“You saw it all?” the Emperor asked, divesting himself of his robe.
“To the very last blow, and past it,” Lisinthir replied from where he was reposing quite comfortably on their bed, serving as the Queen’s pillow. “He acquitted himself handsomely. Have you had report of the Surgeon? I presume the Worldlord made it to the clinic, with both his Hand and your counselor to see him there.”
“He did, yes, and the Surgeon says a day or two in the tank should be sufficient. Unlike his last opponent, who will need a week.” The Emperor sat on the edge of the bed, watching them, and there was satisfaction in that gaze, and possessiveness, and fondness. “I was not wrong to trust to his canniness to see him to the end of the ordeal.”
“He did trick them quite nicely, didn’t he. Their fault, for complacency.”
“Yes.”
“And that last blow, that won the fight, was judged to a fare-thee-well.” Lisinthir lifted a brow. “One would almost wonder if he’d been informed that System Apex-North had a weakness?”
“He had,” the Queen said, drowsily.
“Ah, so he has begun to insinuate his intelligence networks into the palace.”
“He had it from a castrate,” the Emperor said, amused.
“Did he!” Lisinthir laughed. “Truly?”
The Queen lifted her head just enough to say, pleased, “I found out.”
“She did, yes,” the Emperor said. “They still talk to her.” He crawled to the headboard and piled the bolsters into a pyramid he could rest back against with wings half-spread; his outstretched legs he crossed at the ankle on Lisinthir’s thigh. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what my counselor is doing in his company? I assume you had something to do with that, as I didn’t expect it to happen on its own.”
“I didn’t expect it to happen even with prompting,” Lisinthir replied. “I mentioned to the Worldlord that did he want further congress with his Gentle he would have to convince Andrea of his good intentions first, but I didn’t think anything would come of it.”
The Emperor snorted. “You thought he would cavil?”
“I thought Andrea would.”
“She may still.” The emotion emanating through the Emperor’s skin was… relaxation. As much as that male ever relaxed. He looked it, though, as content and as easy in his skin as he’d been when Lisinthir had first met him as a more callow male. What a fight he would have inspired then had he dared suggest that Emperor had lacked worldly experience! And yet, he had, because this one had the polish of a person who had been broadened by perspectives unfamiliar to his, and been changed by them, and become comfortable with those changes.
Some things remained the same, though; that male would have been as observant of minute changes in Lisinthir’s demeanor as this one remained. “What is it?”
“I am afraid I wonder how easily your court will make the transition you have, without the impetus that propelled you through your metanoia, Exalted.”
“It will be fine,” the Queen said, surprising them both. “Because the journey that changed our beloved would not necessarily work for another. Everyone is different, my lord, so everyone’s path must be, also. There is nothing to say that people will not find that path here… and the more opportunities we give them for those choices and changes, by simply acting as we will, the more likely it is that some of them will find their way.”
“Truly,” Lisinthir said, stroking her mane, “we should let her run things.”
“Truly, we already do.” The Emperor smiled at them, then let his head rest back. “So, Perfection. When do you plan to ask for our hand in marriage?”
Lisinthir let out a bark of laughter. “On bended knee? With a binding cloth, and troth gifts?”
“If that is how you plan to make the offer…”
“No, no,” Lisinthir grinned. “That would never do. One should not offer to dragons what would please a unicorn. I will give you a spectacle sufficient to your acceding to my importunate demands. When our new Second can sit on his pillow.”
“So… two days? I find myself impatient, Perfection.”
Lisinthir chuckled. “I don’t know why. You have me already, in everything but name.”
“Ah, but names,” the Emperor said, “matter.”
The Worldlord had first woken in a gel tank some two decades ago, but that was not enough time to forget his panic on regaining consciousness in such a distressing environment, with everything hazed in green and one’s throat and nostrils filled with liquid. His greater age and experience did not make the impulse to panic any less powerful, but those revolutions did confer the discipline not to hyperventilate. He could breathe, wasn’t dying; if he concentrated, in fact, he could convince himself it was soothing. Immersion felt like flying, but without the effort; rather, he drifted, buoyed by the warmed gel.
Inevitably, his regaining consciousness inspired attention. The first arrival, winged but delicate, must be another castrate… but the second he recognized as the Surgeon, to whom he’d been briefly introduced when he’d reached the palace.
Sound was strange, conducted through the gel, but intelligible. The Surgeon peered at the vital statistics reported by the tank, then gave a short, choppy nod. “Very good. You wake early, Second. I would like you to remain in the bath another hour or so, however. Shall I tranquilize you?”
Remaining conscious while submerged would be tedious, so he inclined his head in assent. As he waited for the drug to diffuse through the gel, he wondered at the castrate. Another he might add to his network of spies? Maybe Cirrus could introduce him. How useful it would be, to have eyes in the clinic… for though the Surgeon would no doubt answer any questions forthrightly, he would reply only to those he thought fitting, and males Outside could be very parsimonious about the topics they were willing to discuss with those Inside.
Though, given the Emperor’s reforms… would there still be an Inside and an Outside? The Worldlord—Second, he could think of himself now—couldn’t imagine a society that did not make those distinctions, because what would become of individuals like the human Counselor? No one could demand an alien defend themselves on a dueling field, and try as he might Second couldn’t conceive of the dueling field receding in use—not soon, at least.
No, the title didn’t sound right yet. Not until he sat on the pillow and received the formal nod from the Emperor. For now he remained the Worldlord. This decision felt proper, though he knew the typical Chatcaavan male would have discarded an old title the instant they’d wrested the new one from their predecessor. Maybe the lack of a predecessor to fight changed the equation?
He passed out of consciousness doubting it.
When he woke next he was lying on his stomach on a pallet. He felt rested and hale, and sitting up provoked no dizziness, only a profound sense of relief. It was good to be up.
The Surgeon found him as he was finishing dressing in the clothes that had been set on the nearby table. “Ah, good. You’re free to go, as you guessed.”
The Worldlord smoothed the robe’s panels over his chest and cocked his head. “My enemies?”
The other male snorted. “The ones you didn’t kill outright? Two of them are still floating, and will be for several days.”
This news filled the Worldlord with satisfaction. “Good.”
“Killing them would probably have made your life easier.”
“Only probably,” the Worldlord said. “And depending entirely on who stepped into their roles on dying.”
“Who knows but that you wouldn’t have ended up with all their titles, and not just the Marchward Flight’s?” At the Worldlord’s startled look, the Surgeon said, “You could distribute them to your brood. I hear you have a large enough one.”
“Did you?”
The Surgeon smiled a little. “Let us just say… I am no longer incurious about the activities and careers of those Inside.”
As the Worldlord had heard of the Surgeon’s exploits in that regard… “Yes. I imagine so.” And on impulse, “You need not fear for my motivations, Surgeon. I am the Emperor’s staunch ally.”
“Are you? Well, we’ll see, won’t we.”
Said with such lack of concern… in some other male, the Worldlord might have thought it impertinence. In this male, who had connived with his Outside colleague to bring down the defenses of the solar system in advance of the Emperor’s arrival, it sounded far more like a threat. The Worldlord considered the Surgeon for a breath, wide-eyed, and then huffed a laugh. “But then, with allies like you, what need has he for allies like me?”
The Surgeon awarded him an approving glance. “Good. If you continue not to underestimate the people around you, you might do after all.”
“Were you so insolent with him, before?”
“I could afford to be,” the Surgeon said. “It is a bad idea, to offend the male who stitches up your wounds. Particularly if you’re in the habit of accruing them.”
“I will keep that—and all your advice—in mind.” The Worldlord hesitated, then finished, “Thank you.”
“Mmm. You’re welcome. Try not to come back.”
The Worldlord thought about that exchange all the way out of the clinic. That it reminded him, in many ways, of conversations he’d had in the privacy of his own home, with servants and employees he’d personally selected for their discretion and loyalty. What an interesting thing, if the Emperor could truly remodel the empire to work on that basis, rather than on the predatory one on which it operated now! How much energy did the Chatcaava waste defending themselves from constant attack? If they could trust the people around them, and count them as potential allies as often as they did potential enemies…
As he leaped into the sky and caught one of the rising currents, the Worldlord chuckled. Even in Andrea’s pacifist nation he couldn’t imagine that working all the time. But if they could come closer, wouldn’t that be worth the risk?
Landing on his balcony, the Worldlord paused at the sight awaiting him in it, because Second’s office was not unoccupied. Looking up from the displays arranged in front of him, Deputy-East—now Hand—said, “Did you know that traditionally the Second of the Empire has no personal harem? He’s expected to use the Emperor’s.” Twitching his forelock back, Hand continued, “That wouldn’t work for you, of course, so I installed your females in your chambers. The Emperor has given you dispensation to keep them apart, or you can remand them to the harem general—your choice. Everything else wasn’t too hard. The Steward wants to remain on the Apex-East capital world to continue seeing to your interests there, even though I tried to tempt him to follow us… he prefers to remain where he understands things, and Air but I can’t blame him. Most of your family is staying in place too, but your son-the-new-Knife to the Empress is here, and I’ve helped move his household over.
“As to business,” Hand went on, and he was definitely the Hand now, “the Emperor has put his meetings with you on hold for the next week, probably because he expects you to need time to recuperate. And you have no Third to talk about Third things with—do you know who’s going to be on that pillow? There’s speculation. The court is seething with it. But anyway, you have six reports waiting for you and I haven’t gotten started on those. I wasn’t sure you wanted me reading them. Should I be? I’m not sure what this job entails.”
The Worldlord settled on the divan by the balcony, limbs and wings relaxed. Some other male might have been offended at the sight of another Chatcaavan at his desk, but some other male would have been stupid not to recognize the hard work and opportunity represented so superbly by this recitation. Too, it gave the Worldlord the leisure to study his assistant and wonder when the transformation had taken place, from Deputy-East to… this. Tempting to say that it had begun with the Worldlord’s recent fight, or perhaps previously, with their move to the palace, but the Worldlord knew better. The moment Deputy-East had returned from escorting the Sword off-world, he’d been different, and had continued to wax different with every passing day, until the one where he’d presented himself in the Worldlord’s office to ask if they could spy on the Usurper on behalf of the male they’d both abused. That was when the more serious, more focused male had begun surfacing, like gold washed by running water. And now…
Something else had happened, the Worldlord decided, because the Hand had lost the bluster that signaled his nervousness. It might make token appearances in the future until the male lost the habit, but the sore place that had inspired those nervous fits… perhaps it had finally been exposed so it could heal. What had happened to cause that? The event had been powerful, whatever it had been.
“The job entails whatever we say it entails,” the Worldlord said. “And if you intend to continue making yourself indispensable, I’m not going to argue with results.”
The Hand snorted. “No one’s indispensable.” He paused, frowning at the displays, then finished. “Everyone matters, though. It’s the title that moves.”
Which was such an unexpected observation that the Worldlord sat up. “Did someone hit you on the head?”
Startled, the Hand looked at him… and laughed. “Oh! No. I’m sure it sounds that way. It feels that way too.” He shuddered, touched his arm as if to smooth the cold away. “But no. I am reading an alien book lent to me by the Counselor and sometimes the ideas in it show up in my head and they are… strange.”
“Strange,” the Worldlord repeated.
“Yes. It is about a singer who dares to sing a song and is killed for it.”
“Sounds believable?”
“Yes, yes, I know, it sounds like the parable about the artist, except when the Emperor executed that artist for not making the art the Emperor demanded, the artist stayed dead. In the alien story, the singer comes back to life.” The Hand clicked his teeth a few times. “Also, the song was a song of love, and so they killed him because they were a world full of hate.”
The Worldlord stared at the Hand’s face, seen in profile. The other male didn’t notice, too intent on whatever he was seeing inside his head. “I see.”
“I don’t. Or… I do.” The Hand twitched his head again to clear it. “It makes sense but when I try to articulate why I fail. Because I realize it doesn’t make sense if I try to explain it.”
The Worldlord canted his head. “Perhaps the Emperor’s Counselor is trying to damage your mind?”
“She can’t possibly damage it worse than it already was,” the Hand said. “And there are no ideas in our culture to explain the things that don’t make sense to me. Maybe she will have better luck.”
An extraordinary statement in so many ways. The Worldlord studied his companion before saying, “I am surprised she lent you a book.”
“We’re all surprised she lent me a book.” The Hand sighed. “She says she forgives me, because I need it. But I think she needs it as much as I do, because if she doesn’t forgive me, then I have power over her. Because the me of the past who hurts her will still exist and be hurting her. I… don’t understand how any of it works, huntbrother. But sometimes, I think… I can see a piece of the picture… and then it does.” He glanced at the Worldlord. “Are we still? Huntkin?”
“No question,” the Worldlord said. “And I approve of how deeply you’ve entered into my affairs. Maybe you should see to having a desk added to this room.”
This return to practicalities loosened some of the tension in the Hand’s shoulders and wing-arms. “No need. Across the hall is another, smaller chamber. It hasn’t been used in a long time but it was obviously intended as an adjunct office for Second’s staff.”
“And have you already made yourself at home in it?”
“I… may have started?” The Hand smiled at him, wan. “I didn’t want to commit to it without your approval, but maybe I should have rather than making myself at home in your chair.”
“I don’t mind,” the Worldlord said. “We might be at the pinnacle of our government, huntbrother, but we aren’t throneworld males. Let’s not take on their less useful habits.”
“No,” the Hand said after a moment. “No, that wouldn’t help us.” He scratched his jaw, absent. “So do we know who will be occupying Third’s tower? A lot of your business involves him.”
“Oh,” the Worldlord said. “We do, yes. You know him, even.”
“Do I?”
The Worldlord inclined his head, not bothering to hide his merriment. “You do. Shall I tell you? Do I need to?”
“The only male I know here besides you and your son isn’t even Chatcaavan—” The Hand came to a halt and made a choked noise. “Which wouldn’t stop him, not even for a moment. It’s the Sword, isn’t it. The Sword is going to be Third.”
“Unless I’m mistaken, he’ll make a bid for it within the next few days. Aren’t we lucky to have excellent seats for that fight!”
“I have a pillow at your table?” the Hand said, surprised. “They told me the Hands of the various lords were seated off to one side.”
“They used to be, yes. But the Emperor made a level for…”
“Counselors and assistants, which means I will be next to his.” The Hand sighed. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. This is how my life is going these days.”
“Are you pleased?”
“I’d be a lot more pleased if I could take a drive without having to leave the city limits first.” He twitched his wings back into place. “But… city driving is stressful anyway. The countryside around here is interesting. I’ve never lived in a coastal city before.” He stared at the displays in front of him, then looked past them at the Worldlord. “The Sword. Is really going to be Third.”
“Not only is he going to be Third, he’s going to fight for it.”
“Oh.” The Hand stared into nothing for several moments. Then: “They have no idea what trouble they’re in for.”
“None at all.”