"Well, yes." Vasiht'h flexed his toes, careful of the Fleet carpet and the pin-prick tips of his claws as they surfaced. "You can obfuscate a great deal in text." He shifted his shoulders, wondering at his own restlessness until he felt its genesis through the mindline. "But you think there's a hint somewhere. Yes?"
"Maybe," Jahir said, cautious. He glanced at the data tablet and quoted, "'The Chatcaava are nothing but passion, barely suppressed, barely withheld. Creatures of instinct and aggression and wild feeling. And you would put a Glaseah in their midst? It would be laughable.'"
Vasiht'h's ears perked. "I had no idea you'd mentioned Glaseah."
"Only in response to his question about where the Alliance might find a different esper to send to the Empire."
"And he didn't think much of the idea." Vasiht'h snorted. "I can't say I blame him. I certainly wouldn't relish the thought of going amid the dragons."
That tensing of muscle was entirely different from anything Vasiht'h had felt in Jahir before. Not the freezing of shoulders and ribs he associated with anxiety... but the arousal of muscles preparatory to striking in defense, to keep blood warm in the veins and not spilling cold from open skin. Vasiht'h's fur fluffed up in instinctive response, as if expecting that he would need the protection.
When the muscles relaxed, they went one by one, as if consciously stood down. Jahir drew in a slow breath and said, "No. I would not want you among the dragons either."
Vasiht'h set his tablet down on the small table in front of the couch, careful of it, feeling its texture, hearing the soft sound as it rested on the surface. Then he folded his hands and turned toward his partner. "Jahir? Why are you so afraid?"
His partner did them both the honor of not denying it, though the years had taught Vasiht'h that of all the emotions Jahir was prey to, fear was one of the few it cost him dearly to admit to harboring. The Eldritch could share grief, confess to ignorance and confusion, ask for help with fewer inhibitions than most anyone Vasiht'h knew... but fear and anger, those he preferred to grapple with privately, even after a decade of being yoked mind to mind to someone else in an intimacy close to unparalleled in even the broad and astonishing Alliance, with its manifold experiences. So when Jahir didn't answer immediately, Vasiht'h waited. It was rare that his friend did not reward patience.
So he was surprised to feel the light lifting through the mindline, like dawn working its way through too many obscuring clouds. Jahir said, slowly, "I am afraid, aren't I."
"I think so, yes."
"You had misgivings when we left."
Because it was said with such consideration, because the mindline seemed abraded with puzzlement, Vasiht'h said, "Yes, I do. I can't really imagine what state the Ambassador's in. That's part of what worries me. He could be fine; he could be better than fine. He could come back triumphant and smug with satisfaction at everything he's accomplished. Or he could be so utterly traumatized by the situation that we're going to have to put all our work on hold indefinitely just to keep him together. They've barely given us anything to go on, and since they really, really want him alive I have to conclude that's because they don't have anything to give us, and that makes me nervous. All of that is reasonable, and I know you share those concerns. But there's something else you've got. What is it?"
"He's an Eldritch," Jahir said, soft.
Just that.
Vasiht'h sorted through what little he knew of the culture, but the truth was that "little" described the entirety of his understanding. He knew more than almost any alien, but he didn't fool himself into thinking that gave him the culture. So he asked, "And what does that mean, right now, in this context?"
Jahir set his tablet aside and stared at his hands. Then pushed himself off the couch and sat alongside Vasiht'h on the ground, surprising the Glaseah. "Imthereli," he said, tasting the words as he said them, and in the mindline they were bitter. "Imthereli was a dying House, and its last head married into the Nase Galare, which settled the final land disputes. Asaniefa received part of Imthereli's lands; the rest were brought as a groom gift to Galare." He glanced at Vasiht'h, then back at his hands. "That bad business I mentioned. Lisinthir carries the Nase Galare name. He's the heir to the family, to both Nase Galare and all of what remains of Imthereli, the only child of that line. It constitutes a very substantial fortune. But he has it as a Galare, not as Imthereli. Because beneath the terms of the ruling, his father's lands are forfeit unless he inherits them through Nase, which owns them. The half that was awarded through the marriage."
"And this...this is a problem," Vasiht'h said, trying to follow. "Because I'm guessing Lisinthir's father wasn't happy about it."
"Yes. There is rumor he would have liked to reclaim those lands in Imthereli's name alone." Jahir crossed his arms, and Vasiht'h felt the cold he was trying to fend off, the raised hairs on the arms. "There was some... infamy there. Imthereli is not well-regarded; they lost their lands. Not an auspicious background for a scion to rise from."
"Rise above, you mean," Vasiht'h guessed.
Jahir nodded, the curt movement from when they first met, not the softer gesture of recent years. "So a man with something to prove, perhaps. Or some strike against him, that he might feel resentment for. I don't know. I haven't met him, as I mentioned... though that in itself is strange. We should have met at the courts; he's one of the few in our society who shares a rank with me. No matter how notorious his background, we should have met. And we don't keep records the way the Alliance does, that I might go and see what the histories say about Lisinthir's parents, and Lisinthir himself." He looked up, close enough now that Vasiht'h could see the striations in his honey-yellow irises. "And he is an Eldritch, Vasiht'h. A touch-telepath among violent people. How can that not have poisoned him?"
That came on the spear-point of Jahir's fear, so sudden Vasiht'h touched his stomach in reflex, expecting a wound. He chose his next words carefully. "You know environment doesn't create destiny. You don't have to be poisoned by things that happen to you."
"You say this as one of the Glaseah," Jahir said. "And I can feel you working through your acculturation, and I honor you for it." He reached over and took Vasiht'h's hand, turning it in his, flattened his longer palm against it and threaded their fingers together. This was forthcoming on a level that Jahir indulged in... maybe never. It stole Vasiht'h's breath completely. "But Vasiht'h," so vehement that he had to look up at his friend's face and see the intensity of that gaze. "Eldritch are not like Glaseah. Our skins are permeable things, and what passes into them becomes us. We... feel... with an urgency that comes to you more rarely."
Thinking of Lisinthir's description of the Chatcaava, Vasiht'h inhaled. "Creatures of passion, barely suppressed, barely withheld. You think that was more than observation."
"The Alliance sent an esper to the Empire. Why would they, if they expected him not to use that power on their behalf?"
Vasiht'h slumped against the couch and blew out that breath. "All right. I can see that being worrying." He looked over at Jahir. "But you've made a career out of touching the minds of disturbed people. Some of them violently disturbed. And you're fine."
"And as you've proven to me—as you took such risk to prove to me—I couldn't do it alone. I have you. I have always had you, ariihir. Who does my cousin have? He went to the Empire without entourage."
Vasiht'h sighed and brought their joined hands to his chest. He thought it was terribly wrong of him to be grateful for this conversation because it gave him the chance to hold Jahir's hand. He tried very hard to respect his partner's physical reticence, knowing it was habit and culture and some part personal preference. Most of the time he didn't mind it because their mental intimacy was so acute it made their bodies feel like afterthoughts. But Vasiht'h had grown up sleeping in piles of relatives and grooming them and hugging them, casually and with more feeling, and sometimes he felt that lack. It was very much the wrong time to be enjoying this touch, and yet wasn't that always the way? The Goddess re
minded you to move through grief and fear and worry with those little grace notes.
"So you're expecting significant psychic trauma," he said at last.
"I think it inevitable."
Vasiht'h nodded. "We've dealt with significant psychic trauma before, though. We can handle this."
Some whisper of disquiet persisted in the mindline, but Jahir said nothing. But he didn't get up either, and this time the taste in their mouth was sour, like shame. He narrowed his eyes. /What is that for? What are you hiding?/
"Hiding is a strong word," Jahir said, shifting on the ground, shoulders moving. But he didn't look up.
"But there's something." Vasiht'h waited, then gently set his friend's hand back down on his knee. That won him a sharp glance, and he shook his head. /Not a rejection,/ he said. /But I'm not going to force you to say anything. You need space, you take it./
Jahir looked away, sighed. "There is a talent that runs in the Galare blood."
"Along with the touch-esper abilities."
"Along with, yes. It is rare… I know of one person with it, and that only through observation and… through the talent itself, which recognizes itself in others."
Vasiht'h ignored the flutter of unease that made his stomach queasy. He unfolded his wings just enough to re-settle them on his second back. "And this talent is?"
Jahir drew in a long breath. "Pattern sensing."
The mindline flooded with the richness of it then, the intuitive leaps that shot like stars across gleaming skies, connected into endless constellations, turning, rewriting themselves, testing, searching. It was a night sky talent: not deep and not strong. But the implications of it were staggering. Vasiht'h leaned back, eyes wide. "You… this… this is why you're so good at what we do, isn't it. This is where all your ability to put things together so unexpectedly comes from?"
"I believe so, yes," Jahir said. "It is… a form of advanced intuition, perhaps. My ability with it is minor, minor enough that I did not realize what it was until very recently."
Precognition, Vasiht'h thought. And then, with a sharpness of shock. "Your Queen."
"Our Queen," Jahir said. "And yes."
Vasiht'h looked away, staggered. And then he laughed. "That is entirely appropriate, I guess. That a queen might end up with a talent that serves a Goddess. My mother always told me that Aksivaht'h gave special gifts to women."
"And hers is a special gift," Jahir agreed. "Mine, only the faintest shadow of it. But one sees how she is moved to actions that might not seem needful."
"But you're bringing this up now," Vasiht'h said, frowning. "Why? You're not telling me you feel a pattern about this, are you?"
"I might, yes," Jahir replied, quiet, looking away again. "I may perhaps have been having the sense of it from the first moment you involved us in a case on behalf of Fleet when we were new to Veta."
"That long ago?"
Jahir nodded.
"That it might lead… eventually… to this moment," Vasiht'h repeated, just to get his arms around it, and not really having any luck.
The mindline sagged beneath the burden of a grim, gray sky, flecked with brief lightnings, hissing with static electricity and the promise of storms.
"Is… that… what you think is coming?"
"That's how it feels in my head," Jahir answered. Softer. "And my heart. I fear for my cousin, yes, ariihir. I fear for where we're all going more."
Vasiht'h glanced at him. "And your Queen feels this too. Presumably."
"I think..." Jahir threaded his fingers together. "That she offered one of our own for ambassador." At the Glaseah's look, he said, "We are not members of the Alliance, arii, but an allied power. Technically our interests are not the same, no matter how closely they might align. And yet... she offered. I think... perhaps... in her sight, this was her best opportunity to effect a possible positive outcome in the conflict to come."
That storm had become heavy with violence, large enough to shroud the entire Alliance. It made Vasiht'h's skin crawl, his fur lift like velvet stroked against the nap. "And she would sacrifice the Ambassador to that? You?"
Jahir met his eyes. "She wouldn't have to."
Vasiht'h was silent.
The Eldritch flexed his fingers in unconscious mimicry of one of Vasiht'h's nervous gestures, betraying a depth of nervousness he probably would never have admitted to out loud. It struck Vasiht'h powerfully: an act meant to spread toes and show claws looked alien on humanoid fingers. "I know my duty. It is yours now, also, ariihir."
That struck him to the quick, because Jahir was right. He had made his own vows. He sighed and scooted close enough that he could rest his shoulders against his partner's. "I guess if a Goddess is going to share her mind with a mortal woman, the least I can do is trust her."
"It is all we have," Jahir said.
Captain Raynor was human, like Levy, a man with the build of a boxer and a gaze that revealed little. He wore the stark Fleet uniform like a shield, and his impassivity was so distinct the two of them could feel it from a distance. It wasn't atypical of humans in the Pelted military, given the extreme differences in culture between the organizations, but Vasiht'h could have wished for someone a little more forthcoming given the assignment they were due to tackle.
This was the first chance they'd had to talk to him since the ship had departed.
"You know as much as I do," he admitted in response to their query. "Maybe more. But if you have questions?"
"Do we know anything about how politics works over there?" Vasiht'h asked for his partner, who had remained withdrawn since their talk earlier in the day.
"A little." The man crossed his leg, ankle on knee, and rested his hands on it. "They're a race of fighters. They kill to advance themselves within the system, or torture each other. The Emperor is supreme over them, and he maintains that supremacy by being a bigger, badder son of a whore than all the rest."
"And the past ambassadors...? We didn't get any data on them."
"I don't know much myself," Raynor said. "This is a new post for me. They've been mustering more humans to the border since things started getting unstable. From what I understand, though, the former ambassadors were of a broad range of species. Even one of your sort." He nodded at Vasiht'h. "But in general, they didn't have the stomach for the violence."
"Do we know anything about the circumstances leading to our mission?" Jahir asked, subdued. "Did the Ambassador make the request? Admiral Levy said they 'kicked him back.' Did they give any reasons?"
"No. I have to guess he got too good at what he was doing, though, given his record."
/But how?/
Vasiht'h suspected from the crushed pressure surrounding the words that Jahir hadn't meant for the mindline to pass them on. But the question had occurred to him as well. If one advanced one's cause through violence in a Chatcaavan court, just how much violence had this Eldritch committed—or survived—to manage all that he'd done?
An alarm sang through the cabin, jerking the captain to his feet. He strode to the wall-panel and woke it. "Captain to the bridge. Report."
"We're in range of our escort, sir, and it's under attack."
"On my way." As the door opened for him, Raynor said, "Better strap in, aletsen. Looks like the political situation just got thornier."
CHAPTER 2
What Lisinthir most wanted in all the worlds—after the one thing he couldn't have—was to be left alone to mourn his exile. That solitude would have dovetailed nicely with his need to recuperate from the physical challenge of surviving the past season and a half while addicted to alcohol, poisoned by hekkret, and unable to eat enough to keep himself healthy... in a climate where at least half an alien court had wanted him dead, and been willing to use methods both covert and obvious to secure that demise. The withdrawal in particular was finding him rather unequal to its demands despite his rationing out the hekkret he'd packed and the alcohol he'd demanded (and received). Perhaps had he been healthier he might have managed to weat
her its crawling onset with more grace? As it was, he was wondering if Chatcaavan vessels even carried physicians, much less any with experience in analyzing the metabolic catastrophes of wingless freaks, when the deck dropped from beneath his feet.
This was, he thought at first, some new manifestation of his ailment. In the stretches between doses, he'd had palpitations, faints, nervousness, vomiting, and fits of trembling... and now, perhaps, hallucinations? But the shudder that ran through the wall beneath his sweating palm was distinct. His wracked neurons were trying for a very complete experience: he was imagining the ship bearing him from the only life worth living was under attack. Very convenient.
Perhaps too convenient. He forced himself from what passed for a Chatcaavan head and groped for his sword belt. Claw knives—yes? No? Yes, he thought; they could lie dormant unless needed.
Out of the cabin he'd been assigned he found the corridors empty but the alert lights embedded at waist-height flaring sickly yellow-green. His body still felt vague, but the rush of adrenaline, so familiar, steadied his nerves. On reaching the bridge compartment, he ducked to fit through the hatch and his eyes were drawn to the rush and swoop of the vessels on the screen—no, vessels. More than one. Intelligence whispered into his ear while grappling in bed flooded him on a rising crest of excitation: not just the adrenaline now, but the memories of violence and sex, twined through the information like rivulets of blood on fevered skin. Chatcaavan fighter craft had to ride through Wellspace on carriers, and the smallest of those carried eight. He couldn't spy the carrier to assess its size. How many enemies did they face? This vessel was not meant to fight off dedicated attack. He grabbed one of the handles set into the bulkhead as the deck shook again.
"We have lost integrity along the port flank," one of the Chatcaava reported.
"Find out if they shoot to destroy or breach," hissed the male on the center dais. As he turned, he caught sight of Lisinthir and arched a wing out of the way as he whirled, glaring at the Eldritch with enormous and very angry cobalt eyes. "You should be below."
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