to look twice its size by churning its hooves.

  "Ah, dinner has arrived," the Emperor said, leaning back and turning to survey the chaos. "I understand that you must eat your meat cooked, and truthfully we have a taste for char ourselves. But the honor of killing our dinner I give to you, Ambassador."

  He had no knife—he'd come unarmed—and come to that no knife had been set at the table, only something resembling a fork. Lisinthir supposed the Chatcaava used their talons for slicing and pinning things. He approached the servant and the small creature, gauged the length of the animal's neck and waited until the beast had thrown its head in the opposite direction before grabbing it and twisting. The muscles resisted more than he expected but not enough to stop him from breaking the spinal column. The creature weakly kicked him, then grew limp in the servant's arms.

  As the staff withdrew to prepare the beast, the Emperor cocked a brow at Lisinthir. "One would almost think you'd killed before."

  "We all have to eat, most Exalted," Lisinthir said, settling in his chair again.

  "And you killed your own food?"

  "Once I came of age, yes," Lisinthir said. "I am quite adept at the hunt."

  The Emperor studied him with a hint of a sly smile. "Is that why you came alone? You are used to your independence."

  "I am not interested in baggage," Lisinthir said. "I have no time to maintain a staff or haul them out of trouble when they err. Your ambassador brought no staff to the Alliance, Exalted. It seemed a fitting example."

  "Some would call you mad for coming here unguarded," the Emperor said.

  Lisinthir said, "Some have already called me mad for that. I care very little what they say."

  "Very little?"

  Lisinthir laughed. "Very well then. Not at all."

  "You may not like it here," the Emperor said.

  "Too late," Lisinthir said. "I already do." He drank the wine without ever lifting his eyes from the Emperor's.

  When the meal arrived it was still hot and oozing blood. Lisinthir ate it with his fingers.

  "A pity," the Emperor said after a moment. "Fear is so endearing in aliens."

  "Is that why you sent the others away so quickly?" Lisinthir asked.

  The Emperor ceased tearing apart his food with those too-long talons. They didn't seem capable of retracting; seeing them smeared with melted fat somehow made them more menacing. Lisinthir looked at them occasionally and continued eating, feeling the stare of the drake on his
bent head.

  "You are rather forthright for an alien," the Emperor said.

  "You have not known many aliens, then," Lisinthir said, hoping to elicit more information. He had no idea how to go about freeing the slaves in the palace complex, much less approaching the Emperor on not capturing Alliance slaves anymore as a policy.

  "I have known enough," the Emperor said after a moment and continued eviscerating the breast of their creature. "Tell me. That sign on your chest. What does it mean?"

  "Which one?" Lisinthir asked.

  "The blue and silver one. I know the Alliance ambassadorial crest well enough."

  "It is a sign of allegiance for the Eldritch Monarch."

  "Curious," the Emperor said. "My new slave had one."

  Lisinthir sliced open a finger along one of the razor edges of the breastbone. He struggled for calm and said, "No surprise. It is customary for those who wish to show their patriotism."

  "Ah," the Emperor said. "She is a commoner, then."

  "It would seem so," Lisinthir said. "Unless she had some other badge or ring with her."

  "No, only the one, on a crest on a ring," the Emperor said. "A trinket, I take it."

  "She may be a rich commoner," Lisinthir said. "Such rings are common among them. They attempt to curry favor, even if they are too distant from the throne to ever even see their monarch."

  "Ah, not so different then," the Emperor said. "What a pity. I not only have a stunted Eldritch for a slave, but also an obsequious one. She deserved her fate."

  The Chatcaavan paused, as if awaiting a response. Lisinthir ignored him and ate, the cut on his finger stinging. The taste of his own blood in his mouth was sour and tangy. When it became evident that the Emperor simply wouldn't continue eating until Lisinthir said something, the Eldritch said, "You don't honestly expect me to agree with you, do you?"

  The Emperor laughed. "Oh, I like you, milky thing. You have pride."

  "An excess of it," Lisinthir said and pushed his plate away. "I suppose I'm expected to lick my fingers."

  "It would help with the blood," the Emperor said. "I am not yet done, but you are excused."

  "No after-dinner drink?" Lisinthir asked. "It would be in keeping with my customs."

  "But not in ours," the Emperor said, yellow eyes meeting Lisinthir's. "Among us, such drinks must be bestowed... or earned." He turned his head toward the nearest servant and said, "You! Show him to his chambers. Make him comfortable." To Lisinthir, "Tomorrow I will tell my ministers to introduce themselves. Most of your work will be done with them."

  "Not with you?" Lisinthir said. "I would miss your exalted company, Emperor."

  The Emperor grinned, white fangs, dark lips. "You will come to me for other things."

  Before Lisinthir could ask, the servant appeared at his elbow and the Emperor returned to his meal, as clear a dismissal as any Lisinthir had seen in court. He did the elegant and wise thing and retreated, following the servant down the interminable stairs; no doubt the servant hated being forced to walk instead of flying.

  No doubt the Emperor knew it.

  Upstairs, the Slave Queen turned to Khaska, hoping the female was equal to the task of divesting her of her hated raiment... only to find the Seersa hadn't followed her all the way into the bathing room, where the chest for her few articles of clothing rested. Perplexed, the Queen slipped back into the main room, only to find the female on the lip of the biggest bowl in the floor, shaking.

  The Chatcaavan drew closer, her bells announcing her, and the Seersa lifted her head. Wet, sticky trails matted the fur on her cheeks.

  "Khaska?" the Queen asked softly.

  The female looked away. "It is nothing, Mistress."

  "Are these not the /tears/ you spoke of? The /weeping/? What has crushed your spirit?" the Queen asked, crouching beside her.

  "He... he saw our estate, Mistress... he saw, and it troubled him not at all," Khaska said, her voice hoarse. "Perhaps at last the Alliance has sent an ambassador who can prosper at the court." And then she broke down, choking on her own words, and shook with the strangeness that was her misery.

  How crude, speech! How deeply did these strange Alliance aliens confuse her! They were against slavery, and yet their newest Ambassador did not flinch at the sight of his own kind naked and enchained. No wonder this sign of obvious, humanoid sorrow on the face of her stoic servant. The Queen reached for Khaska, gathered her into her arms, trying for once to connect with her without first naming her by a Chatcaavan name, pressing her into an artificially familiar mold.

  Khaska burrowed into her, shuddering. The Slave Queen had never been so close to someone voluntarily, much less held a person who wept—these wracking convulsions, so tiny, so violent, tinted with the hot smell of salt and wetness and musk. She petted the female's head and back, uncertain of what to do with her limbs but sure that she should do something.

  "Mistress," Khaska whispered, and for once her Chatcaavan had the lisp, the cadence and strange fluidity of an accent, "Mistress... why, why, why—"

  "I don't know," the Slave Queen whispered back. She gently combed the fur and hair away from the female's face. "Peace, peace. What happens, happens. It cannot be affected."

  "I can't believe that, Mistress," Khaska said, but she had regained her voice. She swallowed, wiped her eyes quickly with the butt of her hands, then straightened. "You are still dressed, Mistress. Shall I help you?"

  "Yes, please, Khas—" the Slave Queen stopped.

  The Seersa lifted her head, her brows lowered over perplexed eyes. "Mistress?"

  "I do not know your name," the Queen said, "Not your real one. Names are important to you, aren't they?"

  The female's ears flipped backward, the jewelry on them flashing. "Yes, Mistress. It isn't like it is here, where to have a title is to have identity and power."

  "I want to stop calling you something you didn't choose," the Queen said. "Will you let me? Will you... will you teach me that wet softness you spoke to the others?"

  The Seersa's eyes widened. "If... if that is your wish. Is it?"

  "I have no happiness here," the Queen said softly, eyes drifting to the window on the overcast sky. The clouds had thickened, obscuring the moonset. "Perhaps if I learn enough of your tongue, I will see something outside this world. Perhaps I will find some understanding there that eludes me."

  The Seersa was silent for several paces of a heart. Then: "Laniis," the girl said. "My name is Laniis."

  "Laniiz," the Queen repeated, struggling with the final syllable. Her mouth felt clumsy on the syllables, fumbling their soft length. "Laniiz. Laniis."

  Khaska—Laniis—rested a softly furred hand on the Queen's flat chest. "What is your name, Mistress? Did you ever have one?"

  "I don't remember," the Queen answered. "Before I became the Slave Queen, I was named my father's daughter, ruler of his world... and then I became this. There has never been a time when I have had a name."

  The Seersa's eyes glittered and dropped hot tears in silence. The Queen touched them, tasted them, thought them bitter.

  "Do not /weep/ for me, Laniiz. Laniis," the Queen said. "There is something to be said for being the most exalted, the most degraded of all the females in the Empire. I want for nothing."

  "Save freedom," Laniis said.

  "Some things must be known before they can be missed," the Slave Queen said. "I have never known freedom, so how can I miss it?"

  Laniis's ears drooped. After a moment, she said, "Let me help you undress, Mistress."

  Standing in front of the window as the female gently pulled the strands of bells and beads from her wings, the Slave Queen reflected that the one thing she wanted most was the single thing the Seersa would never understand, in the same way the Chatcaavan would never understand the alien's yearning for freedom.

  Laniis would never fly.

  Neither would she.

  Lisinthir's assigned chambers were opulent, but alien. Instead of a drawing room that led into a hidden be
droom and bathing chamber, the first room off the hall featured a monstrous bed, piled with dozens of brocaded comforters, silken, stuffed with something heavy that made them slide with the grace of serpents in water. A table along the side of the room doubled as desk and dressing table. The rooms leading off this front room were a dim study with a balcony and a bathing room with a pool and sanitary closet.

  The study, shrouded in the dark and yet open to the stars, gave Lisinthir pause. No doubt it would be a beautiful place to work, but its exposure to the air made it dangerous—anyone could just drop by. Which was, he suddenly understood, the point. The outside of the tower was considered the guest-facing area, not the door along the interior hallway. When he checked, he discovered the bedroom door was lockable, and the style of the door, faced with the same molding and paint as the wall, confirmed his guess.

  Strange people. What would it be like to have wings?

  Lisinthir began unpacking, and the mindlessness of the work let his mind circle the question of how to free the slaves, and most importantly, Bethsaida. Could he simply ask? Make a demand? Make her part of his bargaining? But the Emperor seemed too pleased with her to give her up for anything trivial, and Lisinthir couldn't sacrifice important Alliance negotiation points to save the heir to his queen's throne. Or could he?

  He simply didn't have enough information yet about these people, how they thought, what they thought important... how his requests would strike them. Bethsaida might not last long here, but he needed at least a few days to assess his options.

  Lisinthir was trying to find a way to hang his clothes when someone knocked on the bedroom door. Since he'd already re-arranged his perception of the hallway door as being in the "back" of his chambers, Lisinthir paused in puzzlement.

  The knock sounded again. This time, he opened the door.

  Standing in the hallway was a female Chatcaavan, not winged as the Slave Queen was, but female in the way his debriefings had taught him to expect. She had four arms, one set at shoulder height and one slightly lower. Her skin was a softly scaled bronze-green, decorated with golden ornaments on her two thin horns, her arms and wrists and fingers.