“I’d be grateful,” Deputy-East said. “And if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it.”
“I won’t.” Lisinthir glanced at him. “I have to say, Deputy-East. I may have been guilty of underestimating you.”
“Really?” Deputy-East exhaled slowly. “Good. Because if I can fool someone as smart as you, I have a rodent’s chance in a huntgarden of surviving.”
When Lisinthir returned, it was to a strange quiet and a note on the table beside the balcony. From Laniis, and written phonetically in Eldritch—had she done that to make it particularly impenetrable, or did she not know the written form?—saying that she, the Knife, and Andrea had returned to the slave annex and would remain there until summoned. No doubt she was about her own work, he thought; someone would have to tell Dominika and Emlyn that they were leaving soon. The raid on Manufactory-East’s compound would have to happen when the Silhouette returned and they could leave the planet post-haste. Now that Lisinthir knew where the estate was located and that all of the major hunting estates were designed in the same way, he could at least make plans. Deputy-East had been a font of useful information about that during the remainder of their tour.
That conversation had been a surprise. Lisinthir hadn’t expected such depths from a male who’d seemed more interested in drinking and wenching than just about anything else. But then, that should have warned him: who rose to power among the Chatcaava without a sense of politics and the strengths and weaknesses of one’s position in relation to others?
Another ally, perhaps, for his beloved. Lisinthir set the note down and went quietly to the bedchamber. The lump under the covers must be the Emperor. Had he moved at all? Creeping there, the Eldritch bent over, saw the hair was damp, the skin clean. Someone had helped him bathe, then. Hopefully fed him. It was the work of moments to remove his boots and set his bag aside so he could slide into bed behind the Emperor. He seemed unconscious, and that was best, surely. Andrea had said he needed not to exert himself. Gathering the fragile human shell against his side, Lisinthir sighed and queried the roquelaure. The ship remained incommunicado… and the device reminded him that he needed to eat again, soon. Its requirements were tyrannical. He hoped if Jahir needed to activate his that he would be well-placed to eat frequently… and that he would eat frequently, given how fastidious he was about it.
“I miss your real body.”
The words were so low, and so hoarse, that Lisinthir almost missed them. His arms tightened. “Not long,” he said. “We will be quit of this place, and then I will wear it again.”
Fingers, far too soft, traced the muscle leading back toward his elbow. “Do you miss mine?”
“Yes,” Lisinthir said. And then, “But not, perhaps, the way you miss mine.” A listening silence. “I know that you are capable of the Change, and that you may shed and don shapes the way I might clothes. That makes the one you wear now you in a way that this seeming I am wearing can never be me.”
“So… this… shape and all its weaknesses. This is me.”
The roil of emotion Lisinthir could sense through their skins neither grew nor diminished; he couldn’t tell how to conduct this conversation so as to prevent more harm. “Beloved…” No movement, no change in breathing. “You are more than your weakness in a difficult situation.”
No answer. But at least the Emperor did not push him away. Asking for more when they were still trapped here…
It could wait. And it would be better on the Silhouette. It had to be.
Lisinthir went to dinner trying not to let his worry and anger foul his mood. That the facilities on the ship would be capable of curing the Emperor’s physical issue was a given. What such facilities could not address was the crippling of his lover’s confidence. Until coming here, Lisinthir would never have believed the Emperor capable of this level of doubt and despair, and obviously, he’d been wrong. Was he also wrong when he assumed—hoped—that the Emperor could recover from it?
Passing through the stone halls, Lisinthir found them too innocuous for the climactic trauma they’d inflicted not just on the Emperor, but now on the course of the entire war and all its participants. That there was nothing he could do to punish anyone for it was egregious injustice. Perhaps Manufactory-East would oblige him by forcing him into a duel. That would be lovely.
This evening’s dinner was on the harem’s rooftop, in the garden patio there. Lisinthir had assumed such things to be rare until the tour with Deputy-East, when it occurred to him that if he could fly, he too would find lighting on roofs a pleasure, and possibly more convenient than entering through the ground floor. The Chatcaava were also connoisseurs of a good sunset or sunrise—of any kind of sky weather at all—so he’d taken more meals outdoors or near windows than he could remember in many years.
Seeing Manufactory-East slouching in one of those chairs by the ledge made him wonder if tipping him off it would surprise him into falling to his death. But no. That would be too impersonal.
They ate, then, with the inevitable teasing about the Sword’s astonishing appetite, good-natured on the parts of the Worldlord and Deputy-East; fortunately, theirs was a culture that looked favorably on appetite. Lisinthir couldn’t imagine sating the roquelaure on the Eldritch homeworld where it was gauche to admit to needing to satisfy any of the body’s needs. But at length the device stopped flashing admonishments in the corner of his vision and he was able to lean back, relax, and enjoy the postprandial drinks.
He was waiting. He perceived that he was not the only one; Deputy-East was concealing his nervousness admirably, but it was visible to anyone watching for it.
“So, Worldlord,” Manufactory-East said. “Your table is generous.”
“Thank you.”
“But I would like a slave for tonight. The one you named Bitter? I won’t damage him—in fact, if you’d like, you can watch to make sure. All of you are welcome.”
Deputy-East said, “You already said you wouldn’t need any slaves.”
“Yes,” Manufactory-East replied. “But that was when I thought I’d be staying only a few days. As it happens, I have some extra time after all, and if I’m to extend my visit…”
“Perhaps you can send for your own slaves, then,” Deputy-East said. “I’m sure the Worldlord wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t,” the Worldlord said.
“But tonight?” the other male pressed.
“I would be glad to take you up on your offer to watch,” the Worldlord said. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid the Sword has already asked for that slave tonight.”
“He has?” Manufactory-East turned to Lisinthir with every evidence of false surprise. “But I can’t imagine that being true. The Sword likes his slaves whole, and you’ve declawed the one I asked for.”
That was the trap, then. Lisinthir sipped from his wine, careful of the anger that had surged at the image of someone holding the Hinichi down and forcing his hand flat… no. “You’ve noticed I like my slaves whole, Manufactory-East? I can’t imagine how.”
“I came by to visit, of course,” the other male said, leaning back. “And your slaves took exception to it. One of them had the temerity to swipe me.”
“And hit you?” the Worldlord asked, startled.
“You can’t duck a blow?” Lisinthir drawled.
“I don’t expect blows from slaves,” Manufactory-East hissed.
“You should expect them from mine. I don’t allow anyone to use my property without my permission, and they have been so trained.” Lisinthir smiled. “What’s mine is mine, Manufactory-East.”
“And what’s the Worldlord’s is also yours?”
Lisinthir chuckled softly. “I accept the Worldlord’s gracious hospitality. And unlike some males, I am not likely to destroy his possessions while handling them.”
“Obviously I am in need of training!” Manufactory-East sat up. “By all means! If you have already engaged Bitter, then instead of me providing the entertainment with him, you shall have to. You don’t mi
nd, do you, Sword? Or… is this going to be another situation like the one in the harem, where what you prefer to do is watch other males about their work, rather than doing any of it yourself?”
“He did well enough with the slave there,” Deputy-East said.
“He did, yes,” Manufactory-East said. “I am eager to see a repetition of that performance.”
“So would I, actually,” Deputy-East said, voice lower. “That was something.”
But the other male’s eyes did not match the tone, and Lisinthir thought there was a warning in them. He didn’t have to look at the Worldlord either to sense the latter’s unease. The Worldlord had pulled out the Hinichi’s claws, yes, but that was then… and now he’d lied to try to save the Hinichi from the attentions of an abusive Chatcaavan. There were limits to how far either of his new allies could move to protect him, or any of the slaves. Not with Manufactory-East one of the three most important Chatcaava in the solar system’s hierarchy.
It would be much easier to challenge and kill him. But destabilizing everything before he could leave would be… imprudent.
“I’d be delighted to host tonight’s entertainment. Though as I was planning it to be a private affair, I’ll have to hope you aren’t disappointed if it’s not exciting enough for your tastes.”
“Don’t worry, Sword,” Manufactory-East said. “If it’s not exciting enough, I’m sure we’ll figure out something.” He smiled at the Worldlord. “Shall we go to the Sword’s suite? I am ready for… dessert.”
No help for it, then. Lisinthir pushed back from the table and waited for the Worldlord to send a guard down to the annex for the Hinichi, then followed his host back to the guest suite where, thankfully, the door to the bedchamber remain closed. Perhaps a bath instead? While the others disposed themselves on the divans to wait, he opened that door and considered. There had to be some way to save the Hinichi from humiliation. Dominika would bounce back from her performance—having proven to be typically Harat-Shariin—but there was no Hinichi subculture he knew of that approved of exhibitionism, and most of them were in fact adamantly opposed to it. This particular man might not mind, but even among those with the taste for it, being forced to it in these circumstances would be... trying.
Which didn’t even bring Lisinthir’s issues with it into the conversation. He’d been willing with Dominika because she had been. Literally, thanks to the esper ability. To rape an equally unwilling man was beyond him.
“Here he is,” Manufactory-East said as the guard arrived with the Hinichi, who had his head lowered and his ears flat to his head. Anger, perhaps, rather than misery. Not much better. “I see why you named him Bitter. He does grimace, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know how you can tell from here,” Deputy-East said.
“There’s a reflection in the floor tiles.”
Wonderful, Lisinthir thought.
“So, Sword. He’s all yours.”
Lisinthir walked across the intervening distance, thoughts racing faster than his feet. Being bathed... would that suffice? Or bathing the Hinichi, but perhaps that would be considered serving the alien—fraught for them both. He slipped his fingers onto the other man’s face, cupping it, and dared the exchange because there was no choice. /Alet. Quickly. Do you know how to do something sensual but not sexual? Have you any talents that seem performative? Anything at all?/
The Hinichi met his eyes, stiffening in surprise.
/They want me to rape you and I refuse. But they will not be satisfied if I do nothing with you—/
“Are you going to stare significantly into the freak’s eyes for the entire evening?” Manufactory-East asked.
The bath would have to do, somehow. Lisinthir began to tow the Hinichi there by the wrist when the other man squeaked into his mind, /Massage!/
Lisinthir paused to look at him over his shoulder.
/I know massage,/ the Hinichi finished in a rush, wide-eyed and shaking. /I’m not as good at it as I used to be—but I used to work with athletes. It’s something we did to enhance performance..../
Lisinthir laughed aloud. “Come. There is oil in the bathing chamber. Shall we do it there?”
“In the bath?” the Worldlord asked tentatively, hand balling into a fist on the arm of the divan.
“I do think it would be easier.” To Emlyn, “Come.”
Once in the chamber, the Hinichi left his side and moved with more authority, setting out a series of towels and draping the floor with one. From what little Lisinthir could recall of his time in the court’s harems, massage was common enough that there were specialized mats and tables for them; no such items were in the offing here, so Emlyn made do with a thick layer of towels on the floor alongside the tub, which he began to fill.
“You can slide into it afterwards,” he said. “You might enjoy that.”
“I am at your disposal, entirely,” Lisinthir replied affably. To the watching Chatcaava, “Perhaps you’d like to sit in it while I am busy?”
“There is something pleasing about a bath,” the Worldlord said.
Soon enough they were in the steaming water, and Lisinthir stretched himself out on his stomach, remembering at the last moment that he had false wings. Emlyn waited with the oil and a towel over his shoulder.
“Comfortable?”
“I believe so.”
“Tell me if the pressure is too hard or too soft at any time, or if something hurts.”
“This is mystifying,” Deputy-East said.
“This is boring,” Manufactory-East opined. “Come, Sword, let us see some action.”
“Commence, if you would,” Lisinthir said.
Emlyn rubbed the oil into his hands and set them on Lisinthir’s shoulder, and he felt that warmth straight through the skin and into some clenched and iced-over core that was holding all his anger and fear at bay. Through that touch he felt a haze of frustration, something to do with Emlyn’s fingers no longer reporting sensation or exerting pressure the way to which he was accustomed. For several minutes, the Hinichi did nothing but run his palms over Lisinthir’s back as his mind ran through what felt like a personal diagnostic, testing the blunted tips of his fingers. And then, to himself but clear as bright water: All right. I can compensate now. Then the Hinichi dug a thumb along the edge of his shoulderblade, seeming to separate a muscle there that had felt glued to another, and Lisinthir knew this would be better than anything Dominika had done to him. His first inarticulate noise, muffled into an arm, brought a wash of satisfaction into him through the Hinichi’s palm. After that, he didn’t bother trying to throttle the guttural noises. Gentle touch he had felt, and the Slave Queen’s soft stroking caresses. This… this trained and sensitive and unerring touch that seemed to separate stiffened strands of muscle and unravel knots after exquisitely painful pressure….
His pleasure inspired Deputy-East to swim to the near side of the tub and peer into his face. “What is it the slave is doing to you?” he asked, fascinated.
“You’re an idiot,” Manufactory-East said. “It’s the same kind of thing you do when your muscle cramps and you rub it.”
“This is as similar to that as frozen, packaged meat is to flesh torn bleeding from the new kill,” Lisinthir managed. And exclaimed, “Dying Air, alet,” when the Hinichi found and released a particularly angry node.
Emlyn chuckled low in his throat, a contented sound that made the Worldlord look at him sharply.
“It’s called massage,” Lisinthir finished.
“It’s done in the throneworld court,” the Worldlord added, quiet. “I have heard of it.”
“A thing that requires skill, I assume,” Deputy-East said. “One not taught here.”
“Aliens know it, apparently,” the Worldlord said.
“Aliens know it well, apparently!” Deputy-East watched, fascinated. “Look at his tendons stand up against his arms. And then he leans his entire body into it! How can you handle that much pressure in one spot, Sword? Does it bruise?”
; “It hurts like stabbing,” Lisinthir rasped. “And then, when it’s over, there’s a flood of intense pleasure. It goes to your head.”
“Like an orgasm! I must try this.”
Manufactory-East snarled and heaved himself from the bath. “I was hoping for real entertainment. But I see you have no idea what to use a slave for, Sword.”
“I rather think it the other way around.”
“You’ll see,” Manufactory-East said. “I’ll send for mine and then you’ll learn what a real male does with toys.” He inclined his head to the Worldlord. “If you’ll excuse me. I have better things to do with my night.”
“Don’t go!” Deputy-East said. “This might be a lot more fun when it’s happening to you than it is to watch! Just think, Manufactory-East. Something practiced on the throneworld in the imperial harems!”
“Somehow I doubt that. The Emperor has better things to do with a slave.” Manufactory-East snagged a towel and padded out.
Deputy-East’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled and said, “So, Sword. Can you tell your slave I’d like to try this?”
“I’m sure he’d be delighted,” Lisinthir said. “…once he’s done with me.”
Which was how the night proceeded. Lisinthir poured into the bath after Emlyn had finished with him, meekly accepting the brisk admonishment to drink fluids while sitting in the now-lukewarm water. He and the Worldlord watched as Deputy-East melted under the Hinichi’s hands until he was cooing; by then, the Worldlord was laughing and teasing the male about being reduced to the height of a puddle. They had to drag him back into the water, at which point the Worldlord stepped out of the bath and said to Emlyn, “Me, please?”
Lisinthir caught the shock that flickered through the Hinichi’s eyes. No doubt he had never been asked by the Worldlord to do anything, rather than commanded. Then Emlyn smiled, hiding his bitterness, and went to work on the male who’d ordered him mutilated, and his consummate skill left the Worldlord limp and earned him the reprieve from abuse that was the least of what he deserved. Fortunately, Lisinthir thought, what he truly deserved would be his soon enough when he accompanied Lisinthir and the others off-planet. Having served them to repletion, the Hinichi was taken away to the annex to rest.
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