by R. Cooper
Taji wiped his eyes, weak and tired and small. “You’re right, though,” he said in Anglisky. He had been thinking and speaking in ‘Asha for a while but it was getting harder and harder to focus. He tried again. “You are right. He is not here. Taji shehzha is wanted. Taji Ameyo is not.” He sensed a reaction from somebody, a physical motion, and glanced to Talfa and Rinnah before swinging back to Larin. “A-ha!” He nodded. “Like an emperor.” He raised his chin. “You could always go to the ruins with me. You might learn something.”
“What could I learn from them?” Larin asked with another flick of his ear.
Taji gestured with his bound hands. “You could learn about time. About the fall of empires.” He opened his hands. “Find words that made their way into ‘Asha and survived. You could discover the initial conquest was against an empire as formidable as the Sha. Or you might find an empire born thousands of years before the Sha existed, but that had faded by the time the first Sha crossed the seas. What if that was all the original Sha had conquered? Something already gone? Where is the glory in that for the Olea? Where is the honor in taking something weak and dying?”
He locked eyes with Larin, his mouth moving before he could process any individual thoughts.
“Did you punish the original people so harshly because the Sha cannot deal with the possibility that your victory was meaningless? That empires fall all the time, some we will never know about. No murals on the wall for them. No name to carry on. Would I be allowed to say that to you if you carried me to the ruins yourself, or would it mean a permanent alay? Knowledge of the past might have prepared you for the I.P.T.C. But now, they will turn you into servants and take over your monuments and leave the home of the Olea to rot for a millennia. Your empire is no more. Your noble families are divided. You froze. There is no innovation. No future. You could have been strong but you chose this. If the I.P.T.C. does not destroy you, someone else will.”
Larin’s voice was low and steady. “You will be easier to conquer than you believe. You cannot help yourself. All your words, but your eshe left you here and did not fight for you.”
“Would you?” Taji snapped. “Or would you toss me aside like the others you shamed and failed to honor?”
Larin lunged forward to seize Trenne’s coat and haul Taji onto his knees. Taji hit the table, knocking cups to the ground, droplets of rithmi water and tea splashing onto his face and hands. Larin’s hand was large and heavy at the back of his neck. His face was close.
A dozen needles stabbed into Taji’s throat. He swallowed against an alay that felt tighter and shook violently when Larin pressed down to force Taji to lower his head. Someone was shouting.
Larin spoke quietly, lips to Taji’s ear. “You do not know true longing yet. This is nothing. I will leave you to ache until your mind is gone and your throat is raw, and you will beg as I take you. The emperor is not shehzha and I will not be controlled by one. I do not have to win you. I do not need to. You will crawl to me and only then will I be generous.”
He let go before those words could sink in, before Taji realized that Rinnah was the person shouting, that Talfa had stood up and the Guards had moved or grown in number and no one else in the room even seemed to be alive, they were so still.
Taji kneeled there, beneath all the noise and the fear, and then put his hands into the spilled mess on the table to try to push himself back.
“What have you done?” Rinnah kept asking that. Taji nearly felt sorry for her. Might have, if he could feel anything but bile rising up his throat. He couldn’t see her anymore. There was a wall of gray between him and most everything else. Not Larin. He was as untouchable as Taji—almost.
Taji slowly lifted his head.
Larin watched him with satisfaction. “He is unharmed, if wiser now.” He was composed, but not calm. Taji did not think he was ever calm.
“You are no emperor,” Talfa announced, loud and clear, foolish, when Nadir had wanted Talfa to live through this.
“Larin, he is not the others. He did not want it.” Rinnah’s voice was rising, although she wasn’t nearly as adamant as Talfa. Maybe she had still expected her brother to be better.
Taji stayed on his knees, shoulders drawn in so he could feel the press of fabric against his nape. Trenne’s coat, something real and warm.
“Would you like an alay, too?” Larin asked his sister. Rinnah went silent. “I have been patient with your foolishness in allowing the Inri so close when anyone could have told you better. But you will never be emperor. You would not last a year. You certainly cannot advise me. I think you should stay in your rooms with your histories, ‘Nah. You serve the Sha better there for now.”
Larin looked away from Taji, presumably to servants, to Dahle or someone else. “See that Olea Rinnah is comfortable. Send Koel Talfa back to where they were.” His gaze returned to Taji, trembling on the floor. “See that my guest is taken care of, in the rooms Dahle prepared. We must honor him as he deserves.”
Taji did not see Talfa go, or Rinnah taken away. Behind a curtain of close, watchful Imperial Guards, he struggled to his feet, then turned to stare at the stain on the tiles. He raised his head only when a few of the Guards began to walk, following the path of brightly dressed servants.
My shehzha terrifies the emperor, Trenne had said, leaving Taji to wonder anxiously what Trenne had imagined when he’d thought of Larin and Taji, if he had predicted precisely this.
No one in the crowd of nobles around Larin looked away from him, not that he saw. Eriat would have been horrified. Trenne, who knew what the Sha were capable of, would not have been surprised.
Taji was foolish enough to still have shocks jolting through his system. He touched his mouth, the one to drive an emperor to desire and then rage, before putting his hands down. He didn’t notice where he was led and didn’t think it mattered. It was not on the same floor as Larin’s audience room, but it wasn’t far. If Larin had a set of rooms for more private purposes, they were probably nearby.
He was breathing too fast when the Guards stopped and the servants opened two doors, also nearly floor-to-ceiling and designed almost like the lace window shutters. Not much privacy, then. Nothing hidden from Shavian ears.
One of the Guards put a hand out when Taji started to follow the servants into his cell. Taji stared at him or her or they and said nothing while the hard cuffs around his wrists were removed. The alay stayed, and that was the point, really. The rest was the same false honor.
That Guard, and the others, still did not move when that was done, so Taji sneered at them, because what would they even know or care about human faces, and stumbled into his new prison with as much grace as he could muster.
Chapter Eighteen
TAJI’S ROOMS were not as extensive as the ambassador’s had been, but the lights and panels on the walls were newer. Better technology, practical additions slightly at odds with Larin’s disdain for IPTC. Taji swayed in place, blankly considering the painted walls and the piles of cushions, the tables stacked with platters of food, the bedroom all to itself through an open doorway.
He had never seen rooms this nice outside of a vid. He raised a hand to the back of his neck as he walked to the windows. The sky told him it was night, and he wondered what time it was, how long he had been here. He couldn’t remember eating.
He made his way to the tables to study the food he had no appetite for. Once or twice a shiver went through him, although he felt overheated. His thoughts were unfocused, his stomach knotted. His depilatory creams were still working, which meant it had probably been at least a day, maybe two, since he had been taken.
He didn’t understand this level of reaction in his body but supposed most shehzha didn’t barely survive a political purge and then end up a prisoner. And he hadn’t eaten. Somewhere very, very far away, Trenne was probably pulling a nutrient bar from a pocket and didn’t know why.
It was good that Taji was human or Trenne would have been feeling this too. People were counting on Trenne. He didn�
��t need humming desire under his skin, or a constant tug of embarrassment, or never-ending, distracting thoughts of being touched—
Taji turned away from the food and put his hand over his face. He was not surprised to find his cheeks tacky with tears and dirt. That was the sort of shehzha he was.
He opened his mouth to laugh, but when no sound came out, his fingers moved on their own, flying to the back of the alay. He searched for nicks or grooves or buttons to push, though he had no idea in what order or how often, and he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to remember any patterns. He scratched his skin more than once, choked as the needles seemed to dig in deeper, before tearing his hands away and leaving the tables in a search for the bathing room.
This bathing room was extravagant, warm floors and multicolored lights that dimmed when he touched them. Taji stayed in the dark, stripping off Trenne’s coat before his boots and the rest of his clothes and then curling up on the floor beneath the spray of water.
He scrubbed his hands and his face and his ears, then the back of his neck. The water was too hot so he made it cold, and shivered, and tried not to think of anything.
It didn’t work, but Taji was too tired to care if the sound of his sobs reached the ears of the Guards standing outside his door. He hoped it did.
HE ATE, eventually, a few small, dry sheets of pressed grains and a handful of what he was going to call seeds. He drank from the pitcher, the water inside still cold though no longer icy, and smelled the contents of each and every bottle in the bathing room. He put most of his clothes back on, as well as Trenne’s coat, and laid down on a pile of cushions in the main room. He should have collapsed in exhaustion, but his thoughts had cleared just enough to turn to panic. His mistakes were too great and his nerves were screaming.
He shouldn’t have challenged Larin. Taji was not the seductive type. All of Larin’s shehzha probably got rooms like this at first, although at least they’d had the illusion of choice.
But Taji wasn’t going to beg. He’d already decided that. Not for as long as he could hold out. There had to be some advantage to being human here. Maybe this was the worst of it and the longing would fade soon. And when it was over, if he survived, he was going to get a tattoo of a yet’ta.
He wished he had a knife. He should ask Lin how to use one. If he got out of here. If Lin was all right.
He kept an eye on the door. Larin had said he would wait until Taji was desperate but Larin was false and not to be trusted. Although Taji was willing to believe Larin was that calculating and cruel enough to draw out Taji’s fear, especially now that Taji had pissed him off. It could have been his plan from the first time Taji had accidentally angered him, as if it was Taji’s fault that Larin was weak and Taji had to be punished for it.
Trenne wasn’t weak. He’d been through so much, first a childhood here, being treated like an animal, and then serving IPTC in places he could never have dreamed of. Trenne had been in combat and suffered the loss of his CO, maybe a friend, to poisoning. But he still thought about others, especially his team. He’d told Taji to stay with them and Taji was the one who kept leaving. Trenne would worry but he would still do what he had to in order to protect them.
Thinking of Trenne was enough to make Taji’s cock throb. Danger didn’t matter to a shehzha brain. Maybe it didn’t matter at all. Taji squeezed his eyes shut and turned his hot face to one of the cushions and wondered again if getting off now would help stave off more of the longing or make it worse, and then how many abandoned shehzha had thought the same thing.
But if Trenne were here… If Trenne were here, Taji would do anything. He wouldn’t care about the Guards at the door, except to hope they’d tell Larin how much Taji could give. He’d wait on the bed exactly like Trenne wanted his shehzha to do, and then Trenne would insist he eat, and Taji would do that too.
He wondered if all shehzha would rather fuck than eat, and if so, who fed Elii. Then he didn’t want to think about it anymore. He slipped a hand into his pants and remembered what it had been like to dream of Trenne this way without ever having touched him. But the lure of memories was strong. Taji had touched Trenne, too distracted to do much more than that, and let Trenne do all the work. Taji could make up for that, offer himself however Trenne wanted, even if it didn’t mean getting that taste in his mouth again.
He swallowed. It didn’t help. He tried again, then lurched to his feet and stumbled back to the bathing room. No privacy there either, no doors, even for eager shehzha who needed them most of all. But this room would have what Taji needed.
He opened and discarded bottles until he found something viscous and slick, something that didn’t smell like perfume or body oil. He left the lights dim, kept Trenne’s coat on, and focused on pleasure, on getting high enough that he could think, or not think. He fucked into his fist and tried to grind down onto his fingers and then stayed there on the warmed tiles, breathing hard
After a while, he did it again, moaning silently into the sleeve of Trenne’s coat. It did not make him feel good—he wasn’t free, he wasn’t any less alone—but his body tingled and he could pretend he was satisfied. He moved shakily and slowly, rising to his feet, then listlessly washing up. He pulled his pants up but didn’t bother with the fly. If he had put his boots back on before he had come in here, he couldn’t remember and couldn’t find them now, anyway. His stomach growled, a painful roar of a sound that startled him mostly because he’d forgotten his body could make noise other than air leaving his throat.
He’d eat and try to rest and then do this again or think of something else. He only had to last until IPTC returned. He had to survive. He’d told others that and heard Nadir say much the same. Living it was harder than he’d imagined, but Taji had dealt with pain his entire life. He could keep doing it.
He wiped his hands and turned to leave the room and then stopped, heart pounding, at the hushed sounds of movement from the main room. The doors had been opened.
Taji didn’t move. He couldn’t hear anything now, if it was Larin, or an Imperial Guard, or a servant. The last two wouldn’t make any noise, although any of them would hear Taji breathing.
He clenched his hand around empty space, a knife that wasn’t there, the honor shehzha didn’t have. Looking around was pointless—the room was full of knocked over, spilled bottles but nothing resembling a weapon. Taji’s shirt was askew, his pants loose, his feet bare. He was sweating faintly and breathing hard, acutely aware of his empty body and dry mouth. He had no doubt he looked wild, exactly what Larin would want.
He glared at the walls and the floor he’d marked and then forced his head up before he stepped beyond the doorway.
He was expecting the worst and didn’t know what to make of the splash of dark purple across Trenne’s arm and neck.
The familiar black of Trenne’s fatigues was not nearly as confusing. Neither, somehow, was the fact that Trenne was barefoot, or that, instead of a blaster or a stunner, the knife from his belt was in his hand. The blade had blood along the edge.
Trenne’s hair was the same, at least. Taji stared at it in relief. Then Trenne said, “Taji?” and he sounded so uncertain that Taji snapped his attention to Trenne’s face.
Fine droplets of blood marred one cheek, obscuring his pretty markings. One of his ears swiveled backward, meaning he was listening to something distant, but his eyes were fixed on Taji.
“Taji,” Trenne said the name again, softer, and wiped his knife on his thigh before sheathing it. Taji’s lips parted on a voiceless whimper. His leg turned to water so he reached out and Trenne came forward to catch him before he fell. Trenne’s hands were careful on Taji’s lapels and then his shirt, not on his skin. He kept Taji upright but didn’t pull him close.
Shaking his head was the only apology Taji could manage. He couldn’t look up. Trenne was so beautiful; he shouldn’t be here. Taji didn’t want to let him go.
His hands were skimming over Trenne’s chest and waist. Taji hadn’t realized it until tha
t moment. He touched still-warm, sticky blood but it didn’t stop him. Neither did his shame and embarrassment at groping Trenne like this. Trenne was in front of him—or the longing had Taji hallucinating, but Trenne felt real. He was solid and worried and he kept saying Taji’s name as if that was going to bring Taji’s head up.
He exhaled into Taji’s hair, tightened his arm around Taji’s shoulders. “Tell me you are well. Please.”
Taji closed his eyes.
“Taji.” Trenne tried again. “You are angry with me. I have failed to keep you safe—”
Taji jerked his head up to stare at him in wonder and Trenne pulled back. For one second, Taji met Trenne’s eyes and then he had to look away. Humiliation made him sick all over again, but he touched the alay the same moment Trenne seemed to notice it.
Trenne drew in a loud breath. Taji didn’t want to think of his expression. He kept his gaze down even though Trenne said, “Taji,” still soft, and the brush of his fingertips over Taji’s skin made Taji shiver. “He did this to you.”