CHAPTER TEN

“You look magnificent!” the Knife exclaimed to Lisinthir, clasping his hands together. And then, grumpy, “Unlike me. I look ridiculous.”

“You look pretty,” Laniis said. “That was the plan.”

The Knife’s enthusiasm for the Touch had led him to request patterns from every member of the FIA hold. As a result, he could not only become a gray-brindled Hinichi male, but a light gray Aera, a dusky-skinned human with astonishing hair, a silvery Karaka’an… and a pearl gray Seersa with smoke points. It was the latter shape that had prompted Lisinthir to suggest that he choose a Seersa for his slave persona, because it would allow Lisinthir to present him with Laniis as a mostly-matched pair. The Knife had objected strenuously, even pointing out that the Seersa shape had claws that could actually hurt someone, and what Chatcaavan would allow such a thing? But Laniis had commented that the Emperor had not de-clawed her and had gone on to give them a gruesome lecture on the dangers of that particular surgery. Besides, Laniis had said, with her white pelt with black points, and Lisinthir presenting as a silvery dragon with lighter mane, they would make a striking showing.

“The idea is not to be noticeable,” Meryl had said. “Or at least, I thought that was the plan.”

“Ah, but the Sword is a flamboyant sort,” Lisinthir had replied. “As these freelance raiders are purported to be. It should not surprise any of the Chatcaava to meet a raider ostentatious enough to choose matching slaves specifically to offset his looks.”

Since Uuvek had agreed, the Knife had reluctantly acquiesced to the Seersa shape, which was not his favorite. “No offense is intended,” he’d said to Laniis. “You have exceptional features. But I like Na’er’s ears. They are fun.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Laniis said, mouth quirking.

Na’er coughed into a hand.

To Lisinthir, the Knife said, “I have missed something.”

“Nothing the two of us need to know,” Lisinthir said. “But perhaps we should allow Laniis and Na’er a moment to themselves before we set off on our mission.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Lisinthir said, guiding the Knife out of the conference room. “A moment of about an hour in length.”

“An hour is not a moment!”

“But it sounds about right, I think.”

Na’er was laughing out loud now, and Laniis, though blushing, hadn’t objected. Pleased to have read that situation correctly, Lisinthir had said, “Let us see to my mask and your decorations while they are otherwise employed.”

It was this decoration that Laniis was commenting on, having exited her “discussion” with Na’er glowing but very properly dressed and groomed. Lisinthir had contrived with the Silhouette’s genie and come up with baubles for his “pet”, in the form of a collar and armbands and a belly chain, plus toe rings, all in bright argent metal and pearls. For some reason not even the Knife could articulate, it was the waist chain that had offended him the most. He’d accepted the collar as a necessity, but, “This? Surely this will catch on everything. And it makes me look….”

“Female?” Laniis offered.

The Knife scowled at her and plucked at the chain, making the pearls wobble.

“At least he didn’t pierce your ears,” Laniis said.

“I assume that anything done to the shapechanged shape will persist into the natural shape,” Lisinthir said. “Or I would have done.”

“They don’t have visible ears, though?”

“Exactly,” Lisinthir said. “So God alone knows what that would have translated to.”

Laniis wrinkled her nose. “Good point.” She peered at the Knife’s groin. “You’re going to send him out naked? Male slaves aren’t normal.”

“I’m planning on advertising you as a breeding pair.”

“A what?” Laniis said, ears drooping.

“It is to keep the others from wanting to buy us,” the Knife explained. “If we say that the Ambassador wants us both in order to breed new slaves, then it will be understood that neither of us is for sale. And he can take orders for the children, which will allow him to conduct business without actually selling slaves.”

“That’s… appalling,” Laniis said. “But brilliant?”

“We have done our best to contrive,” Lisinthir said. “If you are ready for your own costume, arii…”

“Yes,” Laniis said firmly. “I am.” She paused, then grinned up at him. “And thank you. For my ‘moment.’”

“Ah well,” Lisinthir said, demure. “Far be it from me to deprive you of Na’er’s ears.”

“They are fun,” the Knife opined.

“Yes,” Laniis said, serenely. “They are.”

The Silhouette’s weathered and disreputable small craft was capable of atmospheric flight and could be reconfigured for any number of missions. For this one, they made it look like the sort of battered vessel a raider might use for conveying himself to and from his prize vessels, and this served to deliver them to the capital. According to their cover story, their ship had one more crewmember who was sailing it elsewhere to rendezvous with a buyer they’d had arrangements with prior to their journey to the border; this explained why Lisinthir—why the Sword—didn’t have that vessel in orbit to file flight plans or arrange for orbital assignment.

Strangely, that was the difficult part of their mission. Arranging to meet with the powers of the capital was far easier. Uuvek had published their advertisement to the world-skein, and by the time they’d landed they already had an invitation from a Naval recruitment office, the heads of the solar system and the Naval manufacturing platforms, and the Worldlord. Lisinthir demurred on the offer of enlistment, saying he was only on-world to sell slaves, and that left him only with three offers: Manufactory-East, Deputy-East, and the Worldlord.

“Which first?” he asked the Knife in the privacy of the room they’d rented for the evening.

“Manufactory-East and Deputy-Ease will be significant Naval contacts,” the Knife said. “The primary ones not associated with the base itself. The Worldlord will be able to tell us about local information.”

“It’s local information we want, isn’t it?” Laniis said. “We’re assuming our target’s on-world.”

“We’ll try the Worldlord first,” Lisinthir said.

They made their entrance in unexpected style because while the roquelaure could give him wings, he couldn’t fly with them. This oversight had been amended by the addition of a long burn up one of the wings—something he could attribute to a shipboard accident, rather than a lost duel—and with the explanation that as the Sword went everywhere with his wares, he could not fly there, naturally. He walked, with his attendant Pelted slaves, like honor guards. And unlike other slaves, his did not need leashes. He thought his presentation impressed the guards at the door, though they did their best to hide their expressions. It helped that Laniis walked soft-footed, aware of her own beauty… something he attributed to Na’er’s healthsome attentions. And that the Knife, unexpectedly, had taken to his role as slave with determination. If he was to be stuck with the task, he would execute it to the best of his ability, and his meekness was unexpectedly affecting when paired with his obvious fascination with the new body. The ears flicked everywhere and the tail… so much swishing.

Lisinthir loved him for that fascination. How well the Emperor had wrought when he’d chosen the Knife for his Queen.

As for himself… well. His cousins had not named him a dragon in an Eldritch skin for nothing. He didn’t need to evaluate the response of the guards who let him in to know his swagger was convincing. He was the Sword. The Sword had come with extremely valuable luxury items to offer to the only males on the planet with the wealth to buy them. Why should he not be arrogant?

Still, one did not see the Worldlord on a whim. They were inevitably escorted to a room and left to wait there. A lovely enough chamber, with one of the open balconies overlooking the gardens of the estate. Lisinthir walked to it and looked down, wondering at the wilding landscape, thought this would be as good a time to test his line of communication as any. Returning to the divan, he brushed a hand over the Knife’s head.

/Knife. Can you hear me?/

Kneeling alongside the divan, the Knife froze, ears flicking.

Laniis leaned over and nudged him.

/Keep your ears still if you can,/ Lisinthir said. /And think your response as clearly as possible./

A mutter then: this is unnatural, utterly unnatural, and how curious that it is possible, and can Chatcaava learn to do this? More clearly: /I hear you, Ambassador./

/Chatcaava can learn to do this, if they take this shape,/ Lisinthir said. Broadening the scope of his touch, he reached for Laniis, sensed her as a warmth and a competence and a confidence. Into Hell with him, if only he would lead… and here she was, trusting. He could not sense her thoughts without touching her, though her aura comforted, so he set his fingers on her hair. /Laniis?/

/Arii./ Distant and out of focus. He concentrated, pulling the separate threads together. /I’m here./

/I hear you!/ the Knife exclaimed, wide-eyed.

/Stop looking at me,/ Laniis said. /Stare at the wall and pretend there’s nothing in your head./

/But there is! It is terrifying. Also fascinating, but…/

/Why is the garden thus?/ Lisinthir interrupted.

The Knife glanced toward the balcony. /It’s not a garden. It’s a hunting preserve./

“Ah,” Lisinthir murmured. He disposed himself on the divan, casually, one foot up on it, the other stretched on the floor between Laniis and the Knife, who moved so that they could lean inconspicuously against his flesh.

/I apologize in advance for any liberties I may take while convincing our host of our role./

/Just as long as they aren’t very liberal liberties,/ the Knife muttered.

/I will do what I must. But if I must, I will visit the worst of it on you, Knife./

The Knife glared up at him and began to speak, but Laniis pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Hush.”

/Why me!?/

Lisinthir grinned. /Because I would rather not answer to Na’er for anything I do to Laniis./

/This is unfair!/ the Knife complained.

/Sometimes, life is,/ Laniis said smugly.

A silver male stepped into the room, interrupting their conference, and Lisinthir was grinning when he looked up at him.

“The Sword, I presume,” said this male. “I am the Steward. The Worldlord will be with us momentarily. Would you like refreshment while you wait?”

“For myself and my pets, yes. That would be pleasing.”

“Water for them? Or food as well?”

“Water is fine. They can drink from bowls.”

/From bowls!/ the Knife said. /Is that possible with this mouth?/

Laniis sighed under her breath. Hiding his amusement, Lisinthir said, “And I will take something stronger. If you have it.”

“Our wine cellars are quite esteemed, you’ll find,” the Steward said, pleased. He backed out of the room to make his requests, then entered and sat across from Lisinthir. “So these are your wares?”

“These in particular are a pair I captured to breed myself more.” Lisinthir petted the Knife’s head, feeling the male’s prickle of ambivalence: irritation to be stroked, bemusement that it felt good. “They are a particularly good set. I am hoping their personalities will breed true.”

“Personalities,” the Steward repeated.

“They do have them,” Lisinthir said, sitting back again. He ignored the servant that arrived with the wine and the bowls. “It is no good pretending they aren’t people, Steward to the Worldlord. If they weren’t sentient, they would hardly be worthy prey, would they?”

“Some would say they aren’t worthy prey even as they are.”

Lisinthir snorted. “Have you ever captured a wild alien?”

“Ah… no.”

“Until you have faced one you’ve backed into a corner,” Lisinthir said, “I would not be so dismissive.”

“An interesting perspective,” said a new male at the door.

Both Lisinthir and the Steward stood. This male was indubitably the Worldlord from his carriage and the Steward’s reaction to him. But his demeanor… Lisinthir had been expecting someone more obviously aggressive.

/I was as well,/ the Knife confessed.

/Stop staring,/ Laniis murmured. /Look at him from under your eyelashes./

“Worldlord,” Lisinthir said aloud. “I thank you for your hospitality, and the invitation.”

“Sword,” said the new male. “It is rare for us to see freelancers here. I could not resist my curiosity. Have you come to enlist then?”

The Worldlord was having a seat, accepting the glass the Steward was pouring for him. Lisinthir sat as well, reclining. He had a sip of his own glass, found the wine complex and astringent and delicate. His brows lifted.

“I told you,” the Steward said, proud.

“You did,” Lisinthir said. “And I salute you. Your cellars are indeed all that you claim.” He sipped again before setting the glass down. “I don’t know that I am interested in joining the Navy at this time. Though the offer is tempting, on the surface.”

“On the surface,” the Worldlord repeated, amused.

“To see the Alliance from the bridge of a carrier executing its conquest?” Lisinthir looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, that would be… interesting. But I have been executing my own conquests for years now, and so I wonder how this would be any better. Indeed, I can only imagine it being worse, as what the Navy conquers, the Navy keeps. And I would draw the pay of a soldier? I am used to a higher rate of compensation.” He grinned.

“Also a higher rate of sacrifice,” the Steward observed, glancing at Lisinthir’s false wing.

“Yes,” Lisinthir said, letting his voice harden. “But the past is the past. I don’t dwell on it.”

“Wise, so long as you learn its lessons,” the Worldlord murmured.

“Burns teach such lessons very well.”

“Yes,” the Worldlord glanced at the scar Dellen had so meticulously designed onto the vane. “That they do. So you are here to sell slaves?”

“The children from the first litter of this particular pairing,” Lisinthir agreed amiably. “I also have some oddities stolen from the cargo holds of merchant vessels. Tea and spices, mostly, compounds we can safely ingest and enjoy.”

The Steward straightened. “I haven’t heard of any raider selling such things.”

“Because they lack imagination,” Lisinthir said. “Which is something I do not.”

“You must know a great deal about them,” the Worldlord mused. “To have troubled yourself to learn about their cuisine and their luxuries.”

“As I was saying to your Steward,” Lisinthir said. “To pretend that they lack sentience is to rob ourselves of the pleasures of conquering them. And sentients make many things that are of value to other sentients.”

“That sounds… almost egalitarian,” the Steward said, eyeing him.

/Dangerous territory,/ the Knife muttered. /Be careful./

But the Worldlord was waving the Steward’s concerns aside. “Would you say you are expert in the types of aliens, then? Enough to tell them apart?”

Startled, Lisinthir said, “Dying Air, of course. What good would a raider be who couldn’t tell what he was selling?”

“Then perhaps you can help me settle a matter of debate among my household,” the Worldlord said. “We’ve an alien here we cannot identify. Deputy-East believes it to be one of the rare species currently sought by the Emperor. Manufactory-East insists it isn’t.”

“You think you have an Eldritch slave?” Lisinthir asked, his heart leaping. It couldn’t be an actual Eldritch. Could it? If it was... oh, what a clever place to hide!

“You know the name of them!” the Worldlord said.

“Of course,” Lisinthir said. “Everyone longs to own an Eldritch. They are indeed rare. Delicate and easily broken.”

“That certainly fits,” the Steward said, disgusted. “You push him and he comes apart.”

/That doesn’t sound promising,/ the Knife said, uncertain.

“Perhaps you can examine our alien and determine, once and for all, what it is.”

“I’d be delighted to be of help,” Lisinthir said. “And if it is an Eldritch… perhaps I’ll be the one buying instead of you.”

“Send for him,” the Worldlord said, and the Steward rose and left. “You have an interesting title, Sword. Something to do with alien weapons, presumably. The ones you’re wearing?”

“Yes,” Lisinthir said. “Would you care to look at them?” He drew the first and displayed it for the Worldlord. “It even has a creature on it that looks like us, if you will believe.”

“Does it.” The Worldlord came to look, bent close over the Imthereli device. “Wingless. But the resemblance is there. Remarkable.”

“They dream of dragons,” Lisinthir said. “And their dreams are nightmares.”

The Worldlord looked up at him sharply, and Lisinthir grinned, showing teeth.

“But you eat their food,” the Worldlord murmured.

“And drink their wine. And pet their fur. Or skin.” Lisinthir shrugged, feeling the roquelaure tug at his back, the only hint he had that it was moving his fake wings properly. “It is, Worldlord, a living.”

“One you enjoy.”

“What else?” Lisinthir lifted his brows. “Life is for the enjoying, isn’t it?”

“And duty?” the Worldlord asked.

“I don’t know. Is this war against the freaks duty, or pleasure? What would the Navy tell you? And would it depend on who you ask?”

/Stop being so smart,/ the Knife hissed. /You are supposed to be vain and foppish and easily encompassed!/

/That, I fear, is a lost cause. I must play to my strengths and hope what served me among the courtiers will save us here./

The Knife sighed aloud, and Lisinthir reached down to pat his head. That earned him one flopped ear, and the other turned out, and he took that sign of grumpy acquiescence for what it was.

“You are kind to them.”

“Am I?” Lisinthir said idly. “I was thinking mostly that they are soft, and I like the obedience of soft things.”

/That, though, that was convincing,/ the Knife said, disturbed.

“Worldlord,” the Steward said. “Here is the slave.”

Lisinthir turned, his entire body tensing. Two guards silhouetted there in the door, but not because the prisoner was fighting them… they were holding him erect, because he could barely keep his feet. As they advanced, his hopes fell—he did not recognize the shape. This was some stranger, no doubt. Disturbed, he said, “Is he injured?”

“Ah!” the Steward said. “You knew he was male. And from a distance!”

“Of course,” Lisinthir said, with what he hoped would be the casual irritation of an expert confronted by a tyro. “Human females develop breasts after adolescence. That is a male human.”

“A human!” the Steward said.

“Are you certain?” The Worldlord asked. “His eyes are luminous. They say the aliens have luminous eyes.”

“The hair is wrong,” Lisinthir said.

“Deputy-East suggested it was dyed,” the Worldlord said.

“Manufactory-East, though, was certain it wasn’t one of the rare ones,” the Steward said. “And has now spent more time with the slave than any of us.”

“Is the slave Manufactory-East’s, then?” Lisinthir asked, coming closer. So long as he was here, he might as well be about his business, which was eternally the rescue of the Chatcaava’s victims from their predation. This male... he was built slightly, but his frame was misleading. There was muscle on him, if not enough to make it possible for him to win against dragons. And scars, though they were hard to see under the paint and on the light skin. A fighter? Or had his reactions to pain been amusing enough to inspire torture?

“He is mine,” the Worldlord said. “Fell into my garden while escaping someone else’s estate, in fact. We presume Manufactory-East’s, but he would never admit to an escaped slave.”

“Is he injured?” Lisinthir asked again.

“Presumably. Manufactory-East has been using him during his visit. Nothing permanent, we said.”

He suppressed his rage. “May I?”

“Certainly. Be careful with his head. He arrived with a concussion, or so the Surgeon tells us. And,” the Worldlord’s voice went wry. “He bites, sometimes.”

“Mm.” Lisinthir slipped a finger under the human’s chin and gently tipped up the pointed face, all planes and angles. Too firm for prettiness, by human standards… but he could see how the Chatcaava would think him feminine. The bruises, though…

Fury wouldn’t save them. Discipline, only. Discipline, and compassion for the victimized—that eternally. “Open your eyes,” he said to the human, gently. In Universal, because that was in keeping with his character: he was the Sword, who knew the aliens intimately, the better to steal them.

“We named him Dainty,” the Steward said.

Lisinthir grimaced. Quieter, low, “Alet. Open your eyes.”

The slave did and cringed back from him, but not before Lisinthir saw the startling color. He knew that color, knew it intimately. And yet, that hunted panic... there was no fathomable way it could be masking the male he’d known. And where would the Emperor have learned a human shape, anyway?

Had he?

The human had turned his face so quickly Lisinthir couldn’t check the pupils. Nor could he dare probe beneath the surface to touch the alien’s mind, ask the insane question. Not here, among enemies, when a single gasp would invite scrutiny. And really... how likely was it that this cowed and beaten misfortunate was the male he was seeking? The Emperor had never shown any talent for playing a role, not the way the Knife was.

“How lovely,” he said, stepping back. “But… I fear he truly is only human, Worldlord. Manufactory-East is correct. The Eldritch are taller, more elongate. Their homeworld has a lower gravity than the human one. And the white of their skins has a different character, more nacreous, less pink. The hair should be white, though you are correct in that it can be dyed. You have a beautiful creature here, but nothing worthy of special attention.” He frowned and turned from the human. “The head injury is a serious matter, Worldlord. You should not be subjecting your investment to further trauma until it’s healed.”

“You know something about the caretaking of these creatures, then?” the Worldlord asked, and something in his voice…

Past the Worldlord, Laniis flicked her gaze up to his and even without touching her he knew she’d heard the odd note too.

“But I must,” Lisinthir said. “How else to keep them in good health and breed them safely?” His smile was thin. “Grant me my expertise in my field, Worldlord, as I would you in yours.”

The other Chatcaavan stared at him for several moments, long enough for Lisinthir to wonder if he had pushed the other male hard enough to require proof of his right to do so. Then, abruptly, “Where are you staying?”

“Worldlord?” Lisinthir said. “A flat at the port, naturally.”

“Stay here,” he said. “I am having an impromptu hunt party. You should attend. Your slaves can join mine in the slave annex. If that suits?”

Lisinthir didn’t need to hear the implicit trap in that one. To insist on Laniis and the Knife attending him in his suite would be safer, but insulting. Before he could reply, however, the Steward said, “Worldlord, the hunt… it requires flight.”

“Fear not, Steward,” Lisinthir said. “Even a scarred male can bring down game.” He grinned, showing all his teeth. “I have become very good with my hands.”

The Worldlord laughed, abrupt. “That settles that, then.”

“I am delighted to accept your invitation.” Lisinthir canted his head. “Can I hope for a tour, despite my inability to take it the way an uninjured male would?”

“Walking has its uses,” the Worldlord said. “We’ll go down to the annex first to leave the slaves in their place. Perhaps you can give me your impressions of their accommodations. Suggest improvements.” He swept a hand toward the guards. “Take that one back to Manufactory-East’s guest suite.”

That finally prompted some motion from the slave, who jerked backward, and the mindless terror in his eyes....

“This Manufactory-East is the male who cannot be convinced to stay his hand against an already injured piece of property?” Lisinthir interjected.

All the Chatcaava looked at him.

“Your slave needs time to recuperate. And a Surgeon’s care, if you have one,” Lisinthir said. “Unless you want him dead. He may not be an Eldritch, Worldlord, but humans are rarer than the furred races, and their skin is sensitive. They make excellent companions if you treat them carefully.”

“Carefully!” the Steward said. “We treat all our slaves carefully.”

Lisinthir eyed the human, then looked deliberately at the Steward and lifted both brows.

“No, he makes a good point,” the Worldlord said. “If these creatures are delicate, I don’t want him dying.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Take him to the Surgeon. See if he requires more repair. And that leaves us—” Turning to Lisinthir. “To our tour. With me, Sword.”

/You’re going to leave us behind,/ the Knife said when Lisinthir bent to stroke his head. /What if he asks something you don’t know?/

/Then, I suppose, I improvise. Quickly./

/This is a bad idea!/ the Knife said. /You were not supposed to be parted from us! How can we execute our mission?/

/By seeing what there is to see in the slave quarters,/ Laniis said, subdued. /You’ll be surprised, Knife, what you can learn there./

/I don’t doubt it,/ the Knife replied, ears flattening. /What I’m certain of is that I won’t like it./

When Lisinthir saw the kennels, he almost couldn’t breathe through his wrath.

/Ambassador,/ Laniis whispered, her body pressing against his. /Stay focused./

“Not good?” the Worldlord guessed, curious but not concerned.

“I’m surprised any of your pets have survived this treatment,” Lisinthir said. “Have you lost any of them untimely?”

Behind him he heard the scrape of the Steward’s wings resettling.

“Two,” the Worldlord confessed. “Did their sleeping arrangements truly matter? It is no worse than what Chatcaava endure on a fighting ship.”

“They need space to turn in,” Lisinthir said. “Cage them, by all means, if you fear they will escape you. But we give more space to the creatures we hunt for food, and we are done with the latter far more quickly.”

“Game animals need to roam to maintain their muscle,” the Steward said. “We do not want our aliens to have muscle.”

“Then do away with them now,” Lisinthir said, allowing his anger to edge his voice. “Are you Chatcaava or are you freaks? To fear a fangless, wingless slave just because he might not lose his condition to indolence and anxiety? What good is a neurotic pet?”

“I had not thought of them as things to be fought,” the Worldlord said, frowning. To himself, Lisinthir thought.

“Manufactory-East does,” the Steward muttered.

“Manufactory-East thinks of them as something to torture,” Lisinthir said. “There is a difference.”

/Uh, stop now!/ the Knife exclaimed at his side. /Or I will bite you!/

That made him cough. It wasn’t a laugh—his anger was too bitter for that—but it was close cousin to one at least, and it made both Chatcaava glance at him. The Worldlord’s gaze lingered, took in both slaves leaning on him. His expression was impenetrable, but there was no disgust in it, and the way his eyes remained on Laniis... no. There was something going on there. Lisinthir noted it, said, “Pardon. I hate to see good merchandise destroyed so frivolously. Alliance slaves are expensive, difficult to procure, and each is unique. I do not find it virtuous to casually wreck one’s possessions. It indicates instability. Lack of discipline.”

“Maybe you do belong in the Navy,” the Worldlord said, considering him again.

“I doubt it, given how much I enjoy being my own master,” Lisinthir said. “But... I am not averse to evaluating the possibility. We shall see, shall we?”

“I suppose,” the Worldlord said with interest. “This way is the waiting room.”

“I am glad,” the Steward said behind them, “That neither Deputy-East nor Manufactory-East were here to hear you say that they had a master.”

Lisinthir snorted. “Don’t fool yourself, Steward. We all have a master if we accept the yoke of society. It’s just a question of choosing who we serve.”

“And you? Who do you serve?” the Steward asked, nettled.

“I serve myself. And commerce.” Lisinthir grinned. “So, the waiting room.”

Surprisingly, the remaining rooms dedicated to the Alliance slaves were... passable. He would not have wanted to be imprisoned in them, and they were notable in their lack of any sort of entertainment, but the slaves were permitted to go into the “safe” garden, a gated greenspace protected from the game that ran wild through the remaining walled area. But the whole of it was a cage, and not even a particularly well-gilded one, and touring the areas devoted to washing, doctoring, and decorating those slaves stripped bare the truth under the façade. Touring the area and pretending to find parts of it acceptable was galling in the extreme. The only reason he felt comfortable leaving Laniis and the Knife behind was because he knew their competence... and that they were leaving this place as soon as they’d discovered any information they could use to locate the Emperor. A few days of gossip-mongering and he could depart to chase whatever leads they’d gathered.

/We’ll be fine,/ Laniis said firmly as he stroked her head.

/I know it./ And with that, turned his back on them and followed the Worldlord to the ramp leading up to the ground floor. And there paused, for there were guards on their way down. The first slave they were leading was one of the less usual digitigrade Hinichi—most of the wolfine race tended toward the more humanoid bodies, not the four-toed, pawed variant—and male, to boot. Lisinthir was still wondering at a Chatcaavan who kept a male slave who wasn’t of some exotic race when the guards led the second slave down on her leash, and his gliding glance seized on her face. On her pointed face and the golden skin that sheathed it.

She was human. The Worldlord had a human slave.

He met Laniis’s gaze across the compound and neither of them needed words. He read her resolution and knew what she would discover, she would bring back to him. Even so, leaving the two of them to investigate the possibility that the Emperor had learned the human form here after fleeing into the capital was so hard his back ached from the rigidity with which he held himself. But to evince interest in the human female after dismissing the human male as unworthy of special attention... he couldn’t. He had his own façade to maintain. He followed the Worldlord to the harem, where he appreciated the females kept there despite their being nowhere near as pulchritudinous as the individuals of the imperial harem. He obligingly admired the lodge where game was slaughtered for meat after the hunt. He opined on the towers with their commanding view of both the capital’s spread and the wilderness. He even forgot he was faking his interest when the Worldlord showed him the observatory capping the top of the highest of the towers.

But all the while, he kept remembering the fear that had shaped the shoulders of the human male. The animal panic in his green eyes.

Surely not. Living Air and God and Lady. Surely, surely not.

Losing the Ambassador had deprived them of the silent communication; Laniis should have thought of that. As the two new Pelted entered the room, she leaned over and whispered into the Knife’s ear, ignoring their flick as he reacted to the hush of her breath. In Chatcaavan: “Would they monitor this place?”

The Knife looked up with his strange Seersan eyes, ears slicking back as he traced the room’s edges with his gaze, then dropped it to various points on the wall. “I don’t know,” he said to her, low. “The harems where I am from were under surveillance but it was because of their owner’s primacy. I don’t know that it would matter to any male otherwise.”

“We’ll have to make do.” Laniis turned her attention to the strangers who were by then staring at them. She switched to Universal. “Aletsen.”

“Did he buy you?” the Hinichi asked, nearly snarling. “Did he get more of us?”

“We are not the Worldlord’s,” Laniis said. “We are with the Sword, who is his guest.”

The human’s eyes had narrowed. Her suspicions were obvious. “You don’t look cowed enough to belong to a Chatcaavan,” she said. “And what kind of Chatcaavan is named after a human weapon? Chatcaava don’t use swords. Knives, yes. But swords?”

“It’s an affectation,” Laniis said. “He has two for trophies.”

“You are lying to them,” the Knife murmured in Chatcaavan.

“Are you?” the human said in Universal, latching onto the comment with predatory speed.

Laniis slowly looked at the Knife and put all her irritation in her eyes.

“What’s going on?” the human pressed.

“We are here looking for a missing Chatcaavan,” the Knife said firmly in Chatcaavan.

“Like, say, someone who might have fallen over the wall all bloody and then stolen Andrea’s pattern to hide here?” The Hinichi folded his arms. “That kind of missing Chatcaavan?”

“He didn’t steal it,” Andrea said. “He asked permission, and I gave it.”

Strange how surprise could still wash through her, even here. “He did?”

“Yes,” Andrea said. “He’s not like any Chatcaavan male I’ve ever met.”

“Is there more than one human slave who is male?” the Knife asked, frowning. He had not understood the exchange in Universal. “We saw only the one, and he is a broken thing.”

The two strangers exchanged glances.

“No,” Laniis said, one of her ears sagging. “You can’t tell me. That brutalized animal up there, the one who can barely stand straight? That’s the male you gave your pattern to?”

“Yes,” Andrea said. Glancing at the Knife, she continued in Chatcaavan. “He’s the Survivor. Though they call him Dainty. They couldn’t figure out that he was male when they first met him.”

Aghast, the Knife whispered, “This cannot be. A name? A female’s name?”

Thinking of the trauma that had curved every line of that slave’s body, hunched his shoulders, bowed his head, Laniis whispered, wide-eyed, “Speaker-Singer.”

The Knife turned toward her, wearing dismay so obvious it looked almost pantomimed, from the bristled shoulder fur to the bottlebrush tail. “What do we do?”

“You’re another one of them, aren’t you,” Andrea said. “A male wearing a false body. You’ve come to rescue him.”

“That was the intent,” Laniis said.

“But not us.” Emlyn’s bitterness could have spilled blood. “It’s never about rescuing us.”

“I wouldn’t make assumptions,” Laniis said.

The Hinichi rolled his eyes. “Right. You want to tell me you’re going to get us out?”

“I want to tell you we might not make it out.” Laniis managed a dry smile. “So no. No assumptions. About anything. Even…”

“That it’s him,” the Knife whispered. Lifting gray eyes, he said, “But what… what happened to him?”

“The Chatcaava did,” Andrea said.

Manufactory-East was a sadist.

It took Lisinthir all of a single glance to evaluate him. Over the supper table, where he was being introduced to the Worldlord’s two guests… that was long enough. Lisinthir recognized Deputy-East’s type as well. Not purposefully evil, only pettishly so, by accident rather than intention. Smart, perhaps, but not wise, and with all the conceit of someone accustomed to privilege.

But Manufactory-East… oh, he was all that was wrong with the Empire, one of the sociopaths it was so good at shaping. And he didn’t bother to conceal it either—the way his eyes flicked toward Lisinthir’s scarred wing and took pleasure in the sight—oh no. No one had dared check this male in far, far too long. It made Lisinthir wonder why the Worldlord was pandering to him.

“You breed slaves!” Manufactory-East said after the meal had begun. Tearing off a haunch of the roasted bird, he said, “Do you watch them copulate?”

Such an obvious attempt at insult. Lisinthir answered, casually. “Of course.”

All three stared at him, not having expected nonchalance in response to an accusation of perversion.

“You do?” Deputy-East asked, fascinated.

“At least he admits it.” Manufactory-East began dissecting his leg, separating the thigh from the calf at the knee joint.

“I must,” Lisinthir said. “In order to ensure the safety and health of both dam and sire. It’s no different from breeding any other animal.”

That won him a hostile stare from Manufactory East. Beside him, the Worldlord had relaxed. “That makes good sense.”

“I hadn’t really thought of what it would take, breeding,” Deputy-East said. “I leave my estate to my steward, and am rarely on-world. He arranges for the game we hunt on the grounds.”

“You oversee the solar system, is that correct?” Lisinthir asked.

“That’s right.”

“A rather complex arrangement given the Naval presence.” Lisinthir chewed through his own portion, remembering the taste, how it felt to eat a diet of mostly meat for months. The flavors spurred his heartrate, made him recall a different hunt, one that had netted him the regeneration of one of the most powerful people in the worlds. It also fed his stomach, which was unusually insistent on the subject of its emptiness. “I can only imagine such a position requires… diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy!” Manufactory-East barked a laugh. “Do you hear that, Deputy-East? Diplomacy. You should tell him how well the two of us have gotten along in the past before we so wisely decided to become huntbrothers.”

Deputy-East snorted. “The past. Besides, you are not the Navy. You are employed by the Navy. Logistics and Command-East are the Navy. In this system, anyway.”

“Is there a new Logistics- and Command-East then?” Lisinthir asked. “I’m not familiar with how the Navy works. Were their successors already waiting for their positions? Or are people still fighting over them?” He took another bite. “One wonders, when one is not a military male oneself.”

“Second and the Emperor are still serving their roles,” Deputy-East said. “At least, as far as I know.” He glanced at Manufactory-East, who shrugged with the twist of one greasy hand. “Their staffs must be handling the extra work. Or at least, Logistics-East’s must be. Second will be commanding the war against the aliens, so he will be here soon enough.”

That was an interesting bit of data. “I wish him well of it,” Lisinthir said. “And you, Manufactory-East? A miner, are you?”

“Hardly,” the male scoffed. “I am in charge of miners. A distinction you will probably not appreciate, given how little you have responsibility for.”

“Mine is a solitary life,” Lisinthir agreed amiably. “I find it quite satisfying. So you mine asteroids?”

“I oversee,” stress on the word, “the mining of asteroids. The processing of ore. The creation of materiel. All the factories.”

“So you build ships,” Lisinthir said, goading. This much he’d remembered from the Knife’s lecture on the way down to the world, and from Manufactory-East’s glower, the dart had struck true.

“No.” Gritted out from between clenched teeth, impressive in a species with so many carnassial ones. “I make parts. That the base uses to assemble ships.”

“Oh, I see,” Lisinthir said. “Parts.”

Deputy-East turned his snicker into a cough.

“So,” Manufactory-East said, turning to the Worldlord. “Have you invited your newest guest to the hunt?”

“I have, and he has accepted.”

“And how precisely does that work?” Manufactory-East asked. “Since you obviously are crippled.”

“It is a poor male who allows an injury to stop him,” Lisinthir said.

“But you can’t possibly hunt that way.”

“Oh… I make do.” Lisinthir smiled at him. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Yes,” the Worldlord said, with the air of someone trying to steer the conversation onto less fraught shoals. “Did you know, Manufactory-East, the Sword has agreed with you about the species of the slave? He also says it is not one of the rare types, but rather another human.”

“As I said.” Manufactory-East tossed a bone into his discard bowl and licked his talons. “You could have saved yourself the trouble of bringing in an external… consultant.” He eyed Lisinthir.

“He came to sell slaves,” the Worldlord said. “His ability to confirm your guess was an unexpected bonus.”

“It was not a guess.”

“Of course not,” Lisinthir soothed.

Before Manufactory-East could riposte, the Worldlord said, “The creature is also apparently not very valuable. I will have something newer sent to your suite tonight if you want entertainment.”

“What?” Manufactory-East straightened. “But I want the male. I’m not done with it.”

“I’m afraid the Surgeon has said if we do not allow it to recover from its injuries, it may expire.” The Worldlord turned the carcass, scraping some of the softer flesh off the lower ribs. “Tonight we will have to spend ourselves in the harem among the females.”

“Hardly a punishment there,” Deputy-East said. “You have very biddable creatures in your harem, Worldlord.” He lifted his shallow cup of wine. “Fine taste.”

“Thank you. I am rather fond of them myself.”

“Slaves are better prey,” Manufactory-East muttered and glared at the elbow Deputy-East jabbed him with.

“Kill your own slaves,” Deputy-East said. “We are guests here.”

“I don’t kill by accident.”

“There’s always a first time,” Deputy-East said. “So. Which female do you think you want tonight? The spotted one? Or the one with the blue eyes?”

Manufactory-East scowled. “I think I would prefer to fly after my meal.”

“As you will,” the Worldlord said. “And you, Sword?”

“Oh,” Lisinthir said, “I think I am too full to truly enjoy your harem’s fruits, Worldlord. Unless you mind a voyeur. Watching I have the energy for.”

“Pah,” Manufactory-East said. “Maybe it’s more than a wing you’re missing, eh?”

Deputy-East’s wings sagged, and even the Worldlord gaped at the male. But Lisinthir laughed, winning stares of disbelief from all three.

“Really,” Lisinthir said, grinning. “Is that the best you can do? If you want to bait me, Manufactory-East… try harder.” He rose and stretched. “So, do you mind witnesses to your pleasure, Deputy-East, Worldlord? I would not mind the show.”

“You are an odd male,” Deputy-East said, eyeing him as he stood. “But one can’t fault your pride.”

“Call it what it is, Deputy-East,” Lisinthir said. “It is the arrogance of the cold space between stars.” He smiled thinly at Manufactory-East. “Enjoy your flight.”

With a snarl, the latter flung himself from the table and stomped away. The Worldlord watched him go, and the expression on his face… concern? Surely not.

“Well,” the Worldlord said, with false heartiness. “Let us see the females.”

Perhaps in some former life Lisinthir would have found the time he spent in the Worldlord’s harem shocking. Certainly, the noble heir to a Galare fortune should have been scandalized by the sight of four people having sex in front of him. But he had lived through the Empire, and the lovers he’d chosen for himself he’d had simultaneously, and he no longer thought sex worthy of opprobrium simply by virtue of it being sex. Cruelty, coercion, rape, violence, abuse… yes. But sex, enthusiastically enacted on several odalisques who didn’t seem to mind their use? All that inspired in him was curiosity, because he hadn’t been aware that Chatcaavan females could be pleased by sex. The females of the Imperial harem had all seemed to dread their duty. The Worldlord, though, appeared to have a taste for gigglers. Even Deputy-East remarked on it, that it was hard to keep going when the laughter of the females kept infecting him. The sight of the male bowed over his spotted partner’s back, attempting to rein in his paroxysms, almost made Lisinthir like him. Almost.

These females were not among the more intelligent of the people he’d known; he could see it in their gazes, in the doe-like acceptance of their lives. But they were not mistreated, and they were not unhappy to be selected for energetic copulation, and their sisters in the harem draped themselves on benches and exhorted the participants to greater efforts with ribald advice.

In one corner, on a pillow, there was a sleeping Harat-Shar pard. Lisinthir’s eyes rested on her for a long time.

By the end of the evening, both Worldlord and Deputy-East were in fine spirits, and their air of camaraderie easily extended to encompass Lisinthir. At the harem’s gate, Deputy-East wobbled and said, “Too much wine. And too much giggling. Your females don’t take sex seriously, Worldlord.”

“Should it be taken seriously?”

“A good point,” Deputy-East said, with the far too careful diction of the inebriated. “A very good point.” He squinted at Lisinthir. “I am going to fly to my room. Does that offend you, Sword? I do not want to offend you. You are a curious male. I would like to know you better, and this would be hard if I offended you.”

Lisinthir laughed. “Rest at ease, Deputy-East. I do not offend easily… and if I am offended, you will not have to guess at it.”

“A very interesting guest,” Deputy-East said gravely to the Worldlord. “You should tell him to come more often.”

“Go,” the Worldlord said, slapping the male on the back of the shoulder. “Before you make less sense. I’ll walk the Sword up.”

“You are a very good host,” Deputy-East said. “Do you see that, Sword? He will sacrifice his own convenience just so you won’t be lonely going up the stairs to your chambers. That is a good host.”

“A very good host,” Lisinthir agreed. “Go, Deputy-East, before you forget how to flap your wings.”

“Never.” And proving it, Deputy-East fell off the ledge and soared toward his balcony.

“For a moment,” Lisinthir said, “I didn’t think he’d come back up.”

“Me neither,” the Worldlord said, and led him on… which is when Lisinthir knew that the evening was not yet over, for he was entering the Worldlord’s tower, not his.

He said nothing; he knew better. He followed in silence, into the calm of the Worldlord’s private domain. There in the antechamber the warm wind gamboled through the balcony door and the stars glittered, more visible because the window faced the wilderness and not the city. The male went to a sideboard and poured him a cup of something stronger and headier than wine. Lisinthir accepted, sipped. They both looked outside, but did not speak, and Lisinthir—the Hunter—waited.

“Since you know so much about the aliens.” The Worldlord set his glass down and walked away, and again, Lisinthir followed. Pursued, this time, the way he would have a revelation that could save nations, because this… this was an inflection point. There was a secret here, and he was about to learn it.

Through the door was a chamber Lisinthir had not yet seen where the Worldlord slept. It was twice the size of the guest bedrooms. Again, there was the ever-present balcony, but smaller, meant only for one person’s use, not to receive groups; it faced the bed. But the majority of the room was hidden from that view, secretive as a vault. There, on a raised dais pressed back against the far wall, was a large and shallow box. It overflowed with blankets in rich, dark colors: deep brown, midnight blue, fir green. An excess of pillows as well, soft ones that sagged, stiff ones for bolsters. It was an opulence of bedding, with a lamp beside it, dim and warm now in the gloaming.

In the box was a Pelted woman, seashell-curled, and like the wind over the ocean her breath whistled softly. Not sleeping, Lisinthir thought, with a creeping sorrow at the sight, but in that twilight state that was neither sleep nor unconsciousness that belonged only to the seriously ill. As he drew closer he found patches on her body where the fur had fallen out. She had been beautiful once, black and white and merry orange. She was now a portrait of endurance.

“I speak a little of her language,” the Worldlord said, and there was nothing in his voice to give him away save its tonelessness. “And she has learned a little of ours. But we never speak of what ails her. She refuses. The Surgeon doesn’t know. And wouldn’t. What do we know of alien biology?” The Worldlord reached over, hand arrested above the woman’s head, where it trembled. Then, slowly, he set it on her mane and stroked it, so lightly the touch barely disturbed the strands. “She will not tell me, and if I don’t know, how can I fix it? But maybe she will tell a stranger.”

The Chatcaavan stepped back. “I call her Gentle.” And then, brusque. “I will leave the two of you to talk.”

And then he was gone, leaving Lisinthir with the shock of it.

If it was a trap, it was a perfect one. But what Chatcaavan would think to trap another male this way? When it revealed too much that could be used against him? Even if it was all an elaborate falsehood, the rumor would cling to the Worldlord… that he had coddled an alien, that he had kept a pet and heaped her with treasures and cared that she might be ill.

And she was ill. Dying, he thought, and wished briefly and sincerely that Jahir had left more of his memories in him during their touches. Lisinthir had given his cousin so much, and all of it violent. What had he received beyond the fact that he was loved? That and music… and it was the music, the memory of songs sung in his mind to block pain and ward off death on the courier, that made him think that there would be no healing this Karaka’An.

Jahir would have known what was wrong with her. Lisinthir would have to ask.

He crouched alongside the box and said in hushed Universal, “Alet. Alet, will you wake for me?”

Nothing. But he was patient. He had hunted warier game than this. Crueler… perhaps not, given her fate, and what it would do to him to know he could not save her.

He did not want to touch her when the skin revealed by her furless patches was so raw. To insinuate himself into her mind… he could do it, but he was not adept at it the way his cousin was. And he had not asked permission, the way he had of Laniis and the Knife, when permission made so much difference between kindness and horror. His was the gift of physical force from a distance, and the other talents, they were harder. How had he wound up here where his new abilities would avail him so little?

“Alet,” he said again, soft. “Alet, will you wake for a man in a domino?”

Nothing, for a long time. Then her shoulder rose as she drew a deeper breath. He tasted it with her, the way the air smelled brightly of spring, but softly of evening. Slowly she turned her head to look over her shoulder, and he grew still. She would have had beautiful eyes once; he could just see a hint of their color, one orange, the other brown. But they were going milky, as if scored with blurred scars. Could she even see him? Perhaps that was why she was so slow to respond to him. Her brow furrowed: confusion, yes, but not alarm. She was exhausted, long past alarm. The next world was more real to her than this one.

“Don’t… know you,” she murmured. If her voice had been dulcet once, and he thought it might have been, it had long since lost its music, more whisper than melody.

“No,” he said. “Alet, if we brought you home… could the Alliance’s medicine heal you?”

The frown grew more pronounced. Perplexity, still.

“I know you are dying,” Lisinthir said softly, wishing desperately he could drop the roquelaure’s seeming. “Could that process be arrested, did you go home again?”

“I… can never go home… again,” she murmured.

“I could take you.” Ridiculous promise, but he made it anyway. “I will take you, if you say the words.”

A sweet, sad smile curved her mouth. “Strange… dragon.”

“You have no idea,” he answered.

“He… sent for you?” Best to nod in response to that. Her eyes cleared, just a little. “He is kind that way. But… too late. You wouldn’t know. Diseases… in our design…” She sighed out, closed her eyes. “Almost over, now.” Softer, “Miss… the sun at home….”

He chanced a touch then, just the softest glide of a finger over her cheek. “You will see it soon,” he whispered.

Her sigh was acquiescence as she slid back into the twilight sleep and the dream that was better than waking. For how long he crouched there, watching her ribs rise and fall, he didn’t know. Only that when he finally stood his knees hurt, and not more than his chest and his throat. To die like this, far from home, from family, amid enemies, as a pampered pet who had once been free….

He left the room.

In the antechamber, the Worldlord was drinking by the balcony, and at his arrival took a step toward him. Halted abruptly. He was Chatcaavan, and yet he let it be seen in his face, his heart falling.

“There is no fixing it,” Lisinthir said abruptly. “The Pelted—most of the furred aliens—were created long ago by humans and that creation was imperfect, leaving them subject to genetic flaws. She has one of them.”

“There’s nothing I can do?”

“You could send her home so she could die among her own people,” Lisinthir said, baring his teeth. If the Knife were here, he would counsel against this comment, but Lisinthir didn’t care. The casual callousness of it, of the isolation of the vulnerable in their last hours from any hope of comfort… “Had she gone back sooner, she may have received treatment to extend her life, or maybe even been cured.”

The Worldlord stared at him. Slowly, he said, “Send her home? You suggest this?”

Lisinthir challenged him with his eyes. “Yes?”

“They are slaves,” the Worldlord murmured. “But you speak as if they are people.”

Lisinthir said, enunciating each word separately, “I fight them and win. If they are not people, my victories mean nothing.”

The Worldlord inhaled sharply. Letting his breath out carefully, he said, “Some already say that such victories are meaningless.”

“Then they are about to receive a very painful education when they bring their war to the Alliance. And perhaps it is for the best that I not join the Navy to watch them learn it.” Lisinthir inclined his head, but kept his eyes trained on the Worldlord’s so he could see the ferocity in them. “If that is all, Worldlord. I find I am tired.”

The other male hesitated. “Yes. Of course.”

Lisinthir headed for the door. Had in fact reached it when the Worldlord added, quietly, “Thank you. For trying.”

To that, Lisinthir said nothing. He went down the steps, as he had gone down so many Chatcaavan steps before, and stopped a guard at its base. “My slaves. Have them sent to me.” And then he climbed the steps again in yet another tower to reach his guest room, and there he stared out the window, aware that he was clenching his jaw only because his teeth began to ache.

When his slaves were ushered in—on leashes, to his infuriation—he closed the door on the manor and the look in his eyes must have betrayed him because Laniis rose instantly from her knees and said, “You can’t kill them all.”

He wanted, very badly, to ask why not. Instead, he managed to grate, “I know.” The admission loosened something in him, enough that he was able to sigh, to release the grinding helplessness. “I know. But it doesn’t change that I would in a heartbeat if I could do so without consequences we could not shape to our advantage.”

The Knife had been hanging back, staring at them with hands lightly clasped in front of him. His eyes were wide, and something in the body language reminded of Chatcaavan stares, their enormity, their clarity. Perhaps because in Seersan form the Knife’s eyes were lighter and more saturated, strangely, than in his real shape?

“Truly,” the Knife said, “You are like us.”

“No.” Lisinthir prowled past him to take the chair nearest the balcony. “If I have learned anything from this brief excursion, it’s that I am nothing like any of you. We might share a directness of approach, and I may ape your manners well, but that is not enough to form a kinship. One must hold the same virtues dear. Means do not make bedfellows amongst those who do not share ends.”

Laniis followed him and sat at his feet, and shocked him out of his mood by reaching up and wrapping her arms around his waist. Startled, he looped an arm around her shoulders, and this brought his head down so far it was convenient to set his cheek on her hair. The smell of her, the steadiness of her aura, the strength of her small body... it centered him. He breathed in, exhaled, watched her ear twitch as the plume of air rushed past it.

“You have to stay strong,” Laniis said. “Because we can’t leave, arii. He’s here. That human? That’s him.”

“Not possible,” Lisinthir said. “That slave was a broken thing, and the Emperor is not capable of that level of reduction. Is there some other slave he might be masquerading as?”

Laniis leaned back, face sober. “There are only five slaves here, arii. A Hinichi. A Harat-Shar and a Karaka’An. And two humans. And of those five, only two are male. The Hinichi and the human. It has to be him, Ambassador. Andrea and Emlyn said he fell over the estate’s wall bleeding, ran to her, and asked her—asked her—for her pattern.”

His heart stumbled. That sounded like his Emperor. But... “Is it an act?”

“The other slaves,” the Knife offered tentatively. “They say he has been tortured.”

“Chatcaavan males torture one another constantly,” Lisinthir said.

“No.” The Knife did not advance into the light where the two of them were sitting. He shifted from foot to foot, his discomfort manifest. “We hurt one another. We kill one another. But torture... that was reserved to the most high. Where humiliation was a substitute for death, because the males had become too powerful to be sacrificed casually without disrupting whatever they held power over. Most of the time we... torture... the disenfranchised, Ambassador. Those whose deaths change nothing.”

It was as if he was falling toward a wall. He had faced his own demise more than once. Had thrown himself over and over again at peril until he’d thought himself inured to fear. Had he believed himself courageous? How wrong he’d been. The idea that the extinguished spirit he’d witnessed in that human’s eyes might belong to the male he’d nearly given his life to bring over to the side of light—the male he’d fallen in love with—he could only respond to the idea by turning away from it.

“One moment at a time,” Laniis breathed.

He rested a hand on her head. Composed himself and said, “So. We must bring him away from here. I may have set some groundwork for that already by mentioning that I bought slaves as well as sold them.”

“So you buy him and then we go?” the Knife asked, hopeful.

“That only solves the problem of the... target... we are here to liberate,” Lisinthir said. “The other slaves, we will have to steal. But that may not be as difficult as I thought for several reasons.”

“You can’t—” the Knife began and stopped abruptly at the look Lisinthir leveled at him.

“Don’t,” Lisinthir said, low. “Don’t presume.”

But the Knife bared his teeth. “I must, if it endangers the mission.”

“It won’t,” Lisinthir said. “Because if needs must I can kill anyone who attempts to stop us without so much as touching them. And if that creates problems, then so be it.”

“Let’s not get wound up in this right now,” Laniis said, holding up a hand. “We can’t move until the ship comes back anyway, and we’re not even sure when that’ll be. How likely is it that you’ll be allowed to stay for a while, arii?”

“I am confident I can convince the Worldlord to extend my invitation.”

“All right. So our plan is to wait for the signal, then leave with everyone we’re taking with us,” Laniis said firmly. “Just as it’s always been. That means you, Ambassador, have to lay the groundwork for your offer for the human slave. Maybe both of them, as a mated pair, since you’ve already established yourself as a breeder... that’ll give you fewer targets to liberate the hard way. Show interest, that sort of thing. The Knife and I will see what we can overhear.” She sat up to meet his eyes. “You have to stay focused, arii. Promise me. I know you’re angry. I’m angry too. But we can’t do anything precipitous when we have no idea when our pick-up’s coming.”

“I know.” He rested a hand on her face, slid it to cup her cheek. “But... you’re wrong, Laniis. I am not angry.” He let his brow fall until it rested against her furred one. “I am afraid.”

And she... she snorted, surprising him into looking at her. “As if that’s ever stopped you before,” she said fondly. “Just keep going. One step at a time. That’s how any of us ever got through this.”

His laugh was perfunctory, but it surprised him by relieving some tension in him that had been building again. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And now,” Laniis said, “Watches. Which one do you want, Ambassador? Knife?”

“I’ll take the first,” Lisinthir said. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, not yet.”

“I will take second, then,” Knife said. “It is early for me, as well.”

“Fine by me.” Laniis yawned. “I’m for bed.”

“And if I join you, would that be permissible?” Lisinthir asked, casually.

She glanced over her shoulder, nodded. “I think it would look better if someone flew past and saw you with one of us there.”

Neither of them said that he wanted her there just to hold her. Not only because he needed the opportunity to protect someone, but because despite her determination he knew she was feeling the strain of being in a Chatcaavan harem again, naked and vulnerable.

“I promise I’ll do nothing to excite Na’er’s opprobrium,” Lisinthir said solemnly.

She huffed. “I know you won’t.” And disappeared into the sleeping chamber.

Leaving the Knife to stare after her with a frown. And then he exclaimed, “Wait, does this mean that I must sleep in your bed when she’s on watch?”

Lisinthir grinned. “I promise I’ll do nothing to excite your opprobrium either. Knife.”

“Ughn!”

That day they did not drag the Emperor back to Manufactory-East’s chambers. They didn’t kennel him, either, which confused him. Instead, he was instated once more in the round room in the annex, except this time there were pallets as well as blankets and pillows. Had something happened in the kennel room that required cleaning or maintenance? Was that why they were being given this brief reprieve? He touched the edge of the pallet, unnerved by its appearance. He distrusted good fortune. He didn’t want to hope for better treatment because having it snatched away hurt so much worse when he’d eased into it.

But he was exhausted, and the arrival of a new Chatcaavan into the equation only exacerbated his anxiety. Would this one be better or worse than Manufactory-East? Deputy-East? When would he be sent to serve this male’s needs, and how hard would it be?

He didn’t want to think about it, so he fell onto the pallet and hid under the blankets. The naked arch of his back had begun to hurt him. He sometimes felt his wings shifting, but when he looked behind his shoulder, he saw nothing... and every time it happened, his memory of what he was supposed to be grew dimmer.

Best to sleep, and hope not to wake from sleep again.

Except, of course, that he did. But not this time to the clawed grasp of his captors. Andrea, again. And behind her, Emlyn. He blinked bleary eyes, squinted up at her. “A-andrea?”

“I can’t believe anyone would come for him,” Emlyn said, puzzled. “He’s too soft to be a criminal and what Chatcaavan would rescue another out of loyalty?”

“Don’t get me started again,” Andrea said. She rested a hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. “Do you know if anyone might be looking for you? To help you?”

Help him? No. To hope was beyond him. And if he was rescued, what good what it do him? They would slay him the moment they understood his handicap. How righteous that execution would be: the symbol of the grand Change coming to the Chatcaava, prevented forever from completing that Change. Trapped, in fact, by the Change itself.

He would die. The only question was whether they would kill him before he could beg them to do it.

“They have to be wrong,” Emlyn said, and fell silent instantly when the guards arrived with Dominika. They released her to the room, and after they’d left the Harat-Shar stood and brushed off her fur. She had an unlikely pelt, beautiful, mottled in tan and black clouds, and her nakedness left the pattern uninterrupted. He thought she didn’t mind nudity, didn’t know why he had that impression. Only that her body language was less cramped than Andrea’s, or Emlyn’s.

“Who has to be wrong?” the Harat-Shar asked, yawning. She had sharper fangs than either of the other two.

“The slaves who came with the new Chatcaavan,” Andrea said. “They say they’re here to find the Survivor.”

Dominika glanced at him, interested. “Is that so?”

“They weren’t cowed, those slaves,” Andrea said. “And their master—he insisted we sleep on proper beds. That’s why we’re out here tonight.”

“You see?” Emlyn said to Dominika. “That’s exactly why he can’t be here to rescue anyone. Insisting on better treatment for slaves isn’t a way to earn the respect of other Chatcaava. It’s a way to make them suspicious of you. And how could he afford to make anyone suspicious if he’s here for some daring mission of mercy?”

“He has a good voice.”

Andrea had been about to carry the battle to Emlyn again but Dominika’s comment arrested her, and Emlyn as well.

“He has what?” the latter asked, bewildered.

“A good voice.” The Harat-Shar sat, pressing the soles of her feet together and leaning over them. Just watching her made the Emperor’s body ache. He couldn’t imagine being so limber when all he wanted was to pull himself taut until he snapped. “You know how it is, arii. You don’t look at them or they notice you. I never let the males see my face when they come to the harem. As long as I’m still and quiet, I can stay the harem’s pet cat. No one hurts a pet cat.” She shrugged. “So I didn’t see his face. But his voice…” She pursed her lips. “He didn’t take any of the women even though the Worldlord offered. He just drank—lightly—and watched, and answered them when they talked to him. The Worldlord even said he’d bring out the hekkret if he wanted some, and you know the Worldlord never uses it. And the stranger just said that he had enough vices without adding any new ones.”

Something about that sounded familiar. He could almost remember. Vices…

“You see?” Andrea said to Emlyn. “Not only did he suggest we get real beds and make the suggestion stick, but he apparently can visit the harem without having to rape anyone and still be respected in the morning.”

“It’s not morning yet,” Emlyn growled. And then deflated. He pressed his palms to his eyes and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I just can’t. I can’t hope, Andrea.” He dragged his hands down, let them fall from his face. “And you shouldn’t either. No matter how unusually he’s acting, he’s still Chatcaavan. And we’re still aliens, and non-people, and nothing will ever change that.”

But something could. Something should. He wished he could remember why any of it mattered, but nothing mattered more than not being hit again, not anymore.

“God,” Andrea said softly, “will hear our cries. Emlyn. You believe that. In your heart, under all the grief and fear. He has never abandoned us, and never will. Not all the imprecations of our enemies will drown Him out.”

“It’s not Him they’re drowning out,” Emlyn said, defeated. “It’s me. It’s us.”

“Fortunate for us He can hear a sparrow fall, then.” She tucked the blanket closer around the Emperor’s shoulders. “I bet that stranger is the reason you’re here instead of in Manufactory-East’s suite again, Survivor. Which is good because…” Her fingers trailed along his bruised cheekbone, “he doesn’t seem to be listening to the ‘avoid the head’ advice.”

A quiver traveled his spine. “He says the face is not the head.”

“He’s an idiot,” Andrea said. “The face is connected to the head.” She sighed and kissed his brow, ruffling the hair back from it. “Rest while you can. I believe your time here is almost over if you can just hold on a little longer.”

The thought was incredible. The only exit out of this situation was death. They all knew it. But he had to ask, “And you?”

“We’ll hold on as long as it takes for us to be free. When the day comes, we’ll be ready.”

“And if you die first, the way Emlyn says?” the Emperor asked.

“Then the Chatcaava will have made their last mistake,” Andrea said. “Because once they kill us, we’re beyond their reach, and they can never take our freedom from us again.”

“Then… why live at all?”

“Because,” she murmured, “our work here isn’t done yet.” And softer, “Ssssh.”

She sang then, one of her prayers, begging the attention of her God. For once it did not sound like weakness, but defiance. To believe oneself significant enough to merit the personal attention of a deity, to profess to know that He would succor her because she asked... that required faith beyond anything the Emperor was capable of sustaining. He no longer believed himself worthy of rescue. He had not created the system that was destroying him now, but he had done nothing to dismantle it. When it ground him away, he would have earned it, and no God would come for him to stop it.

He wouldn’t ask, either. Let Him rescue the worthy. The sullied could be stripped away and used to make the space between stars and give the luminaries of the universe the contrast they needed to shine.