CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Must we have this argument again?” Second said.

Jahir, ignoring his nauseating hunger pangs and trying to memorize the changes in the map behind the Usurper’s wing arches, was hanging on the wall. Several of the more distant fleets had crawled toward the sector where the throneworld was blazoned, and their incremental progress seemed too slow to Jahir. Particularly while he waited for any message Oviin might receive in response to the one he’d sent several days ago.

“I am tired of staring at his muzzled face. And the gag is likely to give it some blood poisoning the Surgeon cannot fix.” The Usurper sat behind his desk, lifted the Galare dagger and slid it from its sheath. “Have you handled one of these yet? So inconvenient. Talons are always with you, but a weapon can be taken away.”

“Exalted,” Second said, low. “This meeting in particular should not be witnessed. Send your prize to be beaten so that he will look prettier for your guests and let us get on with business.”

“I prefer him unmarred. It’s less messy. Besides, beating aliens is a risk, given their fragility. I would prefer not to be deprived of my decoration.” The Usurper squinted at Jahir. “And you prefer not to be beaten, I’m sure.”

“Better males than you have thrashed me,” Jahir said, thinking of Lisinthir. “I doubt you would accomplish anything interesting with your attempt.”

“You see?” the Usurper said. “What good is a beating if it doesn’t accomplish anything?”

“A good enough beating would accomplish a great deal.” Second glared at Jahir. “And trust me, Ambassador. When I-your-better beat someone, they notice.”

Jahir smiled at him. “Do you-my-lesser always wait until their backs are turned? Or is cowardice new to you, traitor?”

Second’s teeth flared and he leaned toward Jahir, then he reined himself back and narrowed his glowing eyes. Strange that they might be so similar in color to Oviin’s and yet so different in character. “You-my-lesser look better with a gag in your mouth, freak.”

The Usurper snorted. “Stop playing with it, Second. We have a meeting to conduct.”

“Which should be conducted—”

“In private, yes, I know.” The Usurper pointed at the chair opposite the desk. “Sit. I leave the war to you. You will leave the management of the empire, including the disposition of its slaves, to me.”

Second turned from Jahir. “I don’t understand you. This behavior… it’s unlike you.”

“You worry that I have been entranced by the alien?” The Usurper snorts. “He’s useful, that’s all. Makes me look like I care about the things other males do.”

“For that to work, you have to use him, and you don’t use him!”

The Usurper said, unperturbed, “I’m using him now. And I am about to use him again. Observe.” To the guards, “Let him in now.”

A new Chatcaavan strode in, a brown male with a large, blunt head and thick horns. Unlike Second and the Usurper, whose clothes had the austere lines of a uniform, this male wore an embroidered robe over trousers, both wine-colored, offsetting his eyes which were nearly magenta: bright and red trending toward purple.

“Lord of the Twelveworld,” the Usurper said.

“Exalted,” said this new male. “I have seen to your directives and return with news. Second.” He inclined his head to both, reached for one of the chairs and stopped at the sight of Jahir. “Dying Air!”

“My wall hanging,” the Usurper said, lifting a tablet and beginning to peruse its contents.

“The Ambassador? You have captured the Ambassador?” The Twelveworld Lord stepped toward Jahir. “May I…”

Jahir saw the satisfied look the Usurper flung at Second behind the Twelveworld Lord’s back as he spoke. “I suppose.”

The new male drew closer, as if approaching a dangerous animal. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and his mouth parted: shock? Fascination? “The wingless freak, fettered,” he murmured. “How do you like the Emperor’s attention now, Ambassador?”

“I’ll let you know when I see him next,” Jahir replied.

The Twelveworld Lord drew back as if struck, then barked a laugh. “You have caught him, truly caught him, Exalted. I am impressed. Will you kill him?”

“Why would I kill him?” the Usurper said absently. “That wall is too bare.”

“You could decorate him like a female…”

“Too time-consuming. Maybe later, if I grow bored.” The Usurper looked up. “I’ll ask you for suggestions if so.”

“Oh yes,” the Twelveworld Lord said, low. “I would be glad to offer them.”

“Excellent. With that decided, then, the pirates? Sit.”

“Ah yes.” The Twelveworld Lord sat on the chair, leaning against it with wings relaxed against its narrow back. “They are harrying the Alliance along the border. Some of them have already clashed with elements of the freak’s Fleet, which means the diversion is working. We are drawing some number of them away from the corridor we plan to advance along.”

“Are there enough pirates to divert them?” The Usurper looked at Second. “This is your expertise, not mine.”

“I was surprised at this pirate’s ship strength and coordination.” Second leaned forward, tapping on a tablet. “They are strung out here and yes, I believe their numbers sufficient to at least distract the freaks.”

A blot of red sprang up along the Alliance border, coreward of the Empire.

“And we are proceeding here,” the Usurper said, pointing at an area on the map.

Even from behind, Jahir could see Second’s reluctance to respond in the tightness of his wings, the stiffness of his hands. “Yes.”

“The pirates will fight well,” the Twelveworld Lord said. “I have promised them significant plunder, including one of the Alliance core worlds.”

The Usurper scowled at him. “All plunder is to be funneled through proper naval channels for distribution.”

The Twelveworld Lord laughed. “I’m not going to give them anything, Exalted! I fully expect the freaks to shatter them. The freaks will take a beating in the process—these pirates are well armed, and good at raiding—but by the time the freak Fleet is done with them, there won’t be enough pirates to settle an asteroid, much less an entire planet.”

“Good,” the Usurper said. “So long as you’re certain about the numbers.”

“As certain as anything is in war,” the Twelveworld Lord replied. “I would not concern yourself with them, Exalted. I’ve regular communiques from that front; if anything looks troubling, I’ll discuss it with Second.”

“Very good.” The Usurper tapped his tablet. “I see you have brought me new numbers here.”

“Yes. The system lords of the north and east have gathered under my banner and are now proceeding to Apex-East to join the main fleet.” The Twelveworld Lord sounded smug. “You’ll note our strength is considerable.”

“Quite,” the Usurper said. “Did you see this, Second? It’s comparable to the weight of Apex-North’s fleet.”

“I did see,” Second said. “Well done, Twelveworld Lord. I did not anticipate such a strong showing from the system lords.”

“It would be a poor deed if the system fleets of the strongest sectors of the Empire did not weigh favorably against their naval counterparts,” the Twelveworld Lord replied. “This is a battle we have been anticipating ever since we met the freaks. We intend to enjoy it.”

“And you will, yes. Will you stay at court? I’d prefer it to you joining your ships in Apex-East,” the Usurper said. “Since you are the one receiving intelligence about the pirates.”

“I can, certainly. Until the muster leaves Apex-East. When we open the war I intend to be there.”

“Naturally,” the Usurper said. “Thank you, Twelveworld Lord. That will be all.”

“Exalted.” The male rose, bowed with slightly spread wings.

After his departure, the Usurper tapped his tablet until a new icon appeared on the map: a large yellow globe with a ship in its center. “A large concentration of ships.”

“More than we expected,” Second agreed.

“Will there be problems at Apex-East?”

“No,” Second said. “Because I will relieve some of the pressure by sending the Eastern fleet forward.”

The Usurper squinted. “That would keep them from starting fights with the system lords, but it will look like weakness unless you have a good reason.”

“I do,” Second said. “I’d like to start them on scouting duties. We need intelligence on the movements of the freak Fleet, and with all due respect to the Twelveworld Lord, I do not trust pirates to give us accurate reports.”

The Usurper snorted. “Of course not. It would take a system lord to think so. The Navy knows better.”

“Exactly.” Second rose. “I will see to that now, in fact. Unless you have something else?”

“No. That will do.”

Second paused beside Jahir on the way out and scowled up into his face. “And you. If you repeat any of this to anyone, you’ll be lucky if you keep your tongue.”

“Don’t threaten my property,” the Usurper said, already reading his tablet again. “If I want it defaced, I’ll arrange it.”

Second bared his teeth and swept out.

“Well done,” Jahir said.

The Usurper looked up. “Oh yes. I didn’t gag you.”

“Is it your intention to keep Second off balance, or are you solely using me to gauge the tenor of your possible allies?”

The drake snorted. “I suppose it was obvious enough for even a wingless freak to notice.”

“So obvious I’m surprised your targets don’t see it as well.”

“They might have. But it doesn’t matter. What you don’t understand, freak—what you have never understood, no matter how much time you spent in this court before my arrival—is that it doesn’t matter if you show weakness so long as you have enough power.”

“Like the Twelveworld Lord’s fleet.”

The Usurper waved a hand in a shrug. “Not material, really. Those ships have never trained together. Intelligence and coordination will always trump brute force. That I sit here before you as the Exalted Emperor is proof enough of that.”

Lisinthir would have disagreed with him, would have attacked him to force him off balance. Jahir, though, didn’t want the Usurper fighting him. Not yet. “So neither the pirates nor the system lords concern you.”

“Not at all. The Navy will keep them in check, as it always has, and what few fail to respond to Second’s commands can be led by their desire for conquest and treasure. It’s a simple equation. So long as you know what motivates the people around you, you cannot fail in your aims.”

“And what is your aim, precisely?”

The Usurper looked up, head cocked and one eye squinted. “What?”

“Your aim,” Jahir prompted. “Because I doubt you wanted the throne for power. Did you?”

“Of course I did. I am Chatcaavan, freak.”

Jahir pursed his lips. “Forgive me. I was imprecise. You did not want the power for power’s sake, to boast of yourself and your prowess.”

“No,” the Usurper replied. “Such displays are a waste of time. I do not feel I need to perform for my peers. I sought power for a different purpose.”

“As I thought. So, then… what was this aim?”

The Usurper smiled a little. “You would like to know, wouldn’t you, freak? As if it will help you. It won’t. You will die here when I grow tired of you.”

“You won’t grow tired of me because you were never interested in me,” Jahir said. “Say rather that you will kill me when I no longer serve a useful purpose.”

The Usurper bared his teeth. “You are capable of understanding basic facts.”

“Yes.” Jahir paused, offered, “It is a rare ability. Accepting reality.”

That won him a rasping laugh. “Unfortunately. Yes. I am here to manage the Empire, freak, because it is inefficient and I despise inefficiency.” The Chatcaavan’s eyes grew distant. “There is too much variation in processes. People have too much freedom. It detracts from their availability for productive work. They spend too much of their time deciding on a course of action, and when they decide, they make irrational choices. Entire worlds are drowning in their own redundancies, their idiosyncrasies. I plan to sanitize these irrational social and cultural processes. We could grow so much larger if we solved these problems. Everything must be put in its place. Every person. Nothing will stop us then.” He met Jahir’s eyes. “That is why I want power.”

“To fix things,” Jahir whispered.

“You understand me.” The Usurper picked up his tablet. “And now you will be silent or I will have you gagged. There is work to be done.”

Jahir suffered the rest of the day, eating when fed, hanging for his four-hour intervals, until at last the guards delivered him back to Oviin who was waiting with a meal tray. By then he was so weak he found it difficult to sit upright, and the smell seeping from the seam of the covered plates was so strong he thought he’d faint for need.

The Chatcaavan held up a finger and said, “I have been reporting your condition to the Surgeon. He says you must eat slowly. Please.” He handed over a triangle of soft flatbread wrapped around some sort of meaty paste. Jahir forced himself to chew it at a deliberate pace, accepting the next only when he’d swallowed the first. His stomach’s complaints were vociferous but Oviin remained adamant, passing him each new tidbit with metronomic patience. When the tray was empty and Jahir painfully full, the Chatcaavan waited, watching him. “Do you need the basin?”

“No,” Jahir managed. “But I admit I dislike this intensely.”

“If you hate eating like this so much, why do you do it?”

“I’m afraid I have no choice.” Jahir inhaled. “Are we free to speak?”

Oviin glanced at the door. “As free as we ever are.”

Jahir nodded. “The Twelveworld Lord. Is he important?”

The male inhaled through his nostrils, a little wheeze. “Yes. You could say.” He lifted a towel. “Can you go into the bath?”

“Not to immerse myself.” Jahir settled on the lip of the tub and accepted the hot, damp washcloth. Starting on his fingers, he said, “The Twelveworld Lord? Surely twelve worlds comprise a minor fiefdom in an empire the size of yours.”

“If it was only twelve worlds, perhaps.” Oviin put the tray on a table, out of the way. “But the title is a relic from the Empire’s first expansions toward your space. The north and the east, the parts of the Empire facing your nation, they are the densest in population and the most industrialized, because they are the leading edge of the conquerors who wish to claim more territory. The military is strongest in the north and east because the system lords are the most powerful as well. And of them all, the lord of the Twelveworld is the greatest, because those twelve worlds were the first claimed in the north, and they have been built for centuries into a great redoubt. Together they comprise an ancient charge, one with a history that stretches back, some say, to the first spacefaring days. They are rich systems, and strong. Their control gives the Twelvelord a great deal of power, and that he holds them, a great deal of respect.”

Jahir frowned, sliding down to lie on his side. The chiming in his head had ceased, but he was tired, so tired. “Then it is believable that the Usurper might want to placate him.”

“This one begs pardon?”

“He was here today, telling of a fleet he’s brought. Other lords like him, who have joined with him to form a single unit. A large one. Second said it was as large as the northern military fleet.”

Oviin’s hands paused. Then he resumed setting out the larger towels for the bath. “That would not surprise me.”

“Really?” Jahir considered him. “You know a great deal about the political situation of the Empire, Oviin-alet.”

“It is unavoidable, if one listens.” Oviin sat across from him in his usual position, hands folded in his lap. “These males… when they come to the court, it is males such as this one who serve them, who bring their meals, who clean their suites, who see to their requests. We procure them females, if the Emperor does not permit them his. We answer their questions about where to find entertainment in the capital, if they wish to leave the palace. We… we are bound as statues and left as decorations in their alcoves, if that pleases them.”

“You are?” Jahir asked, startled. “I would have thought that a duty of the harem.”

“The harem is composed of females, Ambassador,” Oviin murmured. “If wings are needed in a decoration, it is to the palace staff that the artisans turn.”

“And you are beautiful,” Jahir murmured.

Oviin’s head jerked up.

“You think I would fail to notice?” Jahir sighed and pushed himself into the water. “I have been the object of similar desires, though I have more defense against them. I know how it goes, alet.”

“I… I can imagine,” Oviin stammered. Recovering himself, he finished, “This one has spent many hours listening to discourse, unable to move. To think about what one hears… it passes the time.”

“And you know the Twelveworld Lord because of this.”

Oviin hung his head. “He is a perverse male who finds wings on females fascinating. Such females are rare—this one is considered a substitute. A poor one, but sufficient.”

Jahir reached across the steaming water to rest his hand on the drake’s foot, and through it sensed Oviin’s shame. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not as females are hurt,” Oviin murmured. “But it is…”

“Degrading.”

Oviin grimaced, lips pulling back from his teeth. “Such words are not for castrates to use. We do not have honor to be abused.”

“I say you do. I say you have more honor than the males who have misused you, Oviin, because you have twice their courage.”

Had Jahir not had his hand on Oviin’s foot he would not have known to look for physical evidence of the Chatcaavan’s pleased embarrassment. The Chatcaava did flush, though it showed only at the delicate skin near their eyes and nostrils. Oviin looked away. “The Ambassador is too generous.”

“The Ambassador is an alien, is what you mean.” Jahir sank into the bath to his chin and sighed. “This is good. Thank you. My arms and back ache.”

“This one can imagine. Being bound was not comfortable either.” Oviin flexed his wings, a little tremor running along their vanes. “What should go out next?”

Jahir thought of the map. “If only I could show them the fleet positions. Do you have access to the Usurper’s study?”

“No, Ambassador. Not in the sense you mean. I walk past it to reach you here, but by the time I do so all the displays are shut down, and to tamper with them would be impossible without his access codes. Perhaps you could describe them? I would remember everything you describe.”

Having heard evidence of the Chatcaavan’s eidetic memory the first time Oviin repeated his message back to him exactly, Jahir didn’t doubt it. What concerned him was his own ability to paint an accurate depiction. It was unavoidable that an alien would gloss over elements of the map that a Chatcaavan might find pertinent: he didn’t have the context necessary to understand the significance of the information he was gathering. He was a good observer; had become, he thought, an excellent one after moving to the Alliance and practicing his profession while navigating an environment that rewarded the ability to predict the actions of others. With enough time, he could glean the necessary information by watching the Usurper’s reaction to it, or Second’s. But that would take time, and require him to be expert in Chatcaavan body language. He had Lisinthir’s borrowed memories, but they were only enough to give him a subconscious understanding; his mind would attempt to fill in any gaps in that knowledge with its own probably incorrect assumptions.

But Oviin… Oviin might know. If Oviin could be made to see the map.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Jahir asked. “You may decline to hear it, or on hearing it, you may decline to answer.”

Oviin’s mouth dropped open. Composing himself, he said, “So many alien notions.”

“Yes,” Jahir answered.

“Then… the question?”

Jahir asked, “Can you Change?”

The words arrested Oviin’s every motion, even his breathing. Then he flinched, lowering his head. “I have never tried.”

“Would you like to?”

“Because?” Oviin asked, low. “I do not assume you ask this out of generosity. What is your purpose, Ambassador?”

Had this been Lisinthir’s path in the Empire? Expedience? Was it becoming his as well? Was that what survival demanded? “I’m afraid it did occur to me as the solution to a problem.”

The male’s wings relaxed, mantled; some of the stiffness left Oviin’s face. “That being?”

“I can see the map but not interpret it. You could interpret it, but can’t see it. If you could draw the picture from my mind…” He trailed off, frowned. The meals he had in the bathing chamber chased the fog from his head, but he was aware of still being impaired, of thinking more slowly than his wont. It was hard not to find it frustrating… frightening. “Perhaps it isn’t my purpose, really. I could put the thought in your head myself, with your permission. But giving you my shape so that you can learn to take it from me feels fairer.”

Oviin stared at him, nose wrinkled. “I don’t understand, Ambassador. You are speaking of… reading minds? As your kind are said to do.”

“Yes.”

“And you wished me to learn your shape so I could read yours, and see the map.”

“Yes,” Jahir said.

“But you also say I don’t need to learn that shape in order to do so?”

“Yes,” Jahir said. Apologetically, “This is a new ability for me, so I don’t often think of it. I could push it into your head. In the past, I would have found it difficult to do so unless you were also able to send and receive thoughts.”

“So you could place the image in my mind,” Oviin said slowly. “You need not teach me your pattern.”

“No,” Jahir said. “But if you’d like to learn it, the offer stands.”

Oviin said, “I should not be surprised that you make this offer, though it no longer grants you any advantage.”

“No.” Jahir smiled. “Are you? Surprised?”

“Yes,” Oviin said. He swallowed. “This placing of an image in my mind. Is it painful?”

“It can be unnerving,” Jahir answered. “We are born believing our minds are unassailable, and the evidence that we’re wrong can be uncomfortable. But it isn’t physically painful, no.” He thought of Vasiht’h and smiled. “Some people find the communion pleasant.”

“How does it work?”

“I touch you,” Jahir said. “And then… you see what I show you.”

“So easy,” Oviin murmured. “And this ability I would have if I learned your shape.”

“Yes.”

The Chatcaavan looked away, jaw tense. Jahir left him to that silence, cupping the water and washing his face. He missed showers; while the bath helped with the aches incurred by his constrained posture, it also made him too aware of his uncomfortable fullness. He’d found eating a pleasure in the past, despite both his partner and his lover deciding he neglected himself too much. He no longer found eating pleasurable; did not even, he realized, remember what the Chatcaavan food tasted like. How would he ever tell Vasiht’h about the cuisine of dragons if he didn’t linger long enough on it to recall its flavors? Its spices? Was he even getting quality food, or was this the equivalent of slop fed to an animal?

It wouldn’t matter if it was, since that was how he was eating it. The thought that he was, and that this wasn’t enough to silence the roquelaure, was ominous. His skin prickled, cold despite the steam.

“I would like to think about this.”

“Take your time.” Jahir held his hair out of the way so he could sluice the back of his neck. “I’ll be here.”

“Just… that?” Oviin frowned. “You do not wish to influence my choice further?”

“If I could influence it less, I would,” Jahir said. “As it is, I will offer what little control I can give you and protect your ability to exercise it. I need your help, Oviin-alet—this you already know, and I will not lie about it. My nation, my people, the Alliance, even the deposed Emperor and his partisans—all of them must have the information I can send them, and the only way I can accomplish that is through you.” He smiled a wintry smile. “I find that sufficient coercion for my taste. I would prefer you at liberty to make any other choices my existence presents you on your own.”

“This is your pattern of behavior, then,” Oviin said. “You make suggestions and then leave me alone with them, or wait without insisting on payment, knowing that it will motivate me to help you.”

“Will it?” Jahir asked, bemused.

Oviin scowled at him. “You are many things, Ambassador, but it has never been observed of you that you are witless.”

“I suppose not. But I’m not trying to manipulate you into doing what I ask.”

“You are making me want to do what you ask! By making me like you!”

Jahir couldn’t help it: he laughed, a little bubble of mirth that he tried and failed to choke down. “Oviin-alet… that is common with people who respect one another. If they like one another, they help one another.”

“Chatcaava and aliens cannot like one another.”

“I love the Queen,” Jahir murmured, Lisinthir’s memories of her bright in his mind, like banners. “Tell me that again.”

Oviin dug his fingertips into his knees and did not answer.

That night, alone in the gloom of his silent chamber, Jahir curled around his empty, aching middle and listened to the roquelaure’s whispered warnings, forcing himself to hold still. He had never been more aware of how much energy it cost to twitch from an unwanted stimulus. Being Eldritch had required him to learn a level of bodily self-control the Pelted found suspicious—brief flashes to arrogant professors and their accusations—but the roquelaure required a discipline so beyond that mastery he wasn’t sure he could do it.

Fleet couldn’t possibly be using such flawed technology. Jahir could barely move without triggering some warning message; the activity level a Fleet operative would be sustaining while masked did not seem possible. He could only conclude that something was wrong... that he had injected it incorrectly, or more probably, the algorithm that ruled it was reacting to his not-quite-expected biology. The roquelaure had been keyed for Lisinthir; perhaps it was only a matter of time before it failed. Probably by starving him to death.

Staring at the moonlight falling through the bathing chamber arch, Jahir thought of killing the Usurper. Perhaps absent their Emperor, Second and the Twelveworld Lord would fight for the throne? But Second was gone. And the Twelveworld Lord seemed a traditional enough Chatcaavan male that Jahir doubted he would call off the war. All he could do was watch, and tell the others what he knew, and hope they would come in time. Or perhaps ask through Oviin what could be done about the roquelaure?

He might have to, if its demands keep mounting. But he was not dead yet.

Jahir sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.