Only the Open

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  That male’s voice sent a ripple of horror up the Emperor’s spine because he recognized its malice. The pettiness of it. The avarice, and the lust, and the armor that wrapped it with self-awarded legitimacy. Was that what the Chatcaava sounded like to the Pelted all the time?

  The Worldlord’s tone dismissed this byplay with its normalcy. “It appears to be one of the special slaves the Emperor is so determined to own. Though I hear he has one now. The former Emperor’s pet freak.”

  The Emperor’s breath caught in his throat. No.

  “Are you sure?” Manufactory-East asked. “They all look alike, you know. Nothing like this one. Too short. Too dark.”

  “Hair can be dyed,” Deputy-East said.

  Manufactory-East snorted. “Believe what you want. That is not one of the creatures. A passing resemblance, maybe, but most of these freaks look alike.”

  “You would say so, if you didn’t want us to know how much you wanted one of your own.”

  “I do want one,” Manufactory-East said. “But I want a real one. That’s not it.”

  Deputy-East laughed. “So you would say no to a night with this fake?”

  A pause during which the Emperor’s heart accelerated.

  “You asked for me to drop by,” Manufactory-East said. “What’s on your mind, Worldlord? I’m a busy male.”

  “So are we all,” the Worldlord said. “And yet, we would be well-served by becoming closer associates, yes? The war begins, Manufactory-East, and we will all be instrumental in its prosecution.”

  “You are proposing something?”

  “Merely that we acknowledge the benefits of working together to ensure the success of this particular endeavor,” the Worldlord said. “The Emperor and Second are deeply invested in the war. The males who help smooth the way for it will be remembered favorably.”

  “And the males who obstructed it, not so favorably?” Manufactory-East said. Another snort. “Yes. I hear you very clearly, Worldlord. And it’s true that we have not been on the easiest of terms, have we?”

  “For that reason, I invite you to hunt with me,” the Worldlord said. “Stay a few weeks. We will choose the game to harry, enjoy the females in the harem. My table is your table.”

  “And you, Deputy-East?” Manufactory-East asked with poisonous sweetness. “Will you also become my huntbrother?”

  A pause. Then: “The war with the freaks serves us all. I for one look forward to the plunder that will be streaming back through the base for distribution.” A pause, then a laugh. “Ah, you didn’t know that part, did you? The Navy plans to confiscate all the spoils of the war and hand it out as prizes to the Chatcaava who serve best.”

  “Do they?” Manufactory-East said, laughing too. “I am betting the system lords do not know this yet.”

  “Even if they do,” Deputy-East said. “What good will it do them to complain? They can either take part in the war and have the chance at something... or go home, and see the riches go to their more pragmatic rivals.”

  “Beautiful,” Manufactory-East said.

  “I tend to agree.”

  “Will you stay, then?” the Worldlord said, voice neutral.

  “Mmm. A few weeks... I had not planned to be away so long. But a few days, yes. And I can return. Since, as you say, the war is so important.”

  The Worldlord said, “Very good. Would you like the slave for your comfort tonight?”

  Say no, the Emperor thought. Living Air, say no.

  “I can take him if you don’t,” Deputy-East said. “I hear he’s developed some fight.”

  Was that a worse fate? He couldn’t tell. No, all he knew is that the only escape for him from torment tonight was the Worldlord’s intervention—

  “Whichever one of you prefers,” the Worldlord said.

  Deputy-East’s voice was conciliatory. “Manufactory-East, you may choose first. I can disport myself with one of the others. You are the rarer guest.”

  A foot slid under the Emperor’s chin, lifting his face. Stunned, he stared up at the stranger, saw the malignant interest in glowing yellow eyes. “Then... yes. I think I shall enjoy this one. And I will return him to you in one piece.”

  “Please do,” the Worldlord said. “And try not to hit his head. The Surgeon tells me he’s already been injured there. I would prefer him not to become dumb.”

  “Oh! No.” Manufactory-East leaned down and slowly trailed a finger through the Emperor’s blood, up his back, to his hair. His hand fisted there. “There is so much that can be done without touching the head.”

  They dragged him to the guest chamber and this time he fought so hard they had to summon a third guard to force him into the room. There they bound him so tightly he couldn’t move and left him to wait. Until the Chatcaava had finished their hunt. Their meal. Their after-dinner drinks. The sun set before Manufactory-East swooped through the balcony’s open doors to land, talons clicking on the stone. He strode in, grinned down at the Emperor.

  “So, pretty thing. Let’s play.”

  Had he thought himself equal to these games when his opponent was willing to engage him on a psychological level? Maybe he would have been when he’d first been dragged here. Now? There was nothing left in him now to fight with. He couldn’t think fast enough to manipulate the other male. Couldn’t move past the extravagant pain of violence done to too-thin skin. Forgot how to protest, except to flail and struggle and be overpowered ceaselessly, too easily.

  Unlike Deputy-East, Manufactory-East mocked him. Laughed and teased and threatened and waited for fear before striking. And all of it hurt. The Emperor couldn’t even sustain the fantasy of Changing in the middle of this contest and destroying the other male because the smog of panic and revulsion was so strong he couldn’t string coherent thoughts together.

  And as the hours dragged by... he gave up.

  He gave up. And cried into his arm. Openly, where the Chatcaavan could see him. He could not form words, but he could sob, and he could beg with those sobs for mercy, and received none. Had he thought this skin not sensitive enough when he first inhabited it because of its inability to feel thoughts? He could only be grateful now.

  How had the Ambassador lived through this while also accepting the emotions of his rapist? How many violations had he sustained and survived?

  How had he done it?

  Did it matter?

  Because the Emperor couldn’t.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “You look magnificent!” the Knife exclaimed to Lisinthir, clasping his hands together. And then, grumpy, “Unlike me. I look ridiculous.”

  “You look pretty,” Laniis said. “That was the plan.”

  The Knife’s enthusiasm for the Touch had led him to request patterns from every member of the FIA hold. As a result, he could not only become a gray-brindled Hinichi male, but a light gray Aera, a dusky-skinned human with astonishing hair, a silvery Karaka’an… and a pearl gray Seersa with smoke points. It was the latter shape that had prompted Lisinthir to suggest that he choose a Seersa for his slave persona, because it would allow Lisinthir to present him with Laniis as a mostly-matched pair. The Knife had objected strenuously, even pointing out that the Seersa shape had claws that could actually hurt someone, and what Chatcaavan would allow such a thing? But Laniis had commented that the Emperor had not de-clawed her and had gone on to give them a gruesome lecture on the dangers of that particular surgery. Besides, Laniis had said, with her white pelt with black points, and Lisinthir presenting as a silvery dragon with lighter mane, they would make a striking showing.

  “The idea is not to be noticeable,” Meryl had said. “Or at least, I thought that was the plan.”

  “Ah, but the Sword is a flamboyant sort,” Lisinthir had replied. “As these freelance raiders are purported to be. It should not surprise any of the Chatcaava to meet a raider ostentatious enough to choose matching slaves specifically to offset his looks.”

  Sin
ce Uuvek had agreed, the Knife had reluctantly acquiesced to the Seersa shape, which was not his favorite. “No offense is intended,” he’d said to Laniis. “You have exceptional features. But I like Na’er’s ears. They are fun.”

  “They are, aren’t they?” Laniis said, mouth quirking.

  Na’er coughed into a hand.

  To Lisinthir, the Knife said, “I have missed something.”

  “Nothing the two of us need to know,” Lisinthir said. “But perhaps we should allow Laniis and Na’er a moment to themselves before we set off on our mission.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” Lisinthir said, guiding the Knife out of the conference room. “A moment of about an hour in length.”

  “An hour is not a moment!”

  “But it sounds about right, I think.”

  Na’er was laughing out loud now, and Laniis, though blushing, hadn’t objected. Pleased to have read that situation correctly, Lisinthir had said, “Let us see to my mask and your decorations while they are otherwise employed.”

  It was this decoration that Laniis was commenting on, having exited her “discussion” with Na’er glowing but very properly dressed and groomed. Lisinthir had contrived with the Silhouette’s genie and come up with baubles for his “pet”, in the form of a collar and armbands and a belly chain, plus toe rings, all in bright argent metal and pearls. For some reason not even the Knife could articulate, it was the waist chain that had offended him the most. He’d accepted the collar as a necessity, but, “This? Surely this will catch on everything. And it makes me look….”

  “Female?” Laniis offered.

  The Knife scowled at her and plucked at the chain, making the pearls wobble.

  “At least he didn’t pierce your ears,” Laniis said.

  “I assume that anything done to the shapechanged shape will persist into the natural shape,” Lisinthir said. “Or I would have done.”

  “They don’t have visible ears, though?”

  “Exactly,” Lisinthir said. “So God alone knows what that would have translated to.”

  Laniis wrinkled her nose. “Good point.” She peered at the Knife’s groin. “You’re going to send him out naked? Male slaves aren’t normal.”

  “I’m planning on advertising you as a breeding pair.”

  “A what?” Laniis said, ears drooping.

  “It is to keep the others from wanting to buy us,” the Knife explained. “If we say that the Ambassador wants us both in order to breed new slaves, then it will be understood that neither of us is for sale. And he can take orders for the children, which will allow him to conduct business without actually selling slaves.”

  “That’s… appalling,” Laniis said. “But brilliant?”

  “We have done our best to contrive,” Lisinthir said. “If you are ready for your own costume, arii…”

  “Yes,” Laniis said firmly. “I am.” She paused, then grinned up at him. “And thank you. For my ‘moment.’”

  “Ah well,” Lisinthir said, demure. “Far be it from me to deprive you of Na’er’s ears.”

  “They are fun,” the Knife opined.

  “Yes,” Laniis said, serenely. “They are.”

  The Silhouette’s weathered and disreputable small craft was capable of atmospheric flight and could be reconfigured for any number of missions. For this one, they made it look like the sort of battered vessel a raider might use for conveying himself to and from his prize vessels, and this served to deliver them to the capital. According to their cover story, their ship had one more crewmember who was sailing it elsewhere to rendezvous with a buyer they’d had arrangements with prior to their journey to the border; this explained why Lisinthir—why the Sword—didn’t have that vessel in orbit to file flight plans or arrange for orbital assignment.

  Strangely, that was the difficult part of their mission. Arranging to meet with the powers of the capital was far easier. Uuvek had published their advertisement to the world-skein, and by the time they’d landed they already had an invitation from a Naval recruitment office, the heads of the solar system and the Naval manufacturing platforms, and the Worldlord. Lisinthir demurred on the offer of enlistment, saying he was only on-world to sell slaves, and that left him only with three offers: Manufactory-East, Deputy-East, and the Worldlord.

  “Which first?” he asked the Knife in the privacy of the room they’d rented for the evening.

  “Manufactory-East and Deputy-Ease will be significant Naval contacts,” the Knife said. “The primary ones not associated with the base itself. The Worldlord will be able to tell us about local information.”

  “It’s local information we want, isn’t it?” Laniis said. “We’re assuming our target’s on-world.”

  “We’ll try the Worldlord first,” Lisinthir said.

  They made their entrance in unexpected style because while the roquelaure could give him wings, he couldn’t fly with them. This oversight had been amended by the addition of a long burn up one of the wings—something he could attribute to a shipboard accident, rather than a lost duel—and with the explanation that as the Sword went everywhere with his wares, he could not fly there, naturally. He walked, with his attendant Pelted slaves, like honor guards. And unlike other slaves, his did not need leashes. He thought his presentation impressed the guards at the door, though they did their best to hide their expressions. It helped that Laniis walked soft-footed, aware of her own beauty… something he attributed to Na’er’s healthsome attentions. And that the Knife, unexpectedly, had taken to his role as slave with determination. If he was to be stuck with the task, he would execute it to the best of his ability, and his meekness was unexpectedly affecting when paired with his obvious fascination with the new body. The ears flicked everywhere and the tail… so much swishing.

  Lisinthir loved him for that fascination. How well the Emperor had wrought when he’d chosen the Knife for his Queen.

  As for himself… well. His cousins had not named him a dragon in an Eldritch skin for nothing. He didn’t need to evaluate the response of the guards who let him in to know his swagger was convincing. He was the Sword. The Sword had come with extremely valuable luxury items to offer to the only males on the planet with the wealth to buy them. Why should he not be arrogant?

  Still, one did not see the Worldlord on a whim. They were inevitably escorted to a room and left to wait there. A lovely enough chamber, with one of the open balconies overlooking the gardens of the estate. Lisinthir walked to it and looked down, wondering at the wilding landscape, thought this would be as good a time to test his line of communication as any. Returning to the divan, he brushed a hand over the Knife’s head.

  /Knife. Can you hear me?/

  Kneeling alongside the divan, the Knife froze, ears flicking.

  Laniis leaned over and nudged him.

  /Keep your ears still if you can,/ Lisinthir said. /And think your response as clearly as possible./

  A mutter then: this is unnatural, utterly unnatural, and how curious that it is possible, and can Chatcaava learn to do this? More clearly: /I hear you, Ambassador./

  /Chatcaava can learn to do this, if they take this shape,/ Lisinthir said. Broadening the scope of his touch, he reached for Laniis, sensed her as a warmth and a competence and a confidence. Into Hell with him, if only he would lead… and here she was, trusting. He could not sense her thoughts without touching her, though her aura comforted, so he set his fingers on her hair. /Laniis?/

  /Arii./ Distant and out of focus. He concentrated, pulling the separate threads together. /I’m here./

  /I hear you!/ the Knife exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  /Stop looking at me,/ Laniis said. /Stare at the wall and pretend there’s nothing in your head./

  /But there is! It is terrifying. Also fascinating, but…/

  /Why is the garden thus?/ Lisinthir interrupted.

  The Knife glanced toward the balcony. /It’s not a garden. It’s a hunting preserve./

  “Ah,” Lisinthir murmured. He disposed
himself on the divan, casually, one foot up on it, the other stretched on the floor between Laniis and the Knife, who moved so that they could lean inconspicuously against his flesh.

  /I apologize in advance for any liberties I may take while convincing our host of our role./

  /Just as long as they aren’t very liberal liberties,/ the Knife muttered.

  /I will do what I must. But if I must, I will visit the worst of it on you, Knife./

  The Knife glared up at him and began to speak, but Laniis pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Hush.”

  /Why me!?/

  Lisinthir grinned. /Because I would rather not answer to Na’er for anything I do to Laniis./

  /This is unfair!/ the Knife complained.

  /Sometimes, life is,/ Laniis said smugly.

  A silver male stepped into the room, interrupting their conference, and Lisinthir was grinning when he looked up at him.

  “The Sword, I presume,” said this male. “I am the Steward. The Worldlord will be with us momentarily. Would you like refreshment while you wait?”

  “For myself and my pets, yes. That would be pleasing.”

  “Water for them? Or food as well?”

  “Water is fine. They can drink from bowls.”

  /From bowls!/ the Knife said. /Is that possible with this mouth?/

  Laniis sighed under her breath. Hiding his amusement, Lisinthir said, “And I will take something stronger. If you have it.”

  “Our wine cellars are quite esteemed, you’ll find,” the Steward said, pleased. He backed out of the room to make his requests, then entered and sat across from Lisinthir. “So these are your wares?”

  “These in particular are a pair I captured to breed myself more.” Lisinthir petted the Knife’s head, feeling the male’s prickle of ambivalence: irritation to be stroked, bemusement that it felt good. “They are a particularly good set. I am hoping their personalities will breed true.”

  “Personalities,” the Steward repeated.

  “They do have them,” Lisinthir said, sitting back again. He ignored the servant that arrived with the wine and the bowls. “It is no good pretending they aren’t people, Steward to the Worldlord. If they weren’t sentient, they would hardly be worthy prey, would they?”