by Alma Boykin
“We trust that is not the situation with Daesarae,” Tahdak said, one talon raised in inquiry.
Daesarae’s neck spines twitched. “No, Imperial Majesty, not at all.”
“Good. It would be unfortunate for a lineage to lose legal standing in the Pack because of a lack of service, or to end up like Reeshlee.” A rustle whispered through the chamber as everyone shuddered at the memory of the dead clan Reeshlee of RaeTee. Dak-lee noted several councilors making discreet warding-off gestures with their hind feet, and he wondered if they were superstitions or if they’d developed problems in their lineages. Probably superstitious, since no one dares to hide genetic problems, not after what happened to Ro-diit’s sire’s brother.
Tahdak continued, “We will hold the legislation on legal rights until after the winter solstice, in order to allow a full examination of all petitions and challenges, as well as the possibility of exceptions.” He looked around, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn, but no one challenged his decision.
“Imperial Majesty, what is the nature of Lord Peitak’s absence?” Ro-diit asked after some moments’ silence while the councilors made notes on the discussion.
Tahdak pointed to Dak-lee with his tail tip. The prince imperial explained, “My lords, a dispute between two villages on Peitak lands escalated, causing one of the groups to try to secede from the Lineage, forming a Free Town. It appeared that the matter had calmed down, but the end of harvest caused a resumption of both the dispute and the secession attempt.”
The planetary council erupted, and someone yelped, “That’s foolish!”
“Unprecedented!”
Ro-diit rolled his eyes. “They’ll starve.”
“Slap them down,” Daesarae snarled, making a cutting motion with his strong-side forefoot. “Peitak must slap them down, erase them from the Lineage lines before they contaminate any more. This is exactly why Schree’s Rest and NightLast have to be eradicated, Imperial Majesty.”
“Map,” Tahdak barked, and a large map of Likkhala appeared, floating above the council table. “NightLast and Schree’s Rest,” he ordered, and the two settlements appeared, one on the far northern edge of the habitable part of the continent, and the other on the western coast. “Peitak lands.” A green patch appeared on the southeastern lowlands and the edge of the Crescent Hills.
Lord Beesh spoke up for the first time. “Daesarae, how are NightLast and Schree’s Rest supposed to have contact with Peitak’s people? There’s been nothing in the media broadcasts about the Free Towns for at least three year-turns, not since the new landing facility opened at NightLast.”
“Just allowing the rebels to exist is enough provocation, Beesh,” Daesarae snapped. “They’re causing problems for everyone around them, and this,” he waved at the display, “this just proves my point. They’re a danger to the Pack.”
“They’re a pressure relief valve is what they are, like Pokara used to be,” Kaeshare boomed. He caught himself, adding at a lower volume, “Your pardon, Imperial Majesty, my lords. I’ve encouraged a few restless individuals to migrate to the Free Towns, and it’s kept everyone else calm and content. Yes, they’re a pain at times, but they provide at least a third of the Imperials, which is a greater proportion than the Lineages do.”
“Prove it,” Daesarae began, but Kaeshare beat him to the prey and the numbers appeared beside the map. “Ah. Then send them to the colonies.”
“Oh yes,” Diisch drawled. “Send every malcontent to Pokara or Sidara, and how long will the Empire stay together? Because nothing leads to calm and order like penning all the smart, overly energized juniors in the same den. What could possibly go wrong?”
Dak-lee struggled to hide a smile as he thought about the trouble he and his brothers had gotten into. Good point, Diisch.
Neekare rumpled his tail. “If anyone can handle a boundary dispute, it will be Peitak—now that he’s paying attention to his lands and not to his new concubine.”
A wave of snickers passed around the table, although Ro-diit and Shu sniffed as if they saw nothing amusing in the comment.
“The Free Towns retain their rights and duties,” Tahdak announced, tapping one steel-tipped talon for emphasis. “You have more than enough trees on your lands, Daesarae, there’s no need to try and steal already-cut timber from loggers on land belonging to Schree’s Rest. Your egg-stealers were fortunate that Tarkeela’s son only bruised them.”
Lord Kirlin smiled at the news but held his peace. Dak-lee suspected that Kirlin stayed in contact with the head of Tarkeela Lineage, even though Tartai staunchly refused to take up his duties and proper position.
“Which leads us, through a side trail, to Pokara,” Tahdak announced, replacing the map with a projection of the colony world.
“Indeed, Imperial Majesty,” Kirlin wheezed. “How serious are the malcontents?”
Tahdak gestured to Shu.
“They appear to be quite serious, but divided, my lord. A few separatists make much noise, but the rest of the people either want more autonomy in local affairs, or they only want the restrictions on genetic tinkering lifted, and that limited to food products and some decorative plant species.”
This time Dak-lee knew exactly why everyone but Kirlin and his lord father made warding-off signs. Genetic modification had caused the Great Relocation and the loss of an entire generation of Azdhagi, or so most people believed. Tahdak and Kirlin (and Dak-lee) were inclined to give the twice-gone Lord Shu a generous mouthful of credit for some of the events surrounding the abandonment of the homelands. Even so, they maintained that the genetic modification of plants—using material from other plants, or tweaking stem strength and fiber length—were the extent of permissible genetic modifications. Nanotechnology was subject to similar limits, although Dak-lee still didn’t understand why.
“What sort of autonomy?” Kirlin inquired, chasing Dak-lee back from his cloud stalking.
“Government by elected representation, my lords, with an Imperial governor serving only in an advisory capacity, except for matters of planetary and Empire-wide defense.” Shu waved two talons over the screen on his data pad. “The most popular proposal, at least according to the media coverage, is for all males and females over three sixes of years who are independent and employed, and who have no mental incapacitation, to vote for a councilors and municipal leaders, as well as for regional and planetary governing bodies.”
Ro-diit tipped his blocky head to the side. “That makes no sense. How can twenty million Azdhagi know the right things to do?”
Shu rumpled his tail. “Supposedly everyone learns all they can about whatever is to be decided upon, and then they choose from a list of options. It sounds like trying to find a talkak’s den by running along with the fleeing gantak and shootee.” The others laughed, except Sheedak.
He rubbed one talon along the edge of his muzzle, stroking the black blotch by his jaw hinge. “Prior to the Great Relocation, most Azdhagi on the throneworld lived under a similar elected system, although with greater restrictions on political participation so that dependent individuals could not manipulate the government.”
“But the planet remained under the control of the nobility,” Daesarae said.
Sheedak rocked his weak-side forefoot from side to side. “Not entirely, except in foreign affairs, the Imperial military, and the Clan lands. Other areas came under the jurisdiction of the elected councils, starting in 180 Before the Great Relocation, because no Lineage had sufficient members in those areas to regain control over the lands and population. King Barrlee initiated the first representative council in—”
“Thank you,” Dak-lee interrupted. I do not want to spend the next sixt listening to legal codes. His sire flashed an approving hindfoot gesture to the prince Imperial.
Tahdak spoke. “Given the situation on Pokara, we decided to send Prince Kalaki to serve as the next governor. He was not our first choice, but with such short notice . . .” Tahdak turned his weak-side forefoot palm up, talons extended.
“It is unfortunate that Lord Barrla succumbed to his injuries, leaving Pokara without a governor, but hunting accidents do happen.” Everyone around the table gestured their agreement.
Dak-lee sighed a little. No one could have predicted that two shardi would ever share a hunting territory, let alone cooperate on a hunt. That Barrla had been able to kill one and fend off the other spoke to his skill, but the wounds had been deep and dirty. And Kalaki—well, Dak-lee still wondered if those stories he’d not been supposed to overhear about his uncle’s concubine and offspring dying of a drug overdose and not from a hard delivery had any truth. The rumor had never quite died, and even a faint scent meant that prey had passed that way . . .
His sire continued, “He’s dealt with commoners in the past,” Tahdak reminded everyone, “As well as having military experience and a sound theoretical knowledge of the prohibited technology. Kalaki arrived on Pokara three days ago.”
Blee and Beesh nudged eachother and Beesh pointed to something on the display screen built into the table. Blee made a complicated forefoot gesture and Dak-lee wondered what it meant. He caught that the two were not pleased, but with what he couldn’t tell.
The next topics proved more tedious than contentious, and Dak-lee stayed focused only by reminding himself that his sore hip stemmed from inattention. The last point of business, however, gripped the council as powerfully as a shardi sinking its claws into a shootee.
Lord Neekare waved his tail for attention when Tahdak opened the hunt to new prey.
“Imperial Majesty, my lords, there are rumors of a disturbance outside the Morinci Confederation that is stirring the prey to flight.”
Dak-lee called up data on the Morinci Confederation, but the only available files dated to several hundred year-turns ago and came from the Dukorlig Scholars.
“Have you anything specific?” Zhi-king waved at the same lack of information on his screen.
Mottled green Neekare made a negation. “No, my lords. A large number of ships from the Confederation’s systems have passed through Teedar’s outer communications net, but my source had nothing more specific except that Morinc-loy’s governors have not replied to requests for information.” He rumpled his tail, “It could simply be a coincidence of direction and the usual technology failure. Teedar’s Regis asked the Traders to look into the matter.”
Guffaws and derisive hisses rolled around the council table. Dak-lee wanted to put his forefoot over his muzzle at such foolishness. If they’re asking the Traders to investigate the matter, then obviously the Regis doesn’t think it’s serious. The Traders? Really? He smothered a snort.
“Anything else?” Tahdak asked once the laughter faded away.
Ro-diit raised his tail. “We’ve caught people avoiding the Lone God’s temple and setting up altars to their Lineage line instead.”
“We have too,” Zhi-king reported, and Daesarae and Sheedak made gestures of affirmation.
“Are they causing problems, Ro-diit?” Tahdak sounded unconcerned.
Ro-diit rocked forward and back on his bench. “No, Imperial Majesty. No one is protesting or refusing to pay temple fees. They just do not appear on the feast days, and they burn little bits of incense to pictures of my sire’s sire, and in one case to a picture of your honored ancestor King-Emperor Seetoh.”
Tahdak tipped his head to the side, amused. “But they cause no difficulties?”
“No, Imperial Majesty.”
Daesarae raised his tail tip. “A party approached my son and asked if they could build a separate, small temple to honor the Lineage’s ancestors. He told them he’d ask me. I have not decided yet.”
“Sheedak?” Tahdak nodded to the scholar.
“So long as they pay temple fees and do not disrupt worship, or harass the Lone God’s followers, I’m ignoring them. People are going to worship something, my lords, Imperial Majesty.”
“That they will,” Dak-lee agreed. “There are reports of an ancestor shrine or two in the servants’ quarters, honored sire, but I see no reason to hunt them out, should they even exist.”
Tahdak held his strong-side forefoot palm up, talons in. “Unless this fad disrupts your estates, we see no reason to become involved. Each of you knows what is best for your people and lands. If you wish to ban the practice, do so. If you wish to ignore it, do so. Your Lineages can decide, should it come to that.”
None of the nobles on the council appeared interested in religious controversy, although Dak-lee knew that a few not currently at Court would howl in protest at the very idea of someone failing to worship the Lone God. Despite Tahdak’s attendance at the feasts and participating in the ceremonies when necessary, Dak-lee knew that his sire professed no deep belief in the Lone God, unlike his sire’s sire. Dak-lee saw no purpose in worshiping Seetoh, but he could understand the idea. The Pack has greater prey to hunt and more dangerous predators to guard against than a few commoners burning incense to the Lineage lord’s ancestors.
“If there is not further business, this council is dismissed,” Tahdak announced, banging his fisted forefoot on the knocker three times. He got to his feet, and Dak-lee followed him out of the chamber. Tahdak shed his robe of office and stretched. “Yech—I despise sitting still for so long. Any update on Kalaki’s travels?”
“No, honored sire, which I take to be good news.”
“It is. The Imperial net would have reported if anything unusual occurred along that route,” his sire reminded him. “He’d better get me good tracks and a clean scent, or I’ll finish what our sire started.”
Dak-lee swirled his tail with emphatic assent. He froze as his sire continued, “Find Tartai of Tarkeela Lineage. He’s shirked his duties long enough.”
The governor’s residence on Pokara failed to impress Prince Kalaki. The complex remained more fortress than palace, despite sixts of years of renovations and additions. The brown-and-gray prince strode through the so-called family quarters, not bothering to inspect the den. Instead he concentrated on compiling a mental list of necessary changes, starting with the floor.
He detested the tile floor. The elaborate patterns seemed to shift and move as he watched, making him feel ill. Just as bad, the bright green, red, and orange colors attracted too much attention: visitors and staff should be looking at him, not at the floor. And the rough glaze hurt his feet. Kalaki refused to wear footcovers indoors unless absolutely forced to, and the prickly, abrasive surface irritated him to the point of causing pain. He suspected that replacing the tiles with stone would not solve the problem. Nor did he trust the structure below the floor to support the greater weight of stone. This will be wood. I shall have the guild masters replace it with all wood, and if the staff cannot keep from scratching it, then I will replace them as well. Most should have been pensioned off year-turns ago as it is.
Kalaki did approve of the cream-colored walls. The surface texture reminded him of the belly of an especially talented pleasuremate he’d hired some years ago, her hide firm and full, yet smooth. No pictures or hangings interrupted the flow of the surfaces, and the rounded doorways allowed the material to flow from room to room, unifying the chambers despite the mix of furnishings and floor materials.
He studied an ornate worktable, frowning at the inlay on the legs and surface. A single band of dark wood might have complemented the patterns in the pale-brown top, but instead someone had squandered their craftsmanship by mimicking vines and leaves. Far too many otherwise attractive or useful tables, benches, chests, and other furnishings in the palace had been ruined with inlay or painted designs, Kalaki had noticed. Enough of this frippery. He pointed at the worktable with his tail. “Remove this and use it for heating fuel,” he ordered.
The steward, a small, dark-tan male with a permanent bend in his tail, protested, “Your Highness, this was a gift to Governor Prince Shao-lee from the crown. It is the oldest piece of finework in the palace.”
“I do not care how old it is, remove it. It offends the eye and cannot be made useful.
” Kalaki prided himself on his reasonable nature, and he kept his tone polite but firm. “Put it in an antique collection if the law requires that it be preserved in some fashion. Do the same with those pieces in the other room, the ones with the pictures painted on them. In fact,” he turned and loomed over the steward. “Anything in the public rooms and my private chambers that has inlay or painted decoration must be removed as soon as is possible, and replaced with solid, simple, clean furnishings, more suitable for the functions of this palace.”
The steward’s neck spines rose and he backed a step from Kalaki. “Your Highness, many of the furnishings are crown gifts. And it will take a great deal of time and resources to strip out everything and replace it, assuming I can find workmen willing to make items without decoration.”
Kalaki lunged two steps forward, spun, and slammed the steward with his tail, knocking him tail over talons into the wall. “I forgive failure, but not excuses. Leave this place and find employment elsewhere, since you cannot deal with a single simple request.” He stalked on to the sleeping chamber, ignoring the moan of pain from behind him.
He’d already had the sleeping chamber re-done to his liking, and the simple, stark lines and contrasts soothed him. Every furnishing was either black, dark brown, or cream, as were the materials on the sleeping platform. Once stripped of the painted patterns, the dark wooden walls and cream stone above gave the chamber a close, cool feeling. Kalaki’s body servant helped him remove his robe and carry harness, then left in silence. Kalaki stretched out on the sleeping platform, savoring the feeling of the smooth fabric against his irritated skin. He’d not had time to have appropriate linings put into his governor’s robes, and they chaffed.
While the workers replaced the furnishings, they could seal off the den attached to the governor’s chambers. He certainly didn’t need it, and he did not care to be reminded of why he’d come to this remote excuse for a colony every time he entered or left his quarters. He’d have enough trouble as it was, given the disgusting prevalence of modified organisms on the planet. Why did my sire permit the corrupt material to remain? Surely he knew that the evil stuff would return to the throneworld at some point, no matter how many restrictions the Pack lords put on it? It seemed that every living creature he set eyes on had been modified beyond the bounds of reason.
