her instruments 03 - laisrathera

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  The woman’s name was Maraleith, and the news was worse than either of them anticipated. Irine was glad she hadn’t asked for food for herself because she was sure she couldn’t have eaten after hearing it. Malia had mentioned some of it, but it had seemed so incredible… and Malia had not had details. “So… you’re saying that Hirianthial’s family—his entire family except for what’s here—is gone.”

  “His family and his people,” Maraleith said. “Slaughtered by that murderer Athanesin and his lackeys. I can only imagine he will be marching for Galare next.”

  “We can’t do anything about Athanesin and his army,” Val said, already halfway through a bowl of stew. “But we might have a chance here. What do you know of things here? After the escape?”

  “Oh, it’s terrible how things have gone.” The woman shook her head. “The Queen’s White Sword, good Captain Olthemiel, captured with a priest and several of his men! And they have not been killed, but imprisoned in the audience chamber—it is whispered that the pirates mean to take them off-world and sell them, if you can imagine such a horror! Nor is he there alone… they have put the remainder of the Queen’s supporters in there with them, including the Lady Araelis, and she pregnant!”

  Irine laced her fingers together to keep from chafing her tail. “And the woman who replaced Liolesa’s going to let them?”

  Maraleith’s eyes went round. “How can she stop them? She was imprisoned herself, for attempting to arrest the high priest.”

  Val frowned, rested his spoon back on the lip of his bowl. “Did she?”

  “She did,” Maraleith said. “Such a sad thing, that. The aliens killed her liegewoman, without so much as telling her they’d taken her for their own. But loyal Thaniet crawled through the very walls to give warning to her mistress and died in the woman’s arms.”

  “So who’s in charge?” Irine asked, confused.

  “The high priest and his pet alien, and all the pirates they have brought down since.” Maraleith refilled Irine’s cup from a teapot. “Some thirty-odd, I’d say. We don’t have exact numbers, since we’ve boarded up all the doors in the passages.”

  “You have?” Val asked, startled.

  “We had to,” Maraleith said, solemn. “We won’t serve pirates and criminals. I won’t have my girls and boys in their sight, where they might be coveted. These people are animals. Have you seen the dead outside? They won’t even bury them properly… just toss them in a pile like refuse. It was why Asaniefa asked us to tend to Lady Thaniet ourselves. She knew we would give her a proper burial.”

  “Why haven’t they come looking for you?” Irine warmed her hands on her cup, uneasy. “It’s not like you’re hidden.”

  “Up until now Surela and her people, and the hostages, have been staying in the palace,” Val murmured, frowning. “So Baniel would have needed someone to feed and clean up after them. Now that most of the hostages are gone and Surela’s been dethroned….”

  Maraleith went grey, but she topped up Val’s cup with commendable calm. “We know we’re in danger. But someone must stay to help the Queen when she returns.”

  “And now someone shall.” Val looked at Irine. “Because there’s a task within our measure.”

  “What could that possibly be, with us against thirty people?” Irine asked, ears flattening.

  “Ah,” Val said, grinning. “But what if it was fifteen of us against thirty? Or more?”

  Irine squinted at him. “You want to free Olthemiel.”

  “Oh!” Maraleith exclaimed. “If it could be done!”

  “I think it may,” Val said. “Would you be so kind as to bring me another piece of your fine bread, Mistress? There are some spaces I haven’t filled up yet.”

  The woman chuckled. “It is good to feed someone with a healthy appetite. And you want to talk alone, I imagine. Don’t worry, I shall find the furthest loaf in the kitchen and spend considerable time deciding how to tear it.”

  Irine blushed. “It’s not that we don’t trust you.…”

  “But rather that the less you know, the less our enemies can learn from you,” Val finished.

  Maraleith nodded, the curtailed gesture that Irine had once found so hard to read. “I know. Trust me. I have some sense of the enemies that have come calling for our Queen. I will be in the pantry if there is need. You should not see anyone else for some hours at this time of night.”

  “Thank you,” Val said.

  “So you want to waltz through the heart of the palace, avoiding all the guards and pirates, and somehow sneak thirty or forty people out, more than half of whom aren’t fighters?” Irine folded her arms, trying not to dig her nails past the fur on her upper arms. “You sure you’re up for that?”

  “It’s worth a try, ah?” He grinned at her. “They won’t be expecting it, so it will come as a surprise to them.”

  Irine huffed. “It’ll be a surprise to them because it’s dumb and not likely to work.” She raked a hand through her hair, sure that she’d left some of it in unruly tufts and not caring. “What about Reese? Can you tell where she is?”

  The Eldritch sobered. He set his bowl aside. “Would that I could. But I can’t stretch myself that far right now, not without giving myself a bad case of the faints.” A crooked smile. “Not really something I’d care to court.”

  “Because… you got hurt?”

  “Because I strained myself in the first fight against Baniel,” Val said. “Think of it like a ripped muscle, Lady Tigress, and you’ll have some of the sense of it. I can flex it a touch, but too much and the pain stops me.”

  “How long does it take to heal from that?”

  “More time than we have.” He sighed. “I am sorry I can’t tell you about your captain, Irine. Chances are she’s still alive, though. She’s too great a liability to your Lord Hirianthial, if I read the situation right. There’s no question that Hirianthial will return, but if Baniel has your captain he can use her to split his brother’s focus.”

  Irine grimaced. “Right. Just what we need.” She sighed. “So you can use your abilities a little, is that right? Is that’s what going to keep them from seeing us?”

  “Oh no. No, I imagine what’s going to keep them from seeing us is that we’ll use the servants’ halls to get there. We’ll send the staff away so they won’t be targeted for retribution if we’re found, though. There’s no point in them staying and becoming hostages to pirates, especially since I don’t think Baniel’s protecting them anymore. If he ever was. That might have been Surela’s doing, not his.”

  “I don’t get it.” Irine shook her head. “What’s his angle? The servants are a danger to him, aren’t they? Why didn’t he have them all killed?”

  “I honestly think….” Val looked toward the fire, then jerked his chin toward it. “That’s what he wants. To see the world burn.”

  “But why?” Irine asked, aghast. At his lifted brow, she said, “I’ve run into drug barons now, and thugs, and slavers, and pirates, and as horrible as they all were they were in it for themselves. They wanted something. Burning up the world just to see it burn… what’s the profit in that?”

  “That’s exactly the profit in it,” Val said, quiet. “To destroy something is power. To know you can destroy it… that is an aphrodisiac. That is what he derives from all this, Lady Tigress. The knowledge that he can cause the demise of an entire people. Surely you are aware that such people exist.”

  “I guess I knew,” Irine said, soft. “I just thought they were so rare I would never meet one.”

  “Now you have.” Val sighed and managed a smile. “My only regret is that you didn’t meet one that was also stupid. A dumb thug does localized harm. A smart one….”

  “Can rip down a world.” Irine squared her shoulders. “All right. If it’s all that we can do, then we should. I’m guessing after we free these people we can take them back through the same corridors? Maybe lead them out to where Malia and Beronaeth are waiting.”

  “It will do. We will
tell Maraleith to clear the building. Most of the staff is up before dawn, and the ones who aren’t they can rouse. That will give us… oh, I’d say three hours to rest before we make the attempt. We don’t want to try it before we’re sure they’re free of the palace.”

  “Sounds about right.” Irine pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll go find her and tell her. You finish eating. Then we can sleep.” She managed a smile. “I won’t even tease you about sleeping with you, though I should. It’s in the racial profile.”

  “I would think the stink of me would drive any thoughts of it from your head.”

  “That’s what bathwater is for. And trust me, you’re getting that even if I’m not tumbling you, because I’m not sleeping next to the smell of rot. I’m surprised you could eat through it…”

  Val said, “You can get used to anything.”

  “Yep. Doesn’t mean I should.” She grinned, and even tired she found she meant it. Maybe things would work out? But if they didn’t, she was trying. Better that than to die in a hole alone. Especially not alone. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Strangely, she thought he meant it. That made her smile too.

  “What is it exactly that you see in her?” Baniel asked, curious. “She is a woman like any other. Much like the last one you used and discarded, even.”

  “Ah, but that one was not a queen,” the Chatcaavan said. In his false shape he was reclining on one of the chaise longues, hands folded behind his head, one knee up, slouched in an indolence that was too overt to pass for a real Eldritch… even had he been fully clothed, which he wasn’t. Baniel found the revelation of the scars crossing the alien’s sides and chest intriguing. Were those the Chatcaavan’s, expressed into the new shape? Or were they his brother’s, stolen with his pattern?

  After a moment of pleased contemplation, the alien finished, “This one thinks herself strong enough to rule. It amuses me.”

  Baniel found that a curious comment, but let it pass. “Many people believe themselves to be greater than they are.”

  “Ah, but how many are so delusional as to think themselves fit for a throne when they are so obviously not?” The Chatcaavan grinned lazily. “You yourself do not believe she was ever worthy. Do you deny it?”

  “Of course not. But she wouldn’t have served so well had she been half as competent as she believed herself. Tools should not think for themselves.” Baniel drifted to the window and stared out into the dark. Was his brother here yet? Liolesa? When would they come? The waiting bored him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d begin destroying something just to occupy his time… and there was nothing left worth destroying that was not already in the process of coming apart on its own. It was never wise to overdo the management. “Shall I have entertainment brought in for your men?”

  “Let them wait. It will keep them irritable.” The alien half-lidded his eyes. “They are very pleased with themselves, having brought such a ship to me, and have become lackadaisical in responding when I require response. I need them to remember what we are seeking here is cargo, not diversion. The merchandise is not to be touched.”

  “There are commoners aplenty in town.”

  “Later, perhaps. Let them earn the privilege.” The alien sat up and stretched, languid. “In a few days perhaps I will tour the ship. You could come with me, see your ride out of this system. It is fit for a king, truly.”

  “If I wanted to be king.…” Baniel turned from the window. “Later, perhaps.”

  “Then I go to amuse myself with the woman who thinks she could straddle a throne. After that, I shall enjoy myself killing the pregnant one.” He grinned. “You could join me. It would be good for you.”

  Baniel smiled. “I fear I have no taste for failures.”

  “Hah! Then you must have a very empty harem. I leave you to the contemplation of your virtues and the beds they empty.”

  “Why, thank you. That is a fine compliment.”

  “From one predator to another,” the alien said, and slid from the chaise longue.

  As he reached the door, Baniel said, “Lackadaisical, you said?”

  “The ship sleeps in orbit. I would punish them for it, but they are too few for the prize they have captured. There will be time to discipline them properly… perhaps when I have a few of my own kind among them to show them.” The alien cocked his head. “You disagree?”

  “I only wondered. I would hate to have such firepower in the hands of those who have decided they need not answer to you.”

  The alien chuckled. “Let them rebel if they dare. They already fear others of my kind walk among them, hidden in their shapes, waiting to punish their defiance. They frighten themselves into compliance… prey, all of them.”

  Baniel chuckled. “Let me guess. A rumor you sowed yourself.”

  “Nothing of the kind.” The alien grinned. “But when they birthed it themselves, perhaps I did nothing to discourage it. Best to know who could be cowed by such rumors, eh?”

  “Just so. Enjoy your night, then, what remains of it. Lessons tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Eagerly.”

  “Mm.” The door closed behind him, taking the alien with it and, Baniel knew, any hope of that lesson on the morrow; Surela had the creature well and truly distracted. The situation suited him, however; he had everything he needed, having established the link and tested it. Further instruction would only arm the alien, and as much as possible he wanted the Chatcaavan helpless to resist any of Baniel’s efforts. His brother, he knew, would be returning soon. Might even already be here, for he was not so dismissive of a ship’s silence as the alien. Perhaps it was in combat with whatever forces Hirianthial had mustered in his absence.

  And then he would be coming here. Of that, a certitude, for his brother was nothing if not predictable. He pondered the possibility of contriving a trap that would kill Hirianthial without any further oversight from him—it would certainly be safer to take his leave of the world (and not by using any convenient vessel offered him by an alien and his crew of thugs). But he would never be sure of Hirianthial’s demise if he didn’t witness it. The other predictable thing about the man, lately anyway, had been his ability to live through all the lethal obstacles Baniel had arranged. Granted, his survival through the last one had been engineered, but that was only because Baniel wanted to see him hurt before he died. A weakness, Baniel thought: his own. But it was his last, and soon he would tend it, and have no more. And then… the universe awaited.

  He glanced through the window at the firmament. Where are you, O my brother? How long will you make me wait?

  A shiver coursed his spine that owed nothing at all to the cold.

  Waking to the sound of a halo-arch’s pings and musical murmurs wasn’t new. What was new was that the song they were generating wasn’t some dirge describing a physical state unequal to consciousness. He was, he thought with amusement, becoming more deft at this fainting from mortal injury business. He’d also had the grace to lose his grip near a modern medical facility, and the Moonsinger’s was no doubt impressive.

  From a distance, muffled footfalls on carpet sounded, and then a shadow hove over him and was followed by a face. Jasper’s mouth gaped in a foxish grin. “And the unlikely hero awakes. Hello, Lord Hirianthial.”

  “Hello, alet,” he answered. “Is it terminal?”

  “Now that I’ve stitched your spleen back together? You’re fresh as a new cub. And apparently as accident prone.” The Ciracaana tapped the halo-arch, retracting it. “Need a hand?”

  “No, I think I need the practice sitting up by myself.” He smiled a little and tried it, and other than a faint tremor in his wrists and a slight queasiness, found himself remarkably hale given the situation he last recalled. “I take it the Medplex is not currently under siege by pirates.”

  “Wouldn’t that be dramatic. No, the surviving pirates are all trussed up in the brig, and still unconscious—any idea how long that’s going to last?”

&n
bsp; “No?”

  Jasper huffed. “I thought I’d ask, since you’re the one responsible for their state.”

  “Am I.” A memory of power and beauty and oneness that sent a flutter of feeling through him, warming his skin and prickling at the back of his neck.

  “Lost the last few minutes of the fight, eh? Not unusual. Well, other than some nicks and scrapes, and the whole ‘spleen repair failing, probably from stress’ part, you’re good to go, and you were the last one I was sitting watch on. Everyone else is up on the bridge.”

  “Was anyone….”

  “Hurt? Sure.” Jasper’s ears sagged, and his smile was whimsical. “Happens in this line of work. Hurt enough not to mend up? No. Everyone’s fine, Lord Hirianthial. And they’re all waiting on you, though you won’t catch them saying so.”

  “Then if you give a moment to orient myself, I will join them.”

  “Of course.”

  Alone, Hirianthial pushed himself to the edge of the bed and steadied himself, hanging his head and drawing in a breath. On the exhale, he spread his awareness out from core, tentative, waiting for the headache and pain.

  Nothing.

  Somewhere in his mind, the memory of a priest was chuckling. God does not break His tools.

  Which explained the spleen how? he wondered.

  Ah, but mortal flesh can only bear so much.

  He snorted, smiled and touched his side. No doubt. Like the several wounds he’d probably taken in the fight without noticing in the adrenaline surge that had accompanied their peril. He could do with a touch more awareness of his physical state--he would keep that in mind, the next time he needed to reach for these abilities. The God gift, as Lune would have him call it, and agreeing with her he set his hands on his knees and composed himself, and said prayers he had not had the heart for since his wife’s death: gratitude, and pledging. The gift must be used wisely.

  And, Urise whispered, you did not kill with it.

  “I am no Corel,” he agreed, quiet, and went to find Jasper, and the others.