CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lisinthir crouched at the edge of the ramp, the morning sunlight warm on his brow as the breeze ruffled his hair. Dawn was all of an hour past and it was shaping into a beautiful day, cloudless and just damp enough that the air didn’t rasp going down his nose.

“We have a choice,” the Worldlord had said. “The groundsmaster says some of the smaller prey is out near the northern gate on the meadows. And the more delicate of the runners are abroad, as well, and of course birds aplenty. There are also several stalkers, in case we prefer a challenge. We can hunt separately and bring back our prizes to the slaughterhouse, and each person may choose his target. Or we could hunt cooperatively.”

“We aren’t here to disperse our attentions,” Manufactory-East said. “By all means. Let us be true huntbrothers and fly wing-to-wing. We’ll go for the stalkers. They hunt in packs. It will be a fine test.”

Deputy-East eyed the other male, then said, “I like the cooperative hunt idea. But maybe we can do the runners? They’re easy to cut apart. Each of us can claim our own.”

“These stalkers,” Lisinthir interrupted. “What are they like?”

“A bit larger than we are tall,” the Worldlord said. “Powerfully muscled hunters who rely on stealth and a single lunge to bring down their prey.”

“Large claws,” Deputy-East said. “Big fangs. Ugly as the wind is quick. Runners taste better.”

“Stalkers give better trophies,” Manufactory-East said. “But by all means. Let the Sword chase down some of the rodents in the northern meadows.”

“I still think the runners—”

“How big are the packs?” Lisinthir asked the Worldlord.

Startled away from the emergent argument, the Worldlord said, “Usually three.”

“Excellent,” Lisinthir said. “Then there will be one for each of us, and when Manufactory-East is done blustering he can come claim credit for one of the kills.”

Deputy-East interposed himself between Lisinthir and the hand Manufactory-East started to lift. “You earned that one, Manufactory-East. Stop poking him.”

“He’s a cripple and a slave-lover.”

“And you’re a lackwit and a slave-torturer,” Lisinthir said idly. “So I suppose it’s to be expected that we should dislike one another on sight.”

“And you,” Deputy-East said, eyeing him. “Stop goading him. I don’t want to have to replace Manufactory-East because you killed him. And I don’t want to have to bury you when I’ve just met you and am still curious about you.”

“Fine.” Lisinthir waved a hand. “Agreed. Shall we find our stalker pack?”

“You will die!” Manufactory-East sputtered.

“I haven’t yet. Worldlord? May I ask a few more questions about the habits of stalkers?”

Manufactory-East spit. “Questions. They are killers. You kill them first. What more do you need to know, Sword?”

“Information,” Lisinthir said, “is power. Worldlord?”

“Yes,” that male said, dazed. “Of course? Of course.”

Lisinthir had asked his questions, then, and ruminated on them while the others formed what passed for a plan: the fliers would serve as beaters, flushing the stalkers, and then they would all pounce on whichever was closest to them. Given the habits revealed by the Worldlord, Lisinthir thought the plan unlikely to succeed save by accident, but then this was a pleasure outing. These Chatcaava enjoyed hunting and obviously did it often. But they hunted as entertainment. They had never gone into a forest armed only with a boar spear, knowing if they didn’t kill the feral boar no one would before it savaged another tenant. They had never faced the threat of hunger because there was no one to hunt for their tables. They had never looked at the household finances and wanted to beat their fists bloody at the realization that they had so much wealth and none of it mattered because they couldn’t find anyone to raise and kill chickens so their tenants could eat.

The Chatcaava hunted to stroke their own egos. He pitied them, and hated them for relegating something atavistic and needful to a mere competition for status.

He would show them how true males hunted. In that, their poor planning served him magnificently.

Having located the stalker pack, the three were overflying the copse, and of course, nothing was happening. Lisinthir crouched on the ramp and abided. The Chatcaava dove, inspired no movement. He ignored them the way the stalkers did, concentrating on the sleek, compact shadows that revealed them. Deputy-East had not exaggerated their size. If the Chatcaava were tardy, he would have to use his talent or risk being badly hurt; God and Lady knew what would happen to him if they put him on their Surgeon’s table under real diagnostic instruments. He wondered if he could use a mind-mage’s gifts to obfuscate their vision, replace their memories. Somehow he doubted it. He was better with gross injury, not the sort of fine mental stitching at which Jahir was so adroit. He missed his cousin, painfully. Missed civilization.

Allowed himself the luxury of those feelings, then packed them in a box and put them away.

How did he know when to move? Something changing. The wind direction. The amount of heat the sun was generating. The way the shadows in that copse were shifting. Lisinthir slid off the ramp, dropped to the ground, made his way to the field edging the trees. The entire estate was artificially landscaped, and the copse looked particularly fake: a dollop of underbrush and trees with edges so sharply defined they could have been made with a razor. By contrast, the field was flat, its grass so short it looked like a carpet. Its brilliant light green reflected the sun too well. Not the best ground to make a stand on, but it would do.

He lifted a hand and flexed his fingers. For the roquelaure to convince anyone, it had to generate solidigraphic equivalents to the body parts he did not have. It had been doing so since he’d activated it and proved the difficulty of the task by demanding he eat far more than he was comfortable with and waking him up in the middle of the night for fuel. But that meant that the talons the other Chatcaava had seen on his fingers were functional, and he proved it by slicing the back of his arm with them and shaking the crimson droplets onto the grass, into the wind.

The stalkers burst from the brush and sprinted for him, maws wide.

This was the moment. No doubts. No outcome possible except victory. He stared the lead stalker down as it vaulted for him, twitched aside just as its paws would have reached his abdomen, and threw an arm around its throat. As he slid over its spine, he drew his claws through flesh, digging hard.

Solidigraphic claws were a thousand times sharper than any real talon. He ripped its throat out and tumbled back to his feet on the other side of it. The stalker was dying before it hit the ground, its weight dragging it several of its own body-lengths through the short grass and smearing the ground with blood.

As the Worldlord reported, the scent tore the attention of the remaining stalkers from him. In that critical moment of distraction, he launched himself at the second and bowled it over. It rolled onto him and he dug both hands into its belly, gutting it. As it flailed, he darted away to face the third stalker. Its ugly head wove from one body to the other, unable to decide which to eat… or whether to flee.

His “huntbrothers” were finally diving. Lisinthir folded his arms and waited, seeing their shadows flow over the copse. The third beast finally chose the unwise path and screamed, gathering itself for a leap at Lisinthir—

Deputy-East’s body struck it halfway through its pounce. Lisinthir didn’t move as its paws skidded over the grass beside his foot. The Worldlord landed next, immobilizing the stalker before it could rise, and between the two of them they slew it.

Manufactory-East dropped from the sky last.

“You can have that one,” Lisinthir said idly, pointing at the gutted stalker, still writhing. “I wouldn’t want you not to have your own kill. Huntbrother.”

“Dying Air!” Deputy-East said, staring at him in frank admiration. “You have steel ribs, Sword!”

“Why, thank you.” Lisinthir grinned. “Your intervention was timely. My arms were tired. It would have been tedious to have to disembowel another of these things.” He nudged the stalker’s body with his toe, watching the sun shimmer over fur so black it iridesced like the wing of a raven. “Lovely pelts, though. Do you skin them, Worldlord, as well as eat them?”

“I rarely take such trophies,” the Worldlord said. “But you have justly earned yours. That was an astonishing feat.”

“The hunt is the hunt,” Lisinthir said. “Whether it takes place in the air, in space, or on the ground. If you cannot apply the principles everywhere, you are no fighter.”

Manufactory-East sniffed. “You would not have fared so well if you hadn’t wrung the Worldlord with questions about their habits.”

“Of course not,” Lisinthir said. “But the day stupidity is considered bravery is the day I leave the Empire for the fringes of space and keep going.”

“Why, because you’d die here?” Manufactory-East stepped toward him, flaring his wings.

Lisinthir snorted. “No. Because the Empire wouldn’t be long for the universe, operating thus.” He smiled slyly. “I’d start a new empire. Only the clever need apply.”

Deputy-East snorted. “Well, I think it was a fine set-up. As neat-winged as a Naval operation. In fact, it happened so fast… what do you say we go for some of the rodents? Or the runners?”

“You and the runners,” the Worldlord said, shaking his mane back.

“What can I say? They taste good.”

“Then let us have some runners,” Lisinthir said, flexing his fingertips. “The morning’s young.”

“This is a bad idea,” the Knife hissed.

“We’re not going to learn anything stuck in the guest suite, waiting for the Sword to come back,” Laniis whispered back. “We’re supposed to be with the other slaves. Hopefully this time, with the—” A pause as she reminded herself not to be too obvious, “human male, so we can examine him.” She peered down the tower stairwell. “Come on.”

“But what if someone stops us?” the Knife said, tail low.

“Then we say our master commanded us to join the other slaves downstairs.”

“Ughn!”

The Knife’s inarticulate expressions of frustration always inspired an inappropriate desire to giggle. Laniis accepted the lift in spirits and used it as fuel, but strangely, she was not as afraid as she thought she’d be. Even knowing that there were Chatcaava here who savaged their Pelted slaves… even knowing she might end up one of those brutalized people… she still felt… different. She had chosen to come here, and this time, she’d come with back-up. More importantly, she’d survived this situation before and she’d escaped to become stronger.

Her farewell ‘moment’ with Na’er surfaced, as it was wont to do at unexpected times. They hadn’t done enough by her standards, but the kissing and cuddling had served as promises. When she came back, when she convinced him that she really wanted him and wasn’t seeking some casual fling to prove she hadn’t been ruined for physical relationships by the Chatcaava… oh yes. That would be good. Her ears pricked as she trotted down the stairs. The Fleet medical team charged with her evaluation hadn’t been certain she was ready for duty, but they’d approved her conditionally anyway. She was glad they’d let her go, because without this, she wasn’t sure she could have healed.

She was here, in the place she most feared. Making a difference. Anxious, but not petrified into inaction.

The Speaker-Singer was good.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” the Knife muttered.

“I know, Knife,” Laniis said, glancing into the room at the bottom of the landing to make sure it was clear. “There, see? No one in the way.” She led him down the ramp toward the slave annex and jogged into it without running into a single Chatcaavan.

“No guards!” the Knife lamented.

“You haven’t been paying attention. They’re only ever here when they’re bringing a slave to or from a place. Why would they stand guard outside of it? Where would any of the slaves run?” Laniis peeked into the room, found the human there and a Harat-Shar, but not the Hinichi. And not, she saw, disappointed, their quarry. “Good morning, ariisen.”

“She says ‘good morning,’” the Harat-Shar murmured.

“She means it,” the Knife said, aggrieved.

“Where is the other human?” Laniis asked.

“The one you want?” The Harat-Shar stretched, arms over her head. “I was just telling Andrea the guards took him away. He’s for the Surgeon.”

“I guess we only have to wait, then,” Laniis said, sitting. “I see you have real beds now.”

“Your master’s doing,” Andrea said. “Emlyn didn’t believe me when I said he was here to rescue the Survivor.”

“We are here to rescue everyone,” the Knife said, sulky.

“Even Simone?” The Harat-Shar straightened. “Because we never see her, and I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

Laniis’s ears flattened. “Is she…”

“No,” Andrea said. “They don’t torture her. She’s got an Exodus disease. I didn’t spend long enough with her to figure out which.” She smiled, crooked. “I’m an EMA. I almost never see Exodus diseases until they’re presenting with terminal symptoms.”

“Oh!” Laniis said, startled. Emergency Medical Assists were highly trained specialists. It should have occurred to her that they were vulnerable to capture since so many of them manned the small ambulance ships that serviced remote locations in solar systems. And then, “Oh, then you might know… is this head injury they say he has… is it bad?”

“Without tools, I can’t tell you,” Andrea said. “Concussions are hard that way. It might be. Or it might be trauma-induced stress.”

“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 of 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.

“Now where, sir?” the guard asked.

The Worldlord frowned, looking down the hall. “If I send him to the slave annex, someone may intercept him on the way, so... take him to the Sword’s guest chambers. And put yourself at the door. No one is to take the slave from the room; he is the Sword’s for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again, the stairs. This time he was prompted to walk, so he did, even though his knees trembled. At last he was to be given to the new male. For what? To hope that it wouldn’t be worse was ridiculous. Perhaps the reason the Worldlord had been so determined to save him from the depredations of Manufactory-East was because he wanted to reserve the Emperor’s final gasps for this Sword.

This Sword. Whom Andrea had said was here to rescue him.

Not possible.

The guard herded him into the new chamber and left him leashed to the floor in the now customary position, his cheek pressed flush to the tiles and his body sprawled behind him in whatever position he could use to derive even the slightest comfort. What little he could see of chamber told him nothing about his newest tormentor. No personal effects. No signs of vice (I don’t need a new vice, something in him whispered). No open bottles of liquor, no torn sheets, not so much as a broken flower. Nothing the Emperor could use to prepare himself. But the very pristineness of the chamber was itself suggestive. The male had been here at least two days. Perhaps he was so violent his rooms had to be completely remade after he finished with his toys. The Emperor bit back a whimper, fingers spasming against the ground. Surely all he had endured today would be enough. Would Andrea’s God take pity on a worthless piece of trash? What was a sparrow, and why had she told Emlyn that it was fortunate God noticed even it?

Would he live through the night?

Could he perhaps, somehow, finally contrive to die?

The light slowly drained from the suite. He shielded his face from the balcony, not wanting to see what he could no longer have, and tried to ignore the breeze as it cooled the tiles beneath him. He shivered, and lost time, and thought he slept but couldn’t be certain. Maybe he would always be here, waiting for the next rape, the next assault, the next desecration.

The Emperor squeezed his eyes shut, and his body grew more and more tense, and time more and more diffuse, until the sound of voices in the stairwell snapped his eyes open again. Two males. But more footfalls than that. Words now. “…thank you, that will be all.”

A murmur.

“No, I shouldn’t need anyone again until morning.”

More shuffling of feet. Not many this time. Someone leaving. Only one person, though. Did that mean they had brought another group to disport itself on him? His heart accelerated. Despite his desire not to care, still he could feel fear at the thought.

“Gone?” the voice said.

A pause. Another voice, male, unfamiliar. “All clear.”

“Shut the door, then.” Feet now, striding. The sound made by leather wrinkling around joints as someone crouched beside his head, blocking the wind from the balcony. A tug at the leash. “Disgusting.”

“They all do it,” a second voice said. Female, unfamiliar... he thought? Something about it reminded him of a dream. She spoke in Universal, sudden and welcome and unexpected. “Even in the palace. Not leashes, but all the rest. You know.”

“I do, yes.” The tension yoking the Emperor’s throat to the group abruptly loosed. He heard the Chatcaavan draw in a long, measured breath. “All right. Sit up, please.”

Unmistakably meant for him, that command. Should he defy this stranger or would that make things worse later? The male had asked so politely, but what did that mean anymore? The Worldlord had been courtesy itself while making the Emperor’s impotency ineluctably clear. There was evil in all of them. Some merely hid it better.

This Sword… how close to the surface was his cruelty? Deep probably, if he’d let it come to the Emperor’s ears that this might constitute a rescue attempt. Something felt wrong about this reasoning, and yet he could no longer think of any other to explain why a Chatcaavan would say such a thing. His head hurt too much. It was easiest to accept the obvious.

It was useless to rebel. He would pay for it, sooner or later. Later was always better. He pushed himself onto his knees and sat, trying not to shiver.

Before him crouched the Sword. He was an unusual-looking male. Pale silver, with an extravagant mane, one that hurt to look at because something about it was familiar and lost long ago. Blue eyes, fluorescent and intent. A scar on one of the wings, so large it must have obviated flight. The male wore garb typical to a spacer, and swords like something out of the Alliance—trophies, no doubt, like his matching Pelted slaves who were standing behind his shoulders, one wary, the other aghast. It was the latter who whispered, “Surely not?”

The Sword said, voice crisp, “Laniis, keep watch on the door, please? Knife, yours is the balcony.”

The two dispersed, and to him the Sword said, “Come with me.”

To the bedchamber.

Always the bedchamber.

The Emperor cringed but the male didn’t see it, had already turned his back and left for the other room, assuming obedience as they all did. And what choice did he have. The other slaves would not dare save him. And this male… he could not imagine anyone denying this male anything. If he was lucky, it would be over quickly. But he was never lucky.

He went, shoulders rounded and head lowered. Once he stepped into the room, the Sword said, “Shut the door please.”

As he did so, the Sword closed the balcony and twitched the curtains over them before turning to him. The male’s hands were loose at his sides, fingers flexing. Was this a prelude to the assault? Did he prefer to crush the breath out of his prey? The Emperor backed against the door, breath quickening.

“Exalted,” the Sword said, very softly. “It is your Perfection.”

His body stopped. His mind. His breath. Everything. No.

The male stepped closer, extending a hand. “I wear a seeming and if it was safe I would tear it asunder so that you might see me true. I would touch your mind, but I need your skin for that… as you remember. All I can give you as proof are words. Laniis says that you came over the estate’s walls and asked Andrea for her pattern, and that is how you have come to be human and in hiding here. I hardly… I hardly credit it. And if they are wrong and you are someone else… then it doesn’t matter because we will rescue you anyway when we leave. But if they are right…” Another step forward, so close now that the Emperor could see the anguish in those eyes, see it… and remember it in a paler, alien face. “If it is you… O my Beloved… only tell me so…!”

NO.

He slammed back against the door, desperate. No, this was a trap. Or worse, it was not a trap and somehow this male, the Chatcaavan male advancing on him… was the Ambassador, here to see him reduced to… to this. This broken piece of meat, useless and used, who’d slept in a kennel and pleaded to be spared further cruelties while writhing naked beneath anyone who wanted him. Which was worse? All of it was worse. All of it was the final seal on his abnegation, and as the Sword watched him, horrified, the Emperor slid to the floor and started crying.

Lisinthir stared at the man sobbing into his knees, the one who presented the perfect picture of the brutalized victim. This was not an act, could not be. Even if the Emperor had been capable of dissembling so perfectly, he would never have chosen an act that manifested weakness so obviously. Lisinthir would have called Laniis and the Knife in and told them in that moment that this was the wrong person, except….

Except he’d seen the flash of recognition in those eyes before shame and horror had ripped it down. Somehow, this wreck was his Emperor, and the sight made him desperate to make it better, to make the weeping stop. He wanted to pull the other male into his arms so badly and yet he knew better. The Emperor had survived enough casual violation. Lisinthir had to start putting him back together, one piece at a time, starting with his own body autonomy.

But oh, God… God, how it hurt to bear this witness.

Kneeling in front of the Emperor, Lisinthir whispered, “Please, Beloved. I’m here now. I regret how late I am. So much. But we have come to bear you free.” No response. He swallowed and leaned closer, lifting a hand but offering it palm up, cupped. “Exalted. May I touch you?” Nothing but that heart-rending weeping. Lisinthir closed his eyes, fighting his own pain, marshaled himself. “Please. Please, Beloved. Let me hold you…!”

At last the Emperor lifted his face, cheeks and chin wet and gleaming in the low light. He was shivering visibly. “This is a trick.”

“No trick,” Lisinthir promised, his hand still out-held.

“A trap, then.”

“No.” Lisinthir inhaled, shaky. “No. I dreamed of you, Exalted. You said I should not return to the field before time or all would be lost. You told me to wait for a sign.”

The slave’s eyes grew round.

“You let me love you in that dream,” Lisinthir said softly. “The way we loved one another in those final days on the throneworld. But we couldn’t name it there. I am naming it now. You are the Exalted Emperor of the Chatcaavan Empire, and my Beloved, and Greatness. And I am the Ambassador who loves you.”

“Perfection,” the Emperor whispered.

“Yours. Forever your Perfection,” Lisinthir said, opening both arms now.

With a strangled cry, the Emperor threw himself into them and Lisinthir gasped out at the touch, at the violence of the emotions that tore the Emperor’s aura like knives, that made the savagery of his embrace seem to draw blood. This lithe body, too small, too frail, trembling with the tension of so many days of torment… Lisinthir moaned and pressed his head into the Emperor’s shoulder. Never, never would he have conceived any future that included an Emperor who could sob the way the Emperor was sobbing now into his shoulder, as if he was the male’s last refuge. All the Eldritch could do was stroke the tangled hair and try not to sink too deeply into his own grief when he was needed so badly.

And he thought… thought he succeeded. Until the Emperor gasped in and said, heartfelt, “Lisinthir.”

His name from this mouth—his name—his spirit shattered.

The Emperor pressed his brow against Lisinthir’s chest, grinding it there slowly. His ribcage was still rising and falling erratically under Lisinthir’s hand, but he was at least no longer sobbing. Softer, then, like a talisman, “Lisinthir. Nase Galare. Ambassador. Lisinthir.”

“Your Perfection,” Lisinthir whispered.

“No.” From a tight throat, so tight Lisinthir hurt to hear it. “I deserve nothing so pure.”

“Exalted—”

“I’m not that either.” The Emperor dug his fingertips into Lisinthir’s back. “Not anymore. I can’t… I’m not…”

“Stop,” Lisinthir said, and was appalled when the command worked. Softer, “You are at the end of your strength, Beloved. Take no counsel from your darkest hours.”

“No,” the Emperor said, sagging against him. “It is the only counsel that ever told me the truth. This Empire, these people, me… it’s all corrupt. It’s debased and corrupt, and we must burn it all down. All of it. All of it must go. There’s nothing worth saving.”

“You were.”

The Emperor froze, and Lisinthir willed him to look up. When he did, Lisinthir said, low, “You were worth saving. If you, why not them all?”

Another shocky breath, and then the Emperor said, “I don’t know why you did it. I was like them. I was evil.”

Lisinthir stroked back some of the sweat-matted hair from the Emperor’s temple. “I did it to see if it could be done.” He looked into the Emperor’s eyes. “Tell me. Did it work?”

“I… I don’t know,” the Emperor whispered. “I don’t know if there is any redemption possible.”

“You’re wrong,” Lisinthir said simply. He cupped the male’s face. “I wish we were wearing our true shapes. I can’t trade for mine right now. But you…”

“I can’t.” Anguish twisting the words to near intelligibility.

“…Can’t?” Lisinthir asked carefully.

“My head… I did something… I haven’t been able to Change back…” Panic now, quickening the Emperor’s breath. “I may never Change back. No one knows what’s wrong.”

“Sssh.” Lisinthir rested his fingertips on the Emperor’s lips. “Ssh. We will find out what is afflicting you and we will fix it. Believe it.”

The Emperor let his head drop back down against Lisinthir’s chest, and in that one exhausted movement Lisinthir read days of hyper-alertness, of terror, of tension and poor sleep. “Bed,” he said, soft. “Let me hold you. I’ll guard your back and you’ll rest. In the morning, I will arrange for your sale to me.”

“They will never let me go,” was the strangled whisper.

“You’ll see.” Lisinthir tried to help him up, thought better of it and lifted him. The Emperor didn’t fight him, weighed almost nothing, was too listless for Lisinthir’s peace of mind. The male didn’t resist being placed on the bed or Lisinthir sliding into it behind him.

How often had he dreamed of this reunion? How many times had he fallen asleep, hoping to hold this body flush to his own, feel this heart beating under his palm?

But not like this.

The Emperor fell asleep immediately, and Lisinthir accepted that as a final judgment on whether the Emperor believed him. Surely he wouldn’t have felt safe enough to sleep otherwise. But Lisinthir no longer knew if the Exalted Emperor thought that way, or if he’d been broken down to the point of simply collapsing when he ran to the end of his strength. Lisinthir longed to slip into his mind and read it. Didn’t, because that would have been a further violation of someone who had suffered too much already.

So he held the Emperor. For hours, listening to the male’s breathing, sensing the uncomfortable darkness that flitted through that dreaming mind without examining it. Trying to make sense of the pastiche of despair and hopelessness and pain that clung close to skin. Eventually, he pressed his eyes to the back of the Emperor’s shoulder, and his eyes began to seep until they ran freely, soaking the pillow under them. He wept for the Emperor, and for his own powerlessness, and for the guilt he felt as suddenly as a blow… that he had not come in time to avert this.

And when he had given all that up to tears, he wiped his eyes and eased out of the bed. A wash in the bathing chamber freshened his face and calmed him. He remembered vividly his own nadir, coming apart in the Slave Queen’s arms in the court of his enemies. And from that low ebb, he had drawn himself back up again. With help. Her help.

He left the bedchamber and found both his confederates at their watches, the Knife now at the balcony and Laniis at the door to the hall. They looked up, pointed ears pricking in unison.

“Is it him?” Laniis asked.

“It is.”

“Is he acting?” The Knife’s voice was tentative.

“No.” Lisinthir managed a smile as he looked again at Laniis. “I suppose if ever you hoped for vengeance, arii….”

“I wouldn’t wish what the Chatcaava do on my worst enemy,” Laniis exclaimed, and paused, eyes losing their focus. When they snapped back, her shoulders had squared. “And I mean that.”

“And you are glad to have discovered this truth about yourself,” Lisinthir said. “You should be.” He sat on the arm of one of the divans, leaning over his leg with an arm propped on it. “He needs a halo-arch. There is something preventing him from Changing; he believes it to be the injury he sustained.”

Laniis tilted her head. “Andrea’s an EMA. She mentioned something about that, but without tools she didn’t think she could learn more.”

“Andrea,” he said, startled. “The other human. Is a medical technician?” At Laniis’s nod, Lisinthir said, “Then you may have given me the tool I need to secure our final advantage. In the morning I’ll ask for her.”

“How are we going to do it?” the Knife said, low. When they looked at him, he said, “How are we going to keep going for however long it takes for the ship to come back? How can we keep doing this?”

“One moment at a time,” Laniis said.

“One breath at a time,” Lisinthir murmured. Standing, he said, “I return to bed. Fetch me in the morning when the guard comes back.”

Laniis followed him to the door of the bedchamber and watched him start stripping for sleep. As he did, he said, “The wings are convincing, I hope.”

“Very. I like your real body better, though.”

“Surprisingly, I do as well.” He sat on the edge of the bed and met her eyes, waiting.

“I didn’t expect it. That I wouldn’t want him to suffer.”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t imagine so. When we are struck, arii, we strike back.”

“Some of us do, anyway. Some of us… we just take it.” Laniis’s eyes drifted to the Emperor’s back, at the tight curl that raised the chain of the spine against a back gone fleshless from lack of appetite. “For a long time, I wanted them to know what it felt like to be one of their own slaves. I didn’t think of that as vengeance, but as justice.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

She looked at him then, ears flicking back. “I think… how you want a thing changes it. When I wanted to do it to hurt them, that was vengeance. And I wanted that… up until tonight.”

“And what happened?” he asked, quiet.

“I realized that it didn’t matter whether I wanted them to suffer or not,” Laniis said. “What did matter is that… maybe they had to. Because there was no other way for them to understand.”

“Then you know now why I stayed in the Empire, and why I felt constrained to teach them compassion.”

She nodded. “I do know. But I’m not sure you know now that this… this is just another step in the process you started.” She met his eyes. “It’s going to change him. Let it.”

“And if that change destroys him?” Lisinthir asked, even quieter.

She glanced at the Emperor again, then at him, evaluating, thoughtful. Her ears swayed forward. “It won’t.” Stepping back, she said, “Good night, Ambassador.”

“Arii,” he said. “Good night.”

In the morning, he sent the guard to the Worldlord to ask permission to examine the human female. Half an hour later, the guard returned with her on a leash and left her. The guards had become uninterested in him, Lisinthir judged—suggestive either of the Worldlord’s trust, or a pragmatism that acknowledged a crippled flier was hardly capable of theft the usual way. They were complacent, the Chatcaava; it did not occur to them that his disability did not prevent him from climbing. So much of the Empire was thus, gone to rust in thought. Unable to Change.

“The guard’s gone,” Laniis reported from the door in Universal.

Lisinthir nodded, looked down at the kneeling woman. “Alet. You may stand if you wish.”

Not a stupid woman; from her narrowed eyes she was not skeptical, but… curious, perhaps. Interested, but guarding that interest. She didn’t move, either, or speak, so he continued. “Laniis tells me you are an EMA?”

Her brows lifted. “You know what that is. And you call her by a Seersan name?”

“As it is her name, I would be remiss to do otherwise,” Lisinthir said. “She would not answer to ‘Delicate’ or ‘Adorable’, anyroad.”

“Adorable?” Laniis said from the door, mouth quirking. “Really?”

“Ask Na’er,” Lisinthir said. “See if he agrees with me.”

She laughed, and Andrea started at the sound. The human was suspicious now, not wary. “You treat her like a person. But you keep her like a slave?”

“He doesn’t,” Laniis said. “Since the Knife’s already gone and blown that part of the operation to pieces.”

“We shall not say too much, still,” Lisinthir said. “We know the Chatcaava are fond of torture, and one says things under torture that one ordinarily wishes to die before revealing.” He sat on the divan. “I need your help, alet.”

“And how are you going to extort it out of me?” Andrea asked, mystified.

“I’m not,” Lisinthir said. “You are free to refuse. But I don’t think you will.”

“Because?”

“Because… you are a healer.” He smiled a little. “And there is a patient I would like you to see, one I don’t think you’ll mind treating.”

“Not the Survivor…” Her eyes grew round. “Is it Simone? Do you know where she is?”

“So that is her name? The Karaka’An?”

“Yes.” Andrea’s hands fisted on her thighs. “The Worldlord took her away one day and didn’t bring her back. We assumed that he made a private pet out of her.”

“He did,” Lisinthir said. “But she is dying, I believe from one of the Pelted’s genetic disorders from what she was capable of imparting to me. Could you ameliorate her symptoms, perhaps, if you saw her?”

“I could try!” Visibly reining herself in, she said, “Why do you care?”

“I could explain but it would be difficult to believe,” Lisinthir said. “Let it suffice that I do, because it hurts nothing to believe so. Your estate can hardly be worsened, can it?”

“There is that,” Andrea murmured. More clearly, “Are you really here to rescue the Survivor?”

“Maybe the less said about this the better,” the Knife said.

Laniis rolled her eyes. “Now you say so.”

“I did not realize how effective torture was.” The Knife rubbed his arms against the fur, fluffing it. “If it could bring the… Survivor… so low… what could it do to the rest of us?”

“Would you like to trust me better?” Lisinthir said to Andrea, ignoring them. “If so, go into the bedchamber. You’ll find him there. You may see how he has suffered after a night with me. And no… this is not a trap to see if you will disobey me by rising and leaving my presence.”

“God,” Andrea said, taken aback. “I don’t know what to make of you. You’re either the most terrifying Chatcaavan I’ve ever met or… the most terrifying Chatcaavan I’ve never met.”

“You must have decided about him already,” Laniis said. “Because you would never have said something like that out loud otherwise.”

“I guess I have.” Andrea put one foot flat on the ground, watching him warily. When he didn’t object, she pushed herself upright. After that, defiance appeared easier. She left them to go to the bedchamber, and Lisinthir disposed himself to wait.

When the human returned, she wore an expression of uneasy wonder. “What did you do?” she asked from the door to the bedchamber. “Verbally abuse him?”

“No,” Lisinthir said. And then, remembering the tears they’d both shed. “No. But he is… desolate. Not all I could say kept him from weeping.”

“No.” Andrea sighed and dropped onto the couch beside him. “I think it was when he found out he couldn’t switch back. That’s when the deterioration accelerated. Before that he was symptomatic, but he wasn’t… emptied out of hope. By now it’s hard to tell whether it’s the concussion that’s causing the problem, or his belief that it is. We tell ourselves powerful stories about our own health and that makes a big impression on our bodies.”

“Then I should not be concerned unless time under a halo-arch leaves him incapable of the Change,” Lisinthir said.

“Right,” Andrea said. “Though the thing he’s most needed he hasn’t been able to get. Concussion patients should rest. Real rest, physical and mental: they shouldn’t even be doing anything mentally strenuous. He hasn’t had that opportunity since he arrived, and I can’t tell if it’s made things worse or not. It certainly hasn’t helped.”

“Mmm. Rest.” Lisinthir glanced at the door. “Perhaps we might do something about that. In the mean, we have something important to do. Alet, if you will pretend to your current station?”

“To help Simone?” Andrea slid off the couch onto her knees. “Anything I can do for her, I will. How are you planning to lure the Worldlord away?”

“That is the crux of the thing,” Lisinthir said. “I’m not.”

Best not to warn the male of his plans: what he didn’t anticipate, he couldn’t guard against, and above all Lisinthir wanted the Worldlord off-balance, open to the wound of new ideas. He secured an audience, then, a casual visit prior to the first of the scheduled entertainments for the day, and made his way up to the Worldlord’s tower… with Andrea. He didn’t explain himself to the guards, nor did they ask. And when he arrived and showed himself in, the Worldlord’s pleasure in greeting him was entirely unfeigned… as was his confusion at the sight of the slave, though he recovered quickly.

“Sword,” the Worldlord said. “You come early. I was just watching the weather.”

Lisinthir looked over the other male’s shoulder at the clouds thickening the horizon. “Looks like it’ll be beautiful soon. A fine storm.”

“The storms here are magnificent, but not at all safe.” The Worldlord glanced at Andrea. “I am guessing you evaluated the slave? How did you find her?”

“Quite acceptable,” Lisinthir said. “That is not, however, why I brought her.”

“Oh?”

“Andrea,” Lisinthir said, “is an Emergency Medical Assist. Among the aliens, this makes her a highly trained specialist, one responsible for responding to calls for help from those afflicted with urgent medical issues. She has offered to look at Simone, whom you call Gentle.”

The Worldlord’s mouth gaped open at the start of this announcement, but by its end he had shut it and was staring at Lisinthir, trembling. He was not the only one shaking: the leash Andrea had insisted he use for both their protections quivered in his hand. He was the only calm one in the room... and how not, anticipating the hunt’s success? The Worldlord had revealed his vulnerability, had positioned himself for this final thrust. It was only a matter of seeing how he capitulated—that was what Lisinthir was waiting to witness. The delicious and individual nature of willing submission. What would the Worldlord’s look like? How long would it take?

“This way,” the Worldlord said, voice a rasp.

Andrea left them the moment they stepped into the bedchamber and Lisinthir released the leash to let her stride to Simone’s side, bend over her, murmur something.

The Worldlord, in contrast, was still alongside Lisinthir. Trembling yet, but silent, and so attentive. Thunder growled in the middle distance, and the breeze through the bedchamber’s abbreviated balcony gained a hint of moisture. The storm edged closer, seasoned the air with the freshness of lightning playing.

Andrea spent several minutes at the Karaka’An’s side during which her patient did not wake. When at last she drew back, the rigidity of her spine warned Lisinthir of the shape of the conversation to come.

“Andrea?” he asked.

The woman tucked a blanket tenderly around Simone’s shoulders, then stood and walked to Lisinthir and the Worldlord, where she faced them without kneeling. Angry, yes, but not belligerent. She had that quality common to so many of the medical personnel Lisinthir had met: the compassion that became frustration at an enemy that would inevitably prevail despite all their efforts. Yet still they strove. And Jahir had tried to tell him that he was no fighter…!

“It’s Beritt’s Disease,” Andrea said in Universal. “The fur falling out, the lesions on the skin, the corneal scarring… it’s an easy call, alet.”

“Is it fatal?” Lisinthir asked, sensing the Worldlord straining to understand.

“No one gets out of this life alive,” Andrea said. “But… no. It’s one of the few Exodus diseases that responds to management. She would ordinarily have had a monthly regimen, self-administered, with the dosage adjusted annually by her specialist. Beritt’s is subject to flare-ups, but those can be treated with high doses of anti-inflammatories. It’s an auto-immune disorder, but a person can live a normal life with it if they follow the protocols.” She turned her gaze to the Worldlord then, and some of her anger licked her voice. “She probably ran out of her medication a few months before arriving here; she was already weak, I thought. The decline would have been quick after that.”

“Can she be saved?” Lisinthir asked, soft.

Andrea grimaced. “I don’t know. Here? No. They don’t know the first thing about fixing something like this, and honestly I couldn’t tell them how to start. I’m not a specialist. I do triage.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, but if she got back into the hands of those specialists… they might have a chance.”

“What is she saying?” the Worldlord interrupted in Chatcaavan, urgent. “I understand some of it, but these medical terms… they are medical terms, aren’t they?”

“She’s dying,” Andrea said to him, in poor Chatcaavan. “A completely unnecessary death.”

The Worldlord took a step back, wobbling. Then he turned on Lisinthir, his voice gone hoarse. “Did you… did you coach her in these things? Did you tell her to say things that would prompt my guilt?”

“I told you what I believed to be the truth,” Lisinthir said. “And discovered that in your own slave annex you had the expertise to confirm my suppositions.” When the Worldlord stared at him, mouth working, Lisinthir finished, “In your own slave annex. If you had allowed Andrea to minister to her immediately, you might have delayed her death.”

“No,” the Worldlord whispered. And then, firmly, “She is a pet.”

“She is a person.”

“She is a pet!”

“She is a person,” Lisinthir said again. “Or your fondness for her is unnatural. Which sin would you prefer to embrace, Worldlord? Would you be a pervert, for nursing feelings for an animal? Or a heretic, for admitting that aliens are people?”

“Dying Air!” the Worldlord exclaimed. “Neither!”

“The choice of a coward.”

The Worldlord gaped at him.

“A coward,” Lisinthir said. “And I know you are not one, Worldlord. From our speech I have guessed you to be a male of unusual moral fiber, perspicacity, and insight. That male would not cavil from ownership of his own feelings, no matter how uncomfortable the paths they might lead him onto.” He looked toward Simone. “You know better.”

“I—”

“You know better,” Lisinthir repeated. “Or why would you have accused me of attempting to inspire guilt? There can be no guilt if you did not feel shame.”

The Worldlord’s pupils had contracted so tightly they left his eyes the brightest thing in a room now dark with the stormcloud’s cover. The wheeze of the wind around the tower sounded like Simone’s breathing, labored and high and crying. Lisinthir held the Chatcaavan’s gaze and said, low, “Andrea. Wait in the antechamber, please.”

He heard her depart and waited, but it was the wait of a hunter, drawing the prey. Come, he whispered to the Worldlord. Come out.

“This is madness,” is what the other male said.

“Is it?”

Shaking himself, the Worldlord whirled and strode to the balcony, shutting it against the increasing gusts. “My... feelings... for Gentle... I have never discussed them with anyone. Except you, Sword, and the first opportunity you have, you use them against me.”

Lisinthir snorted. “There would have been better ways to expose your weaknesses. Doing it here, in private, with no witnesses? How would that serve anyone?”

“It would serve you handily, if what you sought was blackmail.”

Fascinated, Lisinthir said, “And what exactly am I purportedly extorting out of you with this scene?”

“The slaves. You want the slaves.”

“I hardly think that a surprise to you,” Lisinthir said. “I’d already told you I was interested in purchasing the two humans.”

“Purchasing... them,” the Worldlord said, his eyes skating to the door and then back to him. “Because you are their owner? I highly doubt that. Are those aliens with you your slaves... or your...”

“Friends?” Lisinthir suggested, amused.

The Worldlord shuddered. “No. That is too much, even for a male isolated from all our conventions. But companions, perhaps.”

“Mmm. And will you blackmail me now with this knowledge, Worldlord?”

“Would it work?” the Worldlord asked. “What do you have to lose?”

Lisinthir spread his hands. “You could prevent me from finding a port anywhere, I suspect. I am not uninformed. You have power. If you decided you wanted to be quit of me, you could make my life impossible.”

“Yes, I could.” The Worldlord was watching him. “But this prospect doesn’t frighten you.”

“No.”

“Then what good is this lever you have given me against you?”

“Better to ask... what good is the lever you have given me against you?” Lisinthir asked. “Have you answered the question of what I want from you to your satisfaction? What do I need from you, Worldlord, that you would not be willing to give me with some negotiation? I have offered to buy the two humans, one of whom you probably find useless anyway. That leaves you with three slaves. One of them is dying. The other two... why the expense of maintaining a slave annex for two slaves?”

“You’re right,” the Worldlord growled. “I could buy more.”

“You could. But will you?” Lisinthir looked pointedly at Simone, then back at him. “Do you wish to risk losing your heart a second time? At least when she dies, you can pretend you never harbored desires a normal Chatcaavan would not.”

“Agh!” The Worldlord threw up his hands. “You are... you are...”

“Infuriating?” Lisinthir offered.

The male glared at him, then choked on a laugh that grew and grew until they were both laughing, and they would have continued had the storm not rattled the shutters and sent a rumble of thunder through the floor. The Worldlord moved to one of the soft chairs near Simone’s box and dropped into it. “Do you truly find it... useful? To have aliens as... companions.”

“Andrea could have helped Gentle,” Lisinthir said, quiet.

The Worldlord looked away. Then: “Simone. That is her name among the aliens, then.”

“They value names over titles,” Lisinthir said. “It is one of the ways they’re strange.”

“And you know so much about them,” the Worldlord marveled, his voice gone soft. “Would you tell me what you know?”

“I could begin. But I would not be done anytime soon, and I do not know everything yet.”

“You could stay?”

Lisinthir cocked his head. “Is that what you wish? I am, after all, your blackmailer.”

The Worldlord chuckled. “No. I don’t doubt that you are holding this information against your future need, Sword. We are what we are, no matter how remote we hold ourselves from the heart of the Empire and its culture. But if a knife you are planning on planting in me... I believe you would do me the courtesy of planting it in my chest, not my back.”

“Then you have learned something very important about me,” Lisinthir said. “And yes. I will stay. For a while. I too have my errands.” He lifted his brows. “Will you sell me the humans?”

“And if I said yes?”

“Then I would keep the male in my rooms where he can heal from his head injury. The treatment he’s received from your guests thus far has delayed the restoration of his health. Andrea tells me he needs neither physical nor mental stimulation.”

“A physician,” the Worldlord murmured. “In my own slave annex.”

“Just so.”

The Worldlord pierced him with a gaze so intense that Lisinthir froze, wondering if he’d miscalculated. But no, there was no aggression there. Just a steadiness of purpose he found intriguing.

“You, who know these aliens well. You believe we will lose the war.”

“Worldlord,” Lisinthir said, “Unless we change—I know we will.”

The other male inhaled, and on the outbreath, lightning shattered the sky with a crash so intense it felt like a physical blow.

“I don’t think we’ll be having our afternoon meal on the terrace outside the harem,” Lisinthir observed.

The Worldlord laughed. “No. And knowing this... shall we tarry?”

“And talk?” Lisinthir said.

“And... talk.”

Lisinthir smiled. “Worldlord... it would be my pleasure.”