The Crimson Claw

by Deborah Chester

  “Nonsense,” Malvnhad broke in with a glare his way. He puffed out his air sacs and returned his gaze to the Kaa’s. “Can she be trusted to behave according to imperial protocol? Can she be trusted to remember the official speeches she will be asked to make? Will she carry out the onerous duties assigned to her? The trip involves a lengthy visit, a strenuous round of meetings and functions, and diplomatic finesse. As the Imperial Father knows well.”

  The Kaa curled his tongue inside his mouth. Yes, he knew very well. He hated the annual visit to hot Malraaket, major spaceport of the Viis home world. The people were provincial, their conversations tiresome and unsophisticated. This year he’d been dreading the prospect of visiting their manufacturing plants and distribution centers more than usual. The very idea of it exhausted him.

  That was why he felt sending Israi was the perfect answer. The anticipation of the trip would keep her occupied and out of trouble until summer. While there, she would bask in the adulation they would pour over her. She would enjoy every moment of their attention. When she returned, she would be happy and satisfied for a while, still basking in the afterglow of a successful adventure. He should have thought of this solution sooner. Israi, with her boundless energy, constant demands, and craving for excitement, needed to be kept busy.

  “It is decided,” he said, breaking into the continued discussion of the council. “She will go as our representative. It is time the people met her. Let this be recorded. Let this be done.”

  The meeting went on to other matters, lasting far beyond his patience. But when at last the chancellors filed out and the Kaa rose to return to his chambers for his first official dressing ceremony of the day, Temondahl approached him with a bow.

  “If I may have a word in private, Imperial Father?”

  The Kaa paused with a graciousness he was far from feeling. His head buzzed with exhaustion. He wanted only to crawl into bed, but he knew if he did, the palace would erupt with gossip and rumors, and his physicians would be sent for to determine what was wrong. The Kaa wanted no one fussing over him. It would only make things worse.

  “Yes, Temondahl?” he asked, keeping his voice courteous. How he missed Gaveid, with his sly wit, his shrewdness, his perfect understanding of minds and motivations. But Gaveid had gone into his otal life cycle, too old for service, his health failing him at last. He had died during the winter, and the Kaa mourned him still. Temondahl was a capable, hardworking individual, but utterly boring company.

  He approached the Kaa now, bowing respectfully with a formality he never surrendered, even in private.

  “I hope Lord Malvnhad’s blunt remarks were not too offensive to the Imperial Father?”

  Impatience consumed the Kaa. Was that all he wanted, to apologize for another chancellor’s behavior? What a crashing bore Temondahl was.

  The Kaa raked his chief adviser with a glare. “They were not.”

  Temondahl blinked as though he had not expected that answer. “Very well. I hope that—”

  “The matter is closed to further discussion,” the Kaa said in warning.

  Temondahl flinched and bowed low. “Ah, yes. I understand. Sire, there are two private reports that I wish to share. They are just in, and very serious.”

  The Kaa’s depression darkened. Private reports deemed unsuitable for the ears of the council meant extremely bad news. For a moment he was tempted to flee, to refuse to cope with any of it, but that he could not do.

  “Speak,” he said and braced himself.

  “Our colony world in the Tescearu system has fallen to rebels. The government is overthrown. I lack complete confirmation, but there is a chance the governor has been killed.”

  The Kaa’s anger came swiftly. He did not hesitate. “Subdue the rebellion. Send orders to the Commander General to dispatch appropriate military forces without delay.”

  “It shall be done.”

  “The rebel leaders are to be rounded up and executed. Make sure this trouble does not spread,” the Kaa ordered. “We cannot have the Tescearu mines endangered.”

  “The Imperial Father is wise.”

  “What else?” the Kaa demanded.

  “The Mynchepop Bank of the Empire is on the verge of failing,” Temondahl said in a hushed voice. His eyes looked grave indeed. “The director sent me word by encrypted linkup only minutes before the meeting started. He reports he can hold things together long enough for the imperial treasury to be moved, but that is all. Unless they are warned, many noble families will be wiped out.”

  Stunned by this catastrophic news, the Kaa could only stare.

  “It will be necessary for the Imperial Father to authorize an immediate transfer to the Bank of Solein Global on Fariance. May I have the imperial seal to—”

  “No!” the Kaa said, unable to draw enough breath to make the word as forceful as he wanted. He thought of Mynchepop, that delightful planet, as breathtaking as a jewel. Its climate was perfect. Its scenery too lovely for description. He loved its beaches of lavender and pink sand, the seas that were so clear and unpolluted, the soft sigh of fenankath trees in the wind. It was the favorite vacation world of the empire. He had known only happiness in his all too rare visits there.

  “No,” he repeated. “This is impossible. Mynchepop bankrupt? How?”

  “The primary jump gate to Mynchepop failed several months ago,” Temondahl said tonelessly. “Perhaps the Imperial Father has forgotten. Zrheli quantum engineers were pulled off the repair project on Shrazhak Ohr and dispatched to help as soon as it happened, but thus far it has not been reactivated. Only the secondary gate is operational. This has cut down on travel and tourist visits by sixty percent. The bank is over-extended, having based its empire-wide lending policies on a projection of full income. It cannot recover.”

  The Kaa turned away. He needed wine. He needed to sit down and think. It was impossible to assimilate such devastating news, much less cope with it.

  “There is not much time to act,” Temondahl said quietly but urgently. “I believe that if we promise assistance to Mynchepop, the economy there can be stabilized. Perhaps industry could diversify its economic base and—”

  “No,” the Kaa said in horror. “No industry can be established there. We will not permit the planet’s beauty to be polluted.”

  Temondahl bowed diplomatically. “That matter can be discussed by the council at large. More important is the issue now before us. The imperial treasury must be saved.”

  “But must it go to Fariance?” the Kaa asked in dismay. His limbs felt frozen. He could not seem to think. “Lord Galard owns the Bank of Solein Global. We will be putting our money, the very heart of the empire, into his hands. No, this is not prudent. We cannot agree to this.”

  “Galard does not own the bank outright,” Temondahl said. “He is only a director, on a board of many—”

  “We cannot do this,” the Kaa said, shaking his head. “Put our treasure into the hands of one not even born into one of the Twelve Houses? This upstart is a gambler, a scoundrel, with a paltry colonial title inherited through his mother’s line.”

  “The bank, however, is sound,” Temondahl argued. “I have the assurance of the management that—”

  “No,” the Kaa said in a tone of finality. “The imperial treasury belongs on Viisymel, here within the palace vaults. It should never have been taken offworld.”

  Temondahl stared at him, opening and closing his mouth several times. His rill lay limp on his shoulders. “The—the Imperial Father cannot mean this.”

  “Yes, of course we mean it,” the Kaa said in irritation. “Why should it not be here, at the center of the empire? Why not?”

  “But in the palace vaults it can earn no interest,” Temondahl finally said. His voice was hoarse, and he continued to stare. “It cannot be used to secure lines of credit. How will we finance the—”

  “Do not trouble us with these minor details,” the Kaa said, turning away. “Our decision is made. Here, the treasury will be safe. Here,
it shall return.”

  “But, sire—”

  The Kaa whirled on him and extended his rill fully. “Will you argue with us, chancellor?”

  Temondahl gulped and seemed to swallow his tongue. Coughing, he sputtered and shook his head, sinking into a low bow.

  The Kaa eyed him with open displeasure. “As for our personal fortune, where is that?”

  “In—in the same bank as the—”

  “Bring it here also,” the Kaa said.

  “But—”

  “Come to us later for the seal, when you have the transfers prepared,” the Kaa commanded and walked out.

  CHAPTER•EIGHT

  The crowd stood on its feet, stamping in unison and yelling Ampris’s name. With a fine spray of indigo-colored blood drying on her golden fur and her blue cape billowing and swirling around her, Ampris walked her victory lap around the small, intensely hot arena while medics dragged out her fallen opponent. Every twenty steps, she paused and lifted her gore-stained glevritar aloft with a flourish that made the crowd cheer again.

  Trailing after her came a score of vidcams, recording her every move. The scoreboard was flashing her name in huge letters, with zooming starbursts of laser-guided fireworks. High in the commentators’ box at the top of the stands she could hear their staccato report being recorded in voiceovers for this evening’s vidcast that would go out over sports link feeds across the empire.

  “Yet another victory in the rising career of the Blues’ newest young warrior. All season Ampris—the Crimson Claw—has improved her skills and dazzled crowd after crowd with her agility and lightning swordplay. Let’s cut now to the chief trainer of the Galard Stables—”

  Ampris turned toward the gate, where handlers were gesturing impatiently for her to come in. She ignored them, paused once more, and swung back to salute the crowd a final time with the glevritar.

  “Crimson Claw! Crimson Claw!” the crowd shouted in a tremendous roar that crashed and thundered in the enclosed space, echoing off the rafters of the arena in this nameless place on this nameless day.

  No, she realized, blinking against the dazzle of lights, this day had a name. It was the final competition of her first season. She had one more event to go, and then she could finally rest.

  Spinning around so that her cloak swirled out in the flashy manner Halehl insisted on, Ampris walked out of the arena, through the gate, and down into the dark tunnel leading to the locker rooms.

  Elrabin pushed his way through the bystanders crowding the tunnel, all wearing bright orange pass cards slung around their necks. He reached her side and gripped her arm through the folds of her cloak. “You okay?”

  “Here.” She handed him the glevritar, knowing he would clean, polish, and oil the blade with exacting care. Sanvath’s servant might send him into the arena with rust spots on his blades, but Elrabin had high standards. Her gear was always clean, always shining, always ready.

  One of the vidcams floated in after her, getting past the barrier. Elrabin glanced back and spotted it at the same time as one of Halehl’s guards did.

  “Hey!” the guard shouted. He drew his side arm and fired a neutralizing field at the cam, which spat, whirred, and crashed to the floor.

  One of the bystanders stepped on it, crunching a fin, and laughed.

  Elrabin hustled Ampris through her assigned door, slamming it shut, and the guards positioned themselves in front of it.

  Wearily, her brain numb, Ampris untwisted the catch at her throat and let her cloak fall from her shoulders. Elrabin caught it before it landed on the floor and bustled past, tossing a stack of fresh towels to Okal, who was waiting to massage her.

  Climbing on the table, Ampris let the Phivean work on her rapidly stiffening muscles, wishing he could massage away the ache in her brain. “How long till my next bout?” she asked.

  “Maybe an hour,” Elrabin replied, crossing the narrow room again. He laid out a fresh cloak, clean and unstained, but made no move to unbuckle her blood-splattered harness or wrist guards. “Okal, all the blood on her belong to someone else?”

  “Yes,” Okal answered in his breathy, hissing voice. His tentacles worked gently, rubbing out the kinks. “She is without hurts. Is easy to see when wrong color.”

  “Okay,” Elrabin said in satisfaction. He went over to the wall and activated the linkup recessed there. It was a text feed only, very unsophisticated, but Ampris saw his tall ears swivel in satisfaction. “Doing good, Goldie,” he said after a moment, panting happily. “Look, the odds on you are changing about every ten seconds. That means the rumors are working.”

  Halehl had probably mentioned something in his interview about her shoulder sprain, which was still nagging her two weeks after she’d injured it in a fierce battle with one of the Aarouns of the Kavmahled Stables. He might even have let drop that it was getting worse, or that she’d reinjured it in the combat she’d just finished. Now the rumors would be flying, making the odds shift back and forth on the tote. At the first competition of the season it had astonished Ampris to hear on vidcasts that Omtat had nearly lost his arm from a sword cut when the big Aaroun was sitting unharmed in the lounge, idly rolling chance stones in his hands. Elrabin had explained the ferocious lying and spying that went on all during season in an effort to rig the betting odds. Now Ampris ignored most of it, if she could.

  Yipping happily to himself, Elrabin dashed over to the crude bath, which was basically a stone trough beneath a wall spigot, and turned it on full force. Rust-colored water, unheated, thundered out, making up in plenitude what it lacked in purity.

  Smelling it, Ampris wrinkled her nostrils and turned her face away. Okal prodded a sore spot, and she winced.

  “Is some pulled,” he announced and reached his long front tentacle over to his treatment box while his shorter tentacles continued to work on her. A moment later he applied a patch to her shoulder, and the pain vanished. He prodded her gingerly. “Tendons still sore?”

  “I can’t tell,” Ampris replied. “Your stuff is still working.”

  Okal had a strong interest in healing. Being both a slave and a Phivean, he had been denied any official medical training, but he had taught himself a great deal over the years. He was always experimenting with salves and healing patches, modifying the ones he was given by the medics, plus inventing his own methods of massage and therapy to quicken healing or to prevent injury.

  He pushed on a spot in the web of her shoulder. “Sore?”

  “No.”

  He moved over a fraction and pushed again. “Sore?”

  “No. Ow!”

  “Ah, yes,” Okal hissed to himself. He applied another patch and tapped her. “Sit.”

  Ampris sat up and rotated her shoulders experimentally. She gave him a nod, and the Phivean’s bulging eyes rolled and darted in pleasure.

  Elrabin joined her, his light brown eyes gleaming wickedly. Under the sound of running water, he said rapidly, “We’re doing okay today, Goldie. Now, as you know, betting on the Crimson Claw isn’t bringing us much return on account of you being too good.”

  Ampris nodded, not paying much attention. She rubbed her face, feeling a buzz of weariness in her head, and wished she could crawl into the darkness somewhere and not come out.

  He nipped her ear lightly to get her attention, then pressed a cup into her hand. “Drink up. You’re fading on me.”

  She was thirsty, but she sniffed the contents first.

  “Just water, from home,” he said impatiently. “I won’t give you the boost till it’s time to go back in.”

  She hated the stimulant Halehl gave them to keep them fighting past the point of exhaustion. She hated what it did to her afterward. How many times had she fought today already? One more to go, then the season was over. She clung to that, with a desperation she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  Gulping down the water, she listened while Elrabin chattered on, “You know how I’ve been working on getting that network in place for spreading our bets? It’s w
orking great. No way they can trace anything back to us.”

  “Is unwise to risk bets on selves,” Okal said in disapproval.

  Elrabin barely shot him a glance. “Yeah, yeah, the voice of doom over here. Shut up, see? If you won’t bet, then you got nothing to say.”

  Ampris put out her hand and squeezed Elrabin’s shoulder. “Don’t be so harsh,” she said, interceding between the two of them as she always did.

  “Slaves should not place bets,” Okal said, hissing his words more than usual. His shorter tentacles fluttered in distress. “Against—”

  “Just shut up,” Elrabin snapped, and Okal stared at everything in the room with his mouth cilia waving agitatedly before he turned his back to them.

  Ampris sighed, wishing the two of them could get along. “Now you’ve offended him.”

  “Nah, you can’t offend a Phivean,” Elrabin said. “Now listen. I got the code to the bookies’ main link. With that, I can call in and they don’t know me from Halehl, see?”

  “Be careful,” she warned him.

  “Yeah, I’m careful. My name is careful,” he said impatiently. “Look, Goldie, I know how to do this. Now with the code I can place the bets, but I don’t. No, ’cause then there might be a security trace run back and catch me that way. These bookies got no trust, these days.”

  Ampris smiled into her cup as she finished her water. “Maybe they have reason.”

  Elrabin brushed the front of his coat. It was new, a gift from her. She’d learned how much he loved finery. This one, with its embroidery on cuffs and collar, had for once rendered him speechless. He was still preening in it at every chance.

  “No reason from me,” he said, not catching her teasing. “Now there’s this Myal I got a tip on, that for a hefty percentage of the take she’ll reroute a bet through a carrier line to clean it so it can’t be traced, then tap it back in.”

  Okal closed his treatment box with a snap. “You speaks of such things as make no sense.”

  Elrabin glared at him, but went on talking. “The Myal is like this central processor, right at the hub of her own network of trace lines and reroutes. She’s an informational genius, knows everything about how to tap into all kinds of links and data retrieval lines.”