Sediryl’s gorge rose. She forced herself to lean back into the smaller woman. “Alas, that we can only conquer it one piece at a time.”
The pirate’s laugh was husky. “Oh, it’ll go quicker than you think, with a war like this distracting the major players.”
“So where shall you go first?” Sediryl asked, ignoring the fingers that were sliding higher and profoundly grateful the pirate was unable to see her face.
“The Chatcaava did promise me a core world.” Kamaney brushed her nose against Sediryl’s back. “And as many of the border worlds as I could hold.”
“That would be the trap, I imagine. They won’t want you to keep them.”
“No,” Kamaney agreed. “And I’m sure the Core world they’ll deliver to me will be bombed to uselessness. It’s the only way they’d let go of a prize that big. No, I wouldn’t trust them to give me anything. I’m counting on the Alliance to keep them so busy that they won’t have time to go after me.”
“Seems a risky gamble, given that the Alliance will want those worlds back itself.”
“Mmm-hmm. Either the Chatcaava are so successful pruning back Fleet that the dragons will have plenty of time to steal back any gifts they give me… or the Alliance will keep them in check, which gives them the resources to swat me. Or at least, start a new war with me. They don’t know how much I have to throw against them.”
“You must be planning something else, then,” Sediryl said, cautiously. “Perhaps a strike out into unexplored space?”
Kamaney was nipping at her back now, pulling at the tight fabric. “Why bother? We might go a long way before we find anything worth keeping.”
“So, you plan to punish the dragons for their treachery.”
“That’s one possibility,” Kamaney agreed. “I could also duck around all of the fighting and attack the Pelted border worlds farthest from the front. The Alliance might not even realize I’m out there until I’m entrenched.”
“But you want to punish the dragons,” Sediryl murmured, willing it to be true.
The fingers tightened on her, hard enough to bruise through the leather. “I admit, that part has a lot of appeal.”
“As well it should.” Sediryl kept her eyes on the map. That was all she was: a pair of eyes, looking at a map. “They deserve it for planning to betray you.”
“Yessss,” Kamaney hissed. “But. The Alliance betrayed me first. And even if I can’t keep the planets I flay at their border, to make them hurt… that might be more important.” More contemplatively now. “You see, my real problem is I can’t decide who it would be more satisfying to punish first.”
“I understand your dilemma.”
“What would you choose?” Kamaney asked, resuming her stroking, from breast to hip and back again. “If it was your fleet. Which it isn’t, of course. But I do like you, clever woman. So… sleek. And strong. Weak women are boring. Don’t you think?”
“And we know what we do with boring people,” Sediryl murmured.
“Exactly. So? What would you do?”
Sediryl’s thoughts sped crazily. What to say? Telling the pirate outright wouldn’t help… if she appeared to want anything too much, Kamaney would use it to control her. What would this fictitious clever woman do when asked this question? “It’s a given that both parties require… punishment.” She let her voice caress the word. “But foolish and tiresome to underestimate them. I would plan to deal with them both, and choose which would feel my hand first based on which would be most likely to be surprised by my attack.”
“A budding strategist,” Kamaney said with a laugh. “And very cold.”
“I am a pragmatist,” Sediryl replied. “There are things I want from life, Kamaney. And while I have a great deal of time to acquire them, I am not fond of waste. Or, for that matter, exertion.”
“Oh, but exertion can be fun…”
“Some kinds,” Sediryl allowed. “But the kind involved in cleaning up the wreckage of broken bodies and shattered ships… rather less so.” Could she do this? She arched her back, pressing herself into the pirate’s body, her hands. “It takes away time from the more enjoyable pursuits available to women of means and brains. Yes?”
“Mmm. No argument.” Kamaney gave her a final, lewd caress and then walked around Sediryl to stare up at the map. “I still have time to decide. A few more pieces to put in place… a few more bits of disinformation. A little more time. Not much, but enough.” She smiled coyly. “I think I’ll try this self-denial you’ve mentioned being so… invigorating. Since I really should be concentrating.”
“If you’re sure?” Sediryl asked.
The pirate grinned. “I’m not. So go on back so I can get something done.”
Sediryl blew her a kiss and strode out, hips swinging. She maintained that calm all the way to her quarters, but the moment she entered them she started stripping with desperate haste. Both her guests were awake, and the violence of her arrival surprised Vasiht’h into stumbling onto his feet. “Arii?”
“Vasiht’h… ugh… help me get rid of this…!”
The Glaseah leaped toward her and started on the back of the outfit while Sediryl tore the rest of the lace coat off and shucked the ridiculous gloves with their vined edges. She didn’t stop until she was in nothing but her panties and only then thought she should probably have waited until she’d reached the bedroom to come unhinged.
Her embarrassment lasted until the moment she looked down and saw the little red marks around her breasts. “I’m going to kill her!”
“For pawing you?” Vasiht’h asked, hesitant.
“Your skin shows marks in a spectacular fashion,” Qora added with clinical interest.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be saying stuff like this out loud,” Vasiht’h added.
He was certainly right but she couldn’t admit it. She’d swallowed enough on Kamaney’s behalf today. “I… am… am sorry. For the disrespect. I should have done this alone. With a little more decorum.”
“It’s all right,” Vasiht’h assured her, picking up the discarded clothes. “I’m not interested and Qora…”
“Is not interested either,” the alien said.
“And probably doesn’t care,” Vasiht’h finished. “Was it so much worse this time?”
“She’s at the point of choosing her target.” Sediryl accepted the robe Vasiht’h handed up to her, wondering where it had come from. Pulling it on made her feel much better. “And I have no idea how to convince her to do what I want.”
“Has she shown any kind of preference for one target over the other?” the Glaseah asked, sitting across from her as she settled on the couch.
“None. She wants to punish the Chatcaava for their planned betrayal and the Alliance for some wrong they’ve done her. Which she still hasn’t told me about.”
“At least I’ve got one part of the puzzle,” Maia said unexpectedly, her voice dropping from the ceiling.
“Arii!” Sediryl looked up, startled. “I thought you weren’t comfortable using the speakers?”
“I’m not,” Maia said. “But Kamaney’s on her way to a Pad to go visit her ‘flagship’, and her data specialist is going with her.”
“You’ve found him?” Sediryl sat up. “Who is he?”
“Not who, arii,” Maia said, voice heavy. “But what. He’s a D-per.”
“No Second today,” Jahir observed.
The Usurper ignored him, straightening the tablet on his desk and arranging the floating displays before dimming them with a gesture. Once seated, he resumed playing with the Galare dagger. The sword had migrated to the wall near the door, but the Chatcaavan could not seem to resist the allure of the dagger. Jahir wondered if those talons were damaging the hilt’s wrappings, which were centuries-old suede and already frayed.
“And no education today for your wingless freak about the disposition of your fleets?” Jahir continued. “Or am I to deduce the necessary information on my own now, having had sufficient training?”
/> The Usurper finally looked up at him. “You talk too much.”
“You have not gagged me.”
“Be silent,” the Usurper said. “Or I will.”
The tension that animated the Chatcaavan seemed too distinct for a day alone. Jahir subsided, marshaling his failing strength, and was rewarded by the guard’s announcement. “The Twelveworld Lord.”
“Have him come in.”
Today, the Twelveworld Lord wore dark amber robes over trousers and looked far more the lord than his emperor, who continued to wear what Jahir guessed was a variant of naval uniform, though stripped of any decoration. The Twelveworld Lord paused before the desk to incline his head, wings half-spread. “Exalted.”
“Sit, Twelveworld Lord.” The Usurper turned the dagger in his hands, watching the light slide down its surface. “You have settled in, I assume?”
“My quarters weren’t vacated long. The servants kept them ready.” The Twelveworld Lord took a reluctant seat, glancing over his shoulder at Jahir with such naked avarice the Eldritch’s body rashed with gooseflesh. “It is good to be back at court.”
“Mmm. Even the court of a new Emperor.”
“This is the center of the Empire, no matter where it hangs in space,” said the Twelveworld Lord. “To be here is to be at the crux of all things. I would choose no other domicile, if I did not find my hunting estate on Firstworld so satisfying.”
“And the females and slaves there?”
“That also. You understand, Exalted. A male needs diversion.”
The Usurper flicked his eyes up to Jahir’s. “Yes.”
“And a significant enough prize might take the place of many lesser divertissements.” The Twelveworld Lord’s wings had tightened against his back despite his casual tone. “Tell me, Exalted. Does he fight you?”
“Fight me!” the Usurper said, surprised out of his examination of the dagger.
“As he did the male you succeeded,” the Twelveworld Lord said. Leaning forward, he added, low, “He left scars on the former Emperor’s body.”
“With what?” the Usurper asked skeptically.
“He had weapons. Like our shipboard claw sheathes.”
“Did he.” The Usurper snorted. “He knows I’d shoot him if he dared. No, Twelveworld Lord. He doesn’t fight me. I am not my weakling predecessor. I know better than to treat aliens as people.” He smiled thinly. “The Ambassador knows just where he belongs. Hanging on my wall, as silent as if gagged.”
“You have tamed him,” the Twelveworld Lord whispered.
“Taming presumes a spirit worth breaking. That is a wingless freak, Lord of the Twelveworld. If the former Emperor allowed him to run amuck, making trouble for real people, that is a measure of his lack of fitness to rule.”
That word again. Fitness. Strange that the Usurper should use it, though he had not idealized it as Oviin had. Jahir flexed his numb fingers, sought in vain to ease the tension in his upper body.
“And yet,” the Twelveworld Lord said, slowly, “You are a new kind of ruler yourself, are you not, Exalted.”
“Mmm?”
“You shot males on the Field when you took the throne.”
“They defied me,” the Usurper said. “I do not spare my enemies. Nor do I accord them any honor. When they set themselves against me, they put themselves in a class to which true males do not belong.”
The Twelveworld Lord leaned back, shoulders stiffening so slightly Jahir doubted he would have seen it from the front. Without the ability to focus on the male’s face, he’d been forced to watch for other cues, no matter how minimal. And this one… did the male not like this comment? Interesting.
“I see,” was all the Twelveworld Lord said. “Speaking of true males, where is Second this morning? I sought him to ask about possible fleet assignments and could not locate him.”
“He has gone ahead.”
“Gone… ahead, Exalted?”
“To scout the border,” the Usurper said. “He likes to see things with his own eyes. You understand. It’s what makes him such an excellent field commander, and such a poor candidate for emperor. His vision is limited.”
“Ah.” The stiffness in the shoulders eased. “Yes. You are wise, Most Exalted.” A smile Jahir could hear in his voice now. “And in his absence, may I ask who will be organizing the fleet at Apex-East?”
“A good question.” The Usurper slid the dagger into the scabbard and then drew it halfway out. “When your ships arrive, perhaps you might assess the situation. Offer some suggestions. I will compare them to those brought to me by the other sector admirals.”
“Compare,” the Twelveworld Lord said, slowly.
“Second is Second now, no longer Command-East. I need him in the post of Second.” The Usurper shifted the dagger under the light again. “The former Emperor kept the title of Apex-Navy, and I think that a useful precedent. I have declared myself Apex-Navy, which gives me control of the Navy as a whole. But the Navy’s next highest title is vacant.”
“You seek an Admiral-Offense,” breathed his guest.
“The previous Admiral-Offense was a traitor and is now dead, and Second is busy being Second, or will be once he’s done disporting himself on the border. That leaves a vacancy, and one we need filled before going into a war.”
“You don’t think Second will nominate himself?” the Twelveworld Lord said. “If you have claimed two titles for yourself, one governmental and one military, why would he not do the same?”
“Odd thing, this fake claw,” the Usurper said, ignoring the question. “And ingenious. If a species lacks natural armament, crafting an artificial replacement is sensible. And this protective sheath… it fits so perfectly into it.” The Chatcaavan pressed the dagger home. “Once the weapon is seated, it doesn’t give easily. It takes a decision to pull it free again. No doubt this is to prevent it from falling out. How was that machined? Or maybe they made it by hand?”
Mystified, the Twelveworld Lord said, “One never knows with freaks.”
“I suppose I could ask.” The Usurper looked past his guest’s shoulder at Jahir. “So, alien. Enlighten us.”
“About weapons?” Jahir asked politely.
“Of course weapons. We are not interested in an alien disquisition on Chatcaavan politics.”
“A pity,” Jahir said. “As I might have educated you.”
“In Chatcaavan politics?” the Twelveworld Lord said, twisting in his chair.
“One learns a great deal hanging on a wall.”
“He does not seem so obedient now,” the Twelveworld Lord said to the Usurper, chuckling.
“I have trained him to be entertaining.”
“Perhaps we should ask him about Chatcaavan politics, then,” the Twelveworld Lord said, amused. “For our entertainment. What say you, wingless freak? Have you sage advice for your betters?”
“Second is going to betray you,” Jahir answered, without planning the admission. It simply spilled from him, as inevitable as breath.
Prophet, something whispered over the roquelaure’s dissonant warning. Blood-mouthed prophet, born of suffering.
Both Chatcaava stared at him, frozen.
“He’s removed himself from the capital, the locus of your power,” Jahir said to the Usurper. “And from this place where all the other ships are gathering, where you have your power,” this to the Twelveworld Lord. “And taken himself off to the border with a second fleet, one of the largest… his, isn’t it? The Eastern one? To ‘scout’?” He smiled whimsically. “I think even a wingless freak can see where that’s leading.”
The silence stretched several heartbeats too long. Then the Twelveworld Lord laughed. “Ridiculous. He dares to opine on matters beyond his understanding.”
“That he does,” the Usurper growled.
“Shall I beat him for you?”
“He deserves a beating. But I’ll reserve that privilege to myself. For now.” The Usurper snorted. “Second a traitor. Ridiculous. This war will make
him rich.”
“This war will make us all rich,” the Twelveworld Lord said complacently. “And I would dearly like to prosecute it as your Admiral-Offense, Exalted.”
“Write me a proposal and we shall see.” The Usurper eyed the other male. “The best male shall win. Yes?”
“As it should be and always has been.” The Twelveworld Lord rose and bowed again. “Exalted.”
After the male’s exit, the Usurper jerked upright from his chair and stalked around the desk. Jahir’s fingers curled into fists as he tensed against the possibility of violence, but the Usurper did not strike him. He stopped in front of the Eldritch, scowling at him ferociously, holding the sheathed dagger. Finally, he spoke. “Do you believe it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“About Second.”
If he said yes, would it divide the Usurper’s attention? Or would it give him the tools to defeat Second early enough to blunt the threat? If in fact Jahir had guessed right? But he thought he had. He couldn’t have named the gestalt that had led him to that conclusion, but years of matching patterns in people’s behavior insisted. The Galare gift and the Alliance’s, torn into prominence beneath the weight of a lover’s knife. He followed that intuition’s prompting and said, “Yes. Don’t you?”
“No,” the Usurper said, eyes narrowing almost to slits. “I know what Second wants.”
“That being?”
“Power. And glory. But mostly power.” The Usurper didn’t move to touch him, as anyone else might have. Did not strike or whip as he’d promised. As if he was afraid of contact. “And there is no power like the power of winning a war against the freaks and taking everything they have.”
“If he wins.”
“Of course we’ll win. We are Chatcaava and you are helpless animals who need to manufacture talons out of metal.” The Usurper drew away and sniffed. “You strive to undermine my confidence, freak. You will not succeed.”
“If I was aiming for that, I would not be failing,” Jahir said, wondering if he was telling the truth. What was he aiming for anymore? Was there a moral path through this quagmire? Healer, seer, fighter, mind-mage. “But I am here to save the Alliance, not kill you.”
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