The exaggeration of the Chatcaavan’s pauses... was that shock? Or a feature of the species’s body language? “The alien desires a great deal of... personal... information.”
“It is customary among the people I dwelt with to be interested in one another’s opinions and history.” Jahir set his toes in the water, found it an acceptable warmth—more than acceptable given how cold he was—and slid into the tub to sit in the puddle as it grew. He leaned against the tub wall, too exhausted to hold himself upright. Almost too exhausted to continue talking, but this… this was important. “It is considered polite, to be interested in others in this fashion.”
Oviin’s eyes were round with incredulity, and the mind talent gave him that one free because it came off the drake in waves. “How bizarre.”
“My own people are more circumspect,” Jahir offered. “And yet, even among us, we are interested in the welfare of those we care for, or would befriend.”
“Is that water too hot?”
“It is too cool, I think.” Jahir watched Oviin bend to adjust the temperature. “I perhaps offended?”
“To believe that castrates are worthy of the friendship of aliens...”
Jahir sorted through his cousin’s borrowed memories and what he knew of the Chatcaava from what little literature there was. “Perhaps aliens are too low in status to make that a compliment?”
“This one does not know!” Oviin exclaimed. Composing himself, he finished, “Even if there was certainty, still, it is... convenient, isn’t it? To befriend a Chatcaava charged with a slave’s welfare.” His pause then was pained. “One might wonder if there was... an ulterior motive.”
“What you suspect to be the ulterior motive is, in fact, the express motive,” Jahir said. “It is my duty, Oviin-alet, to escape this place and return to my people; I will not lie. The ulterior motive in this case is that I am lonely, and you also seem lonely, and two lonely people of low status might find agreeable conversation together, now and then. If I never escape, it would please me to have a friend.”
This speech had caused Oviin to pull his head back on his long neck, and if the wide eyes had betrayed incredulity, this was obviously shock. The edges of the Chatcaavan’s hair, cut on an angle over his face, were trembling against his cheek. “You-the... you say this to me-your-lesser?”
“You are not my lesser,” Jahir said, cupping his hands under the tap to warm his numb fingers. “You are a person, just as I am. No more, no less.”
“How perilous aliens!” Oviin breathed. “It truly is as is said.”
“Because we bring dangerous ideas?” Jahir asked.
“No,” Oviin replied. “Because you believe them. And that conviction is... affecting.” He shuddered once, all the way out to his wingtips. “Bathing is required. And any grooming that is required tonight. Then food, and sleep. Has the Surgeon prescribed exercise?”
“Not that I am aware of.” His metabolism was strained enough without adding more exertion. “After a bath and a meal I will be ready to rest, if I might have more than one blanket. We take cold quicker than you.”
“This lack will be amended immediately.” The Chatcaavan dipped his head nervously and fled.
Jahir saw to his bath alone, drying himself with the towels afterwards, and experimented by stepping toward the door out of the bathing chamber. Again he was met by a forcefield. How like the Usurper, to eschew the ceremony of guards in favor of a more logical approach. Resigned, Jahir returned to his dark chamber, sadly relieved to slide down onto the pallet, no matter how hard. His meal and additional blankets were delivered there by Oviin, who refused to meet his eyes. Standing by the door, his attendant said, “There will be a repetition of this ritual tomorrow.” And then he left, enrobed in streamers of doubt, determination, and disquiet.
So tempting to push. But he had to cultivate his allies carefully, were he minded to keep them in the crucible of this court. Jahir wrapped himself in the extra blankets and made himself eat, praying it would be enough to silence the roquelaure and give him back his strength.
The morning brought no respite from the exhaustion and dizziness. Instead it brought two guards and the Usurper, who padded into the chamber and prodded his knee with a toe. “Up, slave.”
Jahir squinted up at the drake without rising, wondering when he would cease to ask what Lisinthir would do and simply know. This, at least, he guessed: that his cousin would never respond to such a demeaning command.
“You wake quiet,” the Usurper observed. “And not early enough for my tastes. I would like you to have some time with unfettered senses before Second arrives to blind you with his paranoia. You would prefer that too, I imagine. Especially given what you will see today.” Turning he said to the guards, “Chain him up.”
He was allowed time in a privy before being hung on the Usurper’s wall, and if anything the stone was colder in the morning than it had been yesterday afternoon. His sleep had been fitful, plagued by hunger pangs and the discomfort of the cold, and morning had brought the resumption of the roquelaure’s warnings. But all of that fell away before the sight the Usurper had prepared for him. Behind the desk was an enormous curving projection of the Empire, separated into four vast sectors. The pinpoints of white stars and golden worlds dotted the dark blue field, each labeled in a script Jahir couldn’t read: the spoken language had come much easier to him than the written. And on this map were round red globes marked with a ship’s silhouette. A path projected before each of those ships took them past a bright red line at the bottom right.
“You see?” the Usurper said, gesturing as he entered. “The grand map. Here—” Pointing at the line, “is the border. These are the separate fleets gathering in Apexes North, South, East, and West. They are mustering to base in Apex-East, and from there they will proceed down past the throneworld, over the border, and on to crush your little allies.” He looked on the map with a clinical dispassion Jahir found leading, as if he was following a script. “I tell you this because it entertains me to shatter your hopes. Do you see the size of your pacifist Alliance? We could fit all of it in half of Apex-North.”
He did see. And he did wonder how it would be possible to defeat a concerted attempt by the Chatcaava to consume them. Their only hope would be to ensure it did not remain a concerted attempt.
“No comment?” the Usurper said. “Perhaps you nourish a sliver of optimism? Allow me to destroy it. Display pirate fleet.” A set of stipples in orange appeared near the border: tiny ships stretching across most of three sectors further coreward. “As you can see, we have arranged a diversion to prepare the way. While the Alliance sends a chunk of its ships to deal with the invasion of pirates, we will be moving past them.”
“You trust pirates?” Jahir asked.
“I trust no one.” The Usurper sat behind his desk. “But people act according to their natures, and I am an observer. I have promised to all the necessary parties exactly what their natures most desire. They will not surprise me.”
“And what do you most desire?” Jahir wondered, trying to sense the shape of the drake’s emotions without actually entering his mind. That would come soon enough.
The Usurper snorted. “I have what I most desire.” He smiled thinly. “This suite, and the Ambassador nailed to its wall.” To the guards, “Muzzle him. It’s time for Second’s visit.” As the guards approached, the Usurper said, “We shall have this little show every morning so that you can anticipate your nation’s inexorable fate. It will interest me to see how you react as its final days draw near.”
Jahir allowed the guards to blindfold him and cover his ears. The gag remained hard, but the memory of the map offered a significant distraction. Such useful knowledge, if he could communicate it off the throneworld. But how?
As they finished, one of the guards ran a long finger down his side. So delicate, came the thought, hazed by the alien language in which its thinker conceived it. What would it be like, to sink claws into it? Memories of blood pouring from gouges in the flesh of
a struggling beast struck him like a slap. Jahir flinched, and felt a shiver echoed back from the drake.
Surviving the court would be gauntlet enough. Surely communicating his knowledge would be minor in compare. If he could just get his breath back, and keep the weakness from creeping further up his limbs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To the Ambassador the Emperor delegated the task of gathering the necessary people for their conference. That left him to another of the existential questions abandoned by the Chatcaava. In this case: he could shift shape, and so choose one for this meeting. What shape, then? His default answer was ‘Chatcaavan,’ because it was the shape he associated with power and agency. But the majority of those attending the meeting were not Chatcaavan, and to them the dragon was a symbol of oppression and savagery. He could use this as an opportunity to begin rehabilitating that image, as was necessary if they were to become true allies. Or he could begin in vulnerability, by sharing their shape, but at the cost of impairing the confidence of his Chatcaavan allies. The Knife and Uuvek, he suspected, would not care what he looked like, but the Admiral-Offense, whose help he needed most, would be, perhaps, disquieted.
He found himself outside the clinic, and inevitably, he entered. Andrea was conferring with the taciturn Seersan Surgeon—Dellen Crosby, he recalled. Names, always. The latter squinted at him. “I hope you haven’t relapsed?”
Remembering he was human, the Emperor said, “No. I am merely… ”
“Experimenting?” Crosby said.
Thinking of the solid bones question, the Emperor replied, “Perhaps. You might help me with that later.”
“Wouldn’t I love to,” the Seersa said, interested. “No one’s ever had a good look at the biology of the Change. Outside the Empire, at least. I imagine inside it there must be subject matter experts.”
Were there? He assumed not, but what did he know? In the breadth of the Empire, there might be Chatcaava who did not abhor the Change, who also might have access to other sentients to attempt the experiment. But that would have to wait. Perhaps a very long time, given how he saw this war progressing. He looked at Andrea. “There is a meeting. Will you come?”
“Of course,” she said. “Dellen-alet, I will see you later for my shift.”
“Take your time. We’ll be here.”
She nodded and followed the Emperor into the hall. “A meeting?”
“I have an idea where we should go next,” the Emperor replied. Her presence was comforting. He missed the others too: Emlyn, Dominika. He had not welcomed them before, but now that he was free he found himself craving the reminder of the time he spent among them, when they had accepted him as one of their own.
“And you’re inviting me because…”
A good question.
“If you had a choice whether to come with us on this mission or not,” the Emperor asked, stopping. “Would you?”
She faced him, sliding her hands in the pockets of her pants. “Would you ask me?”
He frowned. “That would matter.”
“Of course,” Andrea said. “Everyone likes to feel needed. And for this in particular…” She looked up at the ceiling. “I miss home. Some part of me wants my life back, the way it was before the Worldlord’s slave quarters. But the Worldlord’s slave quarters happened. Even if I go back, my life won’t be the same, and I find I don’t want to pretend that I haven’t changed. If it were up to me… and if you needed a healer-assist with specialty in first-response care… then absolutely, I’d want a part of this. But I still want to know why you’re asking.”
“I am asking because—” Could he say it? “Because I don’t know how to need people. And yet I think I might need you.” He looked down, always down, the direction his head kept dragging toward. Bow. Bow your head, chattel. “I would miss the others as well.”
“That’s a great start.”
He managed a twist of a smile. “Perhaps you might begin by advising me on how to keep warmer. Even dressed, I find I am cold in this shape.”
“Are you going to the meeting in it?” she asked, as casually as if they were discussing a change of clothes.
“I think so.”
She nodded. “Well, let’s throw a sweatshirt on you, then. We’re supposed to be limiting power consumption, so there’s no genie use for a while. But the ship has stores.”
Lisinthir was the only person outside the conference room when he and Andrea arrived, and at the sight of them his pale brows rose. Amusement, the Emperor thought. His Ambassador, whose sense of humor was the edge of his sword-sharp wit. He remembered that about their time together. That Lisinthir had made him laugh, that later they had laughed together. He was glad he could make his Eldritch smile.
“Not just human, but in a Fleet pullover?” the Ambassador said, mouth curving up at one corner.
“It doesn’t have a logo,” Andrea said, turning to study the Emperor critically and adjusting the collar before nodding. “And the rest of us refugees are in them too. There, that’s good.” She smiled at the Ambassador and said, “My lord,” before passing into the room. Had she chosen to leave them alone because she’d sensed they’d want the time?
“You asked her to the meeting,” Lisinthir said.
“She… educates me.” The Emperor tucked his hands under his armpits to warm their fingertips. “I have become aware that I am expert in the customs of two cultures, both of them Imperial, and both of them blunt instruments. The Empire cannot survive without developing a culture with more subtlety and less severe consequences for mistakes.”
“Two cultures,” the Ambassador murmured.
“The court, which is specific to the throneworld capital. And the Navy.”
“Which may or may not survive the insurrection.” Lisinthir’s smile grew more pronounced and more crooked. “Your empire and my world are in similar straits. We too, will not survive without changing.”
“It is the only thing that gives me hope,” the Emperor said, surprised to find it true. “Surely if there is change to be mastered, we might have an advantage.”
“One hopes.” Lisinthir paused, then reached to him, cupped one of the Emperor’s human cheeks. One of his thumbs rested just beneath the Emperor’s eye, and the skin there was so delicate he felt pressure against the bone, straight through the flesh. “You are certain about this?”
“I believe the gesture would be… appreciated. Am I incorrect?”
“No,” Lisinthir said. And smiled for true this time. “You may puzzle some of them more than you please them, but they will note the effort.”
“Then I will make the gesture.” The Emperor turned his face enough to kiss that palm, silky warmth. “Come, Perfection. The work awaits.”
“The work may be endless,” Lisinthir murmured, falling in at his back.
“Nevertheless, it is ours.”
On the other side of the hatch, ranged around a long oval table, were nine people. Three were Chatcaavan: the Admiral-Offense, the Knife, and Uuvek. Six were from the Alliance: Andrea, and five people in Fleet uniform. The last of those Fleet personnel, he recognized, unfortunately: Khaska, the Slave Queen’s Pelted attendant from the harem. He had not even known the name the Queen had chosen for her until after the Ambassador left and they’d begun talking in earnest. But the Emperor’s personal memories of the Seersa had not dimmed; he could feel even now the texture of her fur, remember the weight of her body and the sound of her sobs. Though he’d known she was here, he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it, or the fact that she had helped Lisinthir rescue him from the Worldlord’s harem. He knew he would not be able to ignore her for much longer.
This, first, however. “Thank you,” he said in Universal, “for coming.”
“You’re still human,” one of the Fleet personnel said, a human herself with bright pink hair. “Did Dellen not help you?”
“He did,” the Emperor said. “I have chosen to remain human for now.”
“To put us at ease?” another of the Pe
lted asked, a woman with gray ears and a sardonic smile.
A Chatcaavan could appreciate such bluntness. “Only in part,” he said, to honor the question. “But also to remind myself that I am neither invulnerable, nor free from debt to those who aided me.”
That swift inhalation had come from Khaska’s direction. The Emperor ignored it to address the Admiral-Offense, using their tongue. “Have you informed them of the gravity of their situation?”
“I was awaiting your word, Exalted.”
“Then you shall tell them, and one of us will translate,” the Emperor said, sitting. “They will have had a precis from the Ambassador, but the details are necessary. Divulge them now.”
The Admiral-Offense’s wings tensed, as did the line up his neck that revealed how much he wanted to look away. “It goes against nature. Telling the wingless freaks everything they need to know to defeat us.”
“These people,” the Emperor answered, stressing the word, “rescued you. Rescued me. And are now going to ally with us to rescue what remains worthy of it from the clutches of the Usurper and Second. We will tell them everything we can to ensure our success, and we will call it natural. Because nothing, Admiral-Offense, is more natural than winning. When you are strong.”
The Admiral-Offense glanced at him. “Exalted, you do not look strong.”
“I am a Chatcaavan who does not refuse the Change,” the Emperor said. “That makes me stronger than everyone who does.” And added, quieter, “Huntfriend. Trust me.”
The Knife surprised them both by inserting himself into a conversation between two far, far above him in rank. “You will be surprised, Admiral-Offense. They are tougher than they look, these aliens.”
“We also speak your language,” the long-eared alien male drawled.
“If with a horrendous accent,” Khaska muttered, and leaned away from his mock swat.
The Admiral-Offense grimaced, teeth flaring at the parted lips.
“Don’t worry,” the long-eared male added, propping his cheek up with a hand. “We’re not at all offended at being called wingless freaks.”
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