The Crimson Claw

by Deborah Chester

  “I should have been told,” she said.

  “The Kaa wished no one to know,” the physician told her.

  She glared at both of them. “When was the first? How many times has this happened?”

  “A dozen or more, usually following a period of stress or crisis,” the physician answered. “Each one has depleted his vital force more.”

  “The first occurred during the Imperial Daughter’s visit to Malraaket, several years ago,” Temondahl said.

  Israi’s rill stiffened. Was he implying that her misfortune had brought this weakness to her father? Was he saying this was somehow her fault? Her anger grew, but she controlled it. After many years, Israi had learned that her temper should not always be unleashed.

  “To be out of control,” old Chancellor Gaveid had said to her once after one of her furious tantrums, “is to allow others to control you. Take care that you remain in charge of your destiny, not others.”

  She remembered that sage advice now, and drew a breath so deep it hurt. “Will he recover?”

  “That remains to be seen,” the physician said, his voice grave. “He is seriously afflicted. His vital force lies low. He should be moved to the infirmary, where he can be—”

  “No!” she said sharply. “The Imperial Father would not wish that.”

  “True,” Temondahl agreed with a sigh. “It is not in keeping with the imperial dignity.”

  “Perhaps we should worry more about saving the imperial life,” the physician retorted.

  A glare from Israi made him bow hastily, his rill very red. She said, “Let what equipment is necessary be brought here. Attend him with all your skill. The Imperial Father must be saved.”

  “All that can be done will be done,” the physician replied with another bow.

  He turned back to his patient. Temondahl gently gestured for Israi to step aside.

  She did so, allowing him to lean his head close to hers. “The Imperial Daughter should make herself ready,” he murmured. “While all hope for a full recovery must be held to, it is equally wise to take precautions.”

  She thought again of how he had been talking to Telvrahd and Oviel before she arrived, and wondered if he could be trusted. “Explain,” she said.

  Temondahl’s gaze flickered evasively. “Privacy is not sufficient here,” he said, sounding almost disappointed in her. “The Imperial Daughter should know what to do. Excuse me. I must prepare an official statement for the court and the public vidcasts before a panic can begin.”

  “Yes, do so,” she commanded.

  He bowed and walked away from her, leaving Israi to pace back and forth in rising consternation. She had pretended ignorance instinctively, without thought. But she knew exactly what he meant. Years ago, the Kaa had instructed her that the transition of power from kaa to kaa was seldom an easy one. Although she was the named successor, acknowledged by all, she still had enemies, many of whom she would never know or meet. It was up to her to grab the throne with both hands and not relinquish it.

  Glancing up, she found Oviel gazing at her. There was a trace of a smile on his narrow face, and definite mockery in his eyes. How bold he had grown in displaying his contempt of her.

  Israi did not attempt to stare him down. She turned her back on him and went straight to her father’s study. The guards stationed there in front of the locked doors allowed her access.

  From memory Israi entered the code with her own hand, and the locks released.

  She slipped inside and locked the doors after her, aware from the corner of her eye that Oviel—too late—was trying to follow her.

  He knocked on the doors, calling her name once before the guards hushed him. Smiling to herself, Israi strolled over to her father’s massive desk. Oviel might be sly and clever, but he had not expected her to act this quickly, or this publicly.

  Running her hand along the polished surface of her father’s desk, Israi allowed her tongue to flick out in satisfaction. She sat in her father’s crimson chair, finding its contours too large for her more slender form. For a moment she let herself relish the sensation, then she recalled herself to the task at hand.

  Temondahl’s warning had been clear. She did not have much time.

  Locating the lock on the desk, she entered the codes, her fingers faltering only momentarily. A secret drawer opened, and she plunged her hand inside to lift out a small box of expensive songwood. The wood whispered melodically at her touch. She opened the lid and peered inside at the contents.

  The box held a gold-colored key; a red rectangle shorter in length than her hand; the actual imperial seal, made of extremely heavy truvium; and a list of principal security codes for defense installations across the empire. The gold-colored key gave her access to the imperial treasury. The red rectangle controlled access to the Chamber of Treaties. The imperial seal was equal to the Kaa’s signature. The defense codes gave her power over the military.

  Israi held each item in turn, gloating to herself. There was only one more thing to find. She turned the box of songwood over and felt along the bottom until she found the hidden catch. The false bottom opened, and she took out the access key to her father’s personal fortune.

  It was forbidden for anyone except the Kaa to possess these items. Until her father breathed his final breath, Israi could not legally touch them. Yet this was a moment for risks. If she let her courage fail her, if she waited until the Kaa was actually dead to seize this chance, then she would be a fool who deserved to have the throne taken from her.

  Israi hesitated no longer. The trick was now to make sure no one knew she had these things. She lifted her voluminous skirts with their multiple layers and felt along the deep hem of her underskirt. Finding a seam, she tore it open with her fingers, breathing quickly in excitement, and tucked the items into the hem. Taking a tube of stickant from the desk drawer, she resealed the hem and shook down her skirts, smoothing them quickly into place.

  She closed the songwood box, ignoring its melodic response to her touch, and replaced it inside the secret drawer. With all back in place as it should be, she glanced around the study, then crossed the room and took down several scrollcases containing her father’s favorite poetry.

  Clutching these in her hands, she emerged from the study, locking it behind her, and found Oviel waiting there with his eyes narrowed in open suspicion.

  “What are you doing, Israi?” he asked. “Why do you not attend your father?”

  She glared at him in contempt and did not bother to answer. When she started to step past him, however, he did not move aside.

  “I ask you again, Israi. What were you doing in there? Stealing his scrolls? Looting his study like a common thief? How greedy you have become. Have you no thought for Sahmrahd Kaa at this time? Have you no thought for anyone but yourself?”

  Her anger burned her throat, but she glanced at one of the impassive guards instead. “Clear this courtier from my path that I may return to my father’s side.”

  The guard moved immediately to obey. Wide-eyed, Oviel stepped aside before the guard could grip his arm. He flicked out his tongue and bowed.

  Head held high, Israi swept past him, carrying the scrolls back into her father’s bedchamber. She was conscious of the stolen badges of state bumping against her ankles with every step, conscious of the jingling of her slipper bells, conscious of her heart beating too fast. But she kept her imperial composure and ordered a chair placed by her father’s bedside. Calmly, while everyone stared, she seated herself, arranging her skirts prettily, and unrolled one of the scrolls. While her father lay unconscious, struggling to draw every ragged breath, Israi read to him from exquisite poems in a voice melodic and low, looking the very picture of a most devoted daughter.

  She had all the time in the universe now to wait on him. She felt both calm and exhilarated, the reins of power close within her grasp.

  CHAPTER•THIRTEEN

  The crowds of Shrazhak Ohr were cheering for the Crimson Claw and stamping in uniso
n on the benches. “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  She flicked her ears back, circling her staggering opponent with lithe, deadly intent. He was a Gorlican, awkward on his stumpy legs, his shelled torso showing a bright yellow gash where her parvalleh had struck deep in the first flurry of blows. His blood dripped steadily on the dirty sand, and his orange eyes were glazed over with pain and fear. His scaled hands held a stave and a cheaply forged glaudoon. He looked like a common laborer who had been shoved into the arena without any training. He didn’t even know how to swing his glaudoon properly.

  Armed with her parvalleh and glevritar, Ampris had sized him up in a single glance the moment she strode into the arena. She could have struck off his head in the first blow, which was the swiftest, most efficient way to kill a Gorlican. It was also the kindest death, but she had her instructions from Halehl.

  The Gorlican was condemned to death for having struck his Viis owner. Ampris was to spin this out as long as possible, giving the crowd maximum enjoyment.

  So she’d struck the first blow at his shell, gashing him deeply but not letting it be a mortal strike. Since the Gorlican’s blood had begun to drip the crowd had been constantly on its feet. Halehl’s voice whispered to her through her collar, praising her.

  “Time for another blow,” he murmured to her now. “Stalking is good, but it’s gone on long enough.”

  Backing her ears, Ampris sprang at the Gorlican with a roar that startled him. Yelling, he stumbled back and lost his balance. Dropping his stave, he windmilled his arms frantically to keep from toppling over as Ampris closed in.

  She knew if he fell on the ground she would have to finish him, and Halehl would be displeased with her.

  Growling, she reached out and blocked his wildly swinging glaudoon, nearly getting her ear nicked in the process as she pulled him upright. With her other hand, she swung the glevritar up and down, making the serrated blade whistle, and hacked off the outer edge of his shell in a long, gleaming strip.

  He cried out, and the crowd went wild.

  The chanting resumed. “Ampris, kill! Ampris, kill!”

  More blood dripped. The Gorlican was staggering heavily now. His beaked mouth opened in distress. “Kill me,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Have pity. Make it quick.”

  Ampris could not bear his begging. Closing off her pity, she snarled at him. “Hold up your weapon, fool! Make this look good for the crowd.”

  But he barely seemed able to focus, much less hold up his glaudoon. “Why should I please them?” he said, his orange eyes flashing in momentary defiance before pain clouded them again. “Why should I care?”

  “Circle him, Ampris,” Halehl whispered through her collar. “Close in, and toy with him.”

  She gouged the Gorlican in his leg with the tip of her glevritar, and again the crowd cheered. Ampris felt sick to her soul.

  “At least defend yourself!” she shouted at him.

  “Kill me, please.”

  Ampris could bear it no longer. Compassion swept her. She knew there was only one thing she could do now for him.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “I’ll finish you with mercy if you will help me.”

  “Anything,” he panted, his voice weak and desperate. “Please.”

  “Attack me,” she told him. “Lift your glaudoon high. No, change your grip.”

  Again she sprang in and out, nicking him to keep the crowd and her trainer happy. She despised herself.

  “Change your grip!” she said angrily. “Look like you can fight. I can’t do anything to help you if you don’t appear to challenge me.”

  “Just kill me,” he whispered.

  “Raise your glaudoon and charge at me with all your strength and speed. Come at me fast and hard, and I will make it quick and merciful.”

  Although her voice was cold, inside she wanted to weep for this pathetic doomed creature.

  Fire kindled in his eyes. He raised his glaudoon as she instructed, and suddenly released a shrill yell that startled her. He charged, full tilt, coming at her with more strength and speed than she had expected.

  Caught slightly off balance, Ampris pivoted on her back foot and swung the glevritar aloft with a swift flourish that made the blade flash in the lights. The blade hit the Gorlican’s neck between jaw and shell and sliced cleanly.

  His head went rolling off in a shower of blood, and Ampris moved smoothly to one side like a dancer as the Gorlican’s body crumpled to the ground.

  The crowd roared acclaim, and Ampris brandished her bloody sword in a champion’s salute, swaggering around the arena in victory the way she’d been taught. But tears ran down her muzzle for the Gorlican lying behind her on the sand.

  In the Kaa’s palace, all lay hushed and quiet. Servants crept about their duties, hardly daring to make a sound. Courtiers clustered in knots, worried and chattering in low voices. Members of the council came and went, looking grave, speaking to no one idly.

  Outside the palace, Viis citizens began to assemble at the gates, keeping vigil. Newscams hovered, reporting rumors and speculation as to the state of the Kaa’s health. The sri-Kaa emerged from the palace in the afternoon of the second day of the crisis, attired magnificently, and rode in a processional litter of state with the imperial wives and members of the council surrounding her. The procession went to the Temple of Life in the historical district, where Israi and other ladies delivered ceremonial prayers to the gods on behalf of the dying Imperial Father.

  When the procession returned to the palace, spectators saw that the sri-Kaa rode veiled and motionless. As was proper, she did not wave to the crowd.

  As soon as Israi was back inside the palace, she stepped down from the litter and tossed aside her veil impatiently. “What news?” she asked Temondahl.

  He bowed to her and shook his head. “No change.”

  Wearily, Israi sighed. She was fatigued and feeling cranky from the strain of this vigil. On the first day it had pleased her to sit at her father’s bedside, reading to him. But when he made no response and seemed completely unaware of her presence or her efforts, she found herself losing interest. This morning he seemed no better. If anything his vital force had dimmed even more. Had Temondahl said he was better, she would have gone straight to his bedside. But now, tired and wind-whipped from riding in the open litter, she wanted her rest.

  “I shall be in my apartments momentarily,” she announced. “Inform me immediately of any change. Instruct the physicians that I shall soon join my father’s side.”

  “Your concern is most commendable, highness,” Temondahl said in approval.

  “I shall be there as soon as I can,” Israi said and left him.

  In her bedchamber, she dismissed her ladies in waiting and allowed her slaves to undress her. Old Subi had died during the past winter, and today Israi missed her servant. She felt isolated and alone. No one had ever understood her as well as Subi—or Ampris.

  Swiftly Israi closed the thought of Ampris from her mind. She would not think of the golden pet of her chunenhal, now turned into some common gladiator cheered by the masses. But for just a moment, as she wandered to the tall windows and pressed her brow ridge against the cool, smooth surface, she longed for the past, when her life had been simple, when her father had been strong and handsome, granting all she desired, when Subi had cared for her exactly the way she liked best, when Ampris would have caressed her and soothed her, adoring her without question.

  Then Israi stiffened her spine and pulled herself erect. She closed off the past, reminding herself that to reach behind her was to be weak. She had to be strong now. She had to be ready for the moment when it came.

  But, oh, why did her father linger? Why did he not release his vital force into the hands of the gods and just go?

  Then she could mourn him. Then she could get on with her life.

  Ampris shifted restlessly on the hard bench, bumping Teinth with her shoulder without meaning to. He lifted his hand and gripped her shoulder affectionately for a moment before
releasing her. At the other end of the bench, Nink was groaning and flexing his bandaged leg.

  They were waiting for Halehl’s training lecture on what they’d have to do tomorrow for the final day of the Triad Sweeps. Their quarters on the station were cramped and uncomfortable. Ampris and Lamina were sharing quarters. Teinth and Nink had been paired, although Teinth had asked to share with Ampris. Sanvath and Omtat took the third compartment. Elrabin and the other servants had to sleep on the floor here in the conference room, which also served as massage and mess area. Halehl’s temporary office was located on the opposite side.

  Ampris glanced over at Elrabin now, where he was crouched on the floor against the wall with the other servants. He looked cranky and was rubbing his slim muzzle thoughtfully. She wondered if he still intended to slip away tonight after everyone was bunked. It was risky, but Elrabin was an expert at getting out. He claimed he’d found a schematic for the ventilation system of the station and he thought he could make his way to the central axis shops without being seen. Then he would meet with a representative of the station’s abiru workers and slip back to their quarters before day shift.

  Although Ampris had given him permission to try to keep this rendezvous when he’d first asked her, now she had doubts. She wondered if she’d been wasting her time, trying to unite the abiru folk. What good were the old legends or the heroes such as Zimbarl or Nithlived? The Viis were never going to let their slaves go. They were too dependent, too lazy to do much work. They had built their empire by harnessing the talents and creative ideas of other races, but what could they do themselves?

  “Cheer up,” Teinth murmured to her hoarsely, elbowing her as Halehl came in. “Only one more day, then we be off this space derelict.”

  Ampris sighed and nodded, trying to shake off her sense of depression. She did not know why, but Shrazhak Ohr gave her a strange feeling of impending doom. She had felt it from the moment of their arrival. It was even more oppressive now. Absently she stroked her Eye of Clarity, sitting erect and pretending to listen as Halehl started his lecture. But her mind remained parsecs away, drifting and unfocused, unable to concentrate on what was said.