Only the Open

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “Some would say they aren’t worthy prey even as they are.”

  Lisinthir snorted. “Have you ever captured a wild alien?”

  “Ah… no.”

  “Until you have faced one you’ve backed into a corner,” Lisinthir said, “I would not be so dismissive.”

  “An interesting perspective,” said a new male at the door.

  Both Lisinthir and the Steward stood. This male was indubitably the Worldlord from his carriage and the Steward’s reaction to him. But his demeanor… Lisinthir had been expecting someone more obviously aggressive.

  /I was as well,/ the Knife confessed.

  /Stop staring,/ Laniis murmured. /Look at him from under your eyelashes./

  “Worldlord,” Lisinthir said aloud. “I thank you for your hospitality, and the invitation.”

  “Sword,” said the new male. “It is rare for us to see freelancers here. I could not resist my curiosity. Have you come to enlist then?”

  The Worldlord was having a seat, accepting the glass the Steward was pouring for him. Lisinthir sat as well, reclining. He had a sip of his own glass, found the wine complex and astringent and delicate. His brows lifted.

  “I told you,” the Steward said, proud.

  “You did,” Lisinthir said. “And I salute you. Your cellars are indeed all that you claim.” He sipped again before setting the glass down. “I don’t know that I am interested in joining the Navy at this time. Though the offer is tempting, on the surface.”

  “On the surface,” the Worldlord repeated, amused.

  “To see the Alliance from the bridge of a carrier executing its conquest?” Lisinthir looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, that would be… interesting. But I have been executing my own conquests for years now, and so I wonder how this would be any better. Indeed, I can only imagine it being worse, as what the Navy conquers, the Navy keeps. And I would draw the pay of a soldier? I am used to a higher rate of compensation.” He grinned.

  “Also a higher rate of sacrifice,” the Steward observed, glancing at Lisinthir’s false wing.

  “Yes,” Lisinthir said, letting his voice harden. “But the past is the past. I don’t dwell on it.”

  “Wise, so long as you learn its lessons,” the Worldlord murmured.

  “Burns teach such lessons very well.”

  “Yes,” the Worldlord glanced at the scar Dellen had so meticulously designed onto the vane. “That they do. So you are here to sell slaves?”

  “The children from the first litter of this particular pairing,” Lisinthir agreed amiably. “I also have some oddities stolen from the cargo holds of merchant vessels. Tea and spices, mostly, compounds we can safely ingest and enjoy.”

  The Steward straightened. “I haven’t heard of any raider selling such things.”

  “Because they lack imagination,” Lisinthir said. “Which is something I do not.”

  “You must know a great deal about them,” the Worldlord mused. “To have troubled yourself to learn about their cuisine and their luxuries.”

  “As I was saying to your Steward,” Lisinthir said. “To pretend that they lack sentience is to rob ourselves of the pleasures of conquering them. And sentients make many things that are of value to other sentients.”

  “That sounds… almost egalitarian,” the Steward said, eyeing him.

  /Dangerous territory,/ the Knife muttered. /Be careful./

  But the Worldlord was waving the Steward’s concerns aside. “Would you say you are expert in the types of aliens, then? Enough to tell them apart?”

  Startled, Lisinthir said, “Dying Air, of course. What good would a raider be who couldn’t tell what he was selling?”

  “Then perhaps you can help me settle a matter of debate among my household,” the Worldlord said. “We’ve an alien here we cannot identify. Deputy-East believes it to be one of the rare species currently sought by the Emperor. Manufactory-East insists it isn’t.”

  “You think you have an Eldritch slave?” Lisinthir asked, his heart leaping. It couldn’t be an actual Eldritch. Could it? If it was... oh, what a clever place to hide!

  “You know the name of them!” the Worldlord said.

  “Of course,” Lisinthir said. “Everyone longs to own an Eldritch. They are indeed rare. Delicate and easily broken.”

  “That certainly fits,” the Steward said, disgusted. “You push him and he comes apart.”

  /That doesn’t sound promising,/ the Knife said, uncertain.

  “Perhaps you can examine our alien and determine, once and for all, what it is.”

  “I’d be delighted to be of help,” Lisinthir said. “And if it is an Eldritch… perhaps I’ll be the one buying instead of you.”

  “Send for him,” the Worldlord said, and the Steward rose and left. “You have an interesting title, Sword. Something to do with alien weapons, presumably. The ones you’re wearing?”

  “Yes,” Lisinthir said. “Would you care to look at them?” He drew the first and displayed it for the Worldlord. “It even has a creature on it that looks like us, if you will believe.”

  “Does it.” The Worldlord came to look, bent close over the Imthereli device. “Wingless. But the resemblance is there. Remarkable.”

  “They dream of dragons,” Lisinthir said. “And their dreams are nightmares.”

  The Worldlord looked up at him sharply, and Lisinthir grinned, showing teeth.

  “But you eat their food,” the Worldlord murmured.

  “And drink their wine. And pet their fur. Or skin.” Lisinthir shrugged, feeling the roquelaure tug at his back, the only hint he had that it was moving his fake wings properly. “It is, Worldlord, a living.”

  “One you enjoy.”

  “What else?” Lisinthir lifted his brows. “Life is for the enjoying, isn’t it?”

  “And duty?” the Worldlord asked.

  “I don’t know. Is this war against the freaks duty, or pleasure? What would the Navy tell you? And would it depend on who you ask?”

  /Stop being so smart,/ the Knife hissed. /You are supposed to be vain and foppish and easily encompassed!/

  /That, I fear, is a lost cause. I must play to my strengths and hope what served me among the courtiers will save us here./

  The Knife sighed aloud, and Lisinthir reached down to pat his head. That earned him one flopped ear, and the other turned out, and he took that sign of grumpy acquiescence for what it was.

  “You are kind to them.”

  “Am I?” Lisinthir said idly. “I was thinking mostly that they are soft, and I like the obedience of soft things.”

  /That, though, that was convincing,/ the Knife said, disturbed.

  “Worldlord,” the Steward said. “Here is the slave.”

  Lisinthir turned, his entire body tensing. Two guards silhouetted there in the door, but not because the prisoner was fighting them… they were holding him erect, because he could barely keep his feet. As they advanced, his hopes fell—he did not recognize the shape. This was some stranger, no doubt. Disturbed, he said, “Is he injured?”

  “Ah!” the Steward said. “You knew he was male. And from a distance!”

  “Of course,” Lisinthir said, with what he hoped would be the casual irritation of an expert confronted by a tyro. “Human females develop breasts after adolescence. That is a male human.”

  “A human!” the Steward said.

  “Are you certain?” The Worldlord asked. “His eyes are luminous. They say the aliens have luminous eyes.”

  “The hair is wrong,” Lisinthir said.

  “Deputy-East suggested it was dyed,” the Worldlord said.

  “Manufactory-East, though, was certain it wasn’t one of the rare ones,” the Steward said. “And has now spent more time with the slave than any of us.”

  “Is the slave Manufactory-East’s, then?” Lisinthir asked, coming closer. So long as he was here, he might as well be about his business, which was eternally the rescue of the Chatcaava’s victims from their predation. This male... he was
built slightly, but his frame was misleading. There was muscle on him, if not enough to make it possible for him to win against dragons. And scars, though they were hard to see under the paint and on the light skin. A fighter? Or had his reactions to pain been amusing enough to inspire torture?

  “He is mine,” the Worldlord said. “Fell into my garden while escaping someone else’s estate, in fact. We presume Manufactory-East’s, but he would never admit to an escaped slave.”

  “Is he injured?” Lisinthir asked again.

  “Presumably. Manufactory-East has been using him during his visit. Nothing permanent, we said.”

  He suppressed his rage. “May I?”

  “Certainly. Be careful with his head. He arrived with a concussion, or so the Surgeon tells us. And,” the Worldlord’s voice went wry. “He bites, sometimes.”

  “Mm.” Lisinthir slipped a finger under the human’s chin and gently tipped up the pointed face, all planes and angles. Too firm for prettiness, by human standards… but he could see how the Chatcaava would think him feminine. The bruises, though…

  Fury wouldn’t save them. Discipline, only. Discipline, and compassion for the victimized—that eternally. “Open your eyes,” he said to the human, gently. In Universal, because that was in keeping with his character: he was the Sword, who knew the aliens intimately, the better to steal them.

  “We named him Dainty,” the Steward said.

  Lisinthir grimaced. Quieter, low, “Alet. Open your eyes.”

  The slave did and cringed back from him, but not before Lisinthir saw the startling color. He knew that color, knew it intimately. And yet, that hunted panic... there was no fathomable way it could be masking the male he’d known. And where would the Emperor have learned a human shape, anyway?

  Had he?

  The human had turned his face so quickly Lisinthir couldn’t check the pupils. Nor could he dare probe beneath the surface to touch the alien’s mind, ask the insane question. Not here, among enemies, when a single gasp would invite scrutiny. And really... how likely was it that this cowed and beaten misfortunate was the male he was seeking? The Emperor had never shown any talent for playing a role, not the way the Knife was.

  “How lovely,” he said, stepping back. “But… I fear he truly is only human, Worldlord. Manufactory-East is correct. The Eldritch are taller, more elongate. Their homeworld has a lower gravity than the human one. And the white of their skins has a different character, more nacreous, less pink. The hair should be white, though you are correct in that it can be dyed. You have a beautiful creature here, but nothing worthy of special attention.” He frowned and turned from the human. “The head injury is a serious matter, Worldlord. You should not be subjecting your investment to further trauma until it’s healed.”

  “You know something about the caretaking of these creatures, then?” the Worldlord asked, and something in his voice…

  Past the Worldlord, Laniis flicked her gaze up to his and even without touching her he knew she’d heard the odd note too.

  “But I must,” Lisinthir said. “How else to keep them in good health and breed them safely?” His smile was thin. “Grant me my expertise in my field, Worldlord, as I would you in yours.”

  The other Chatcaavan stared at him for several moments, long enough for Lisinthir to wonder if he had pushed the other male hard enough to require proof of his right to do so. Then, abruptly, “Where are you staying?”

  “Worldlord?” Lisinthir said. “A flat at the port, naturally.”

  “Stay here,” he said. “I am having an impromptu hunt party. You should attend. Your slaves can join mine in the slave annex. If that suits?”

  Lisinthir didn’t need to hear the implicit trap in that one. To insist on Laniis and the Knife attending him in his suite would be safer, but insulting. Before he could reply, however, the Steward said, “Worldlord, the hunt… it requires flight.”

  “Fear not, Steward,” Lisinthir said. “Even a scarred male can bring down game.” He grinned, showing all his teeth. “I have become very good with my hands.”

  The Worldlord laughed, abrupt. “That settles that, then.”

  “I am delighted to accept your invitation.” Lisinthir canted his head. “Can I hope for a tour, despite my inability to take it the way an uninjured male would?”

  “Walking has its uses,” the Worldlord said. “We’ll go down to the annex first to leave the slaves in their place. Perhaps you can give me your impressions of their accommodations. Suggest improvements.” He swept a hand toward the guards. “Take that one back to Manufactory-East’s guest suite.”

  That finally prompted some motion from the slave, who jerked backward, and the mindless terror in his eyes....

  “This Manufactory-East is the male who cannot be convinced to stay his hand against an already injured piece of property?” Lisinthir interjected.

  All the Chatcaava looked at him.

  “Your slave needs time to recuperate. And a Surgeon’s care, if you have one,” Lisinthir said. “Unless you want him dead. He may not be an Eldritch, Worldlord, but humans are rarer than the furred races, and their skin is sensitive. They make excellent companions if you treat them carefully.”

  “Carefully!” the Steward said. “We treat all our slaves carefully.”

  Lisinthir eyed the human, then looked deliberately at the Steward and lifted both brows.

  “No, he makes a good point,” the Worldlord said. “If these creatures are delicate, I don’t want him dying.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Take him to the Surgeon. See if he requires more repair. And that leaves us—” Turning to Lisinthir. “To our tour. With me, Sword.”

  /You’re going to leave us behind,/ the Knife said when Lisinthir bent to stroke his head. /What if he asks something you don’t know?/

  /Then, I suppose, I improvise. Quickly./

  /This is a bad idea!/ the Knife said. /You were not supposed to be parted from us! How can we execute our mission?/

  /By seeing what there is to see in the slave quarters,/ Laniis said, subdued. /You’ll be surprised, Knife, what you can learn there./

  /I don’t doubt it,/ the Knife replied, ears flattening. /What I’m certain of is that I won’t like it./

  When Lisinthir saw the kennels, he almost couldn’t breathe through his wrath.

  /Ambassador,/ Laniis whispered, her body pressing against his. /Stay focused./

  “Not good?” the Worldlord guessed, curious but not concerned.

  “I’m surprised any of your pets have survived this treatment,” Lisinthir said. “Have you lost any of them untimely?”

  Behind him he heard the scrape of the Steward’s wings resettling.

  “Two,” the Worldlord confessed. “Did their sleeping arrangements truly matter? It is no worse than what Chatcaava endure on a fighting ship.”

  “They need space to turn in,” Lisinthir said. “Cage them, by all means, if you fear they will escape you. But we give more space to the creatures we hunt for food, and we are done with the latter far more quickly.”

  “Game animals need to roam to maintain their muscle,” the Steward said. “We do not want our aliens to have muscle.”

  “Then do away with them now,” Lisinthir said, allowing his anger to edge his voice. “Are you Chatcaava or are you freaks? To fear a fangless, wingless slave just because he might not lose his condition to indolence and anxiety? What good is a neurotic pet?”

  “I had not thought of them as things to be fought,” the Worldlord said, frowning. To himself, Lisinthir thought.

  “Manufactory-East does,” the Steward muttered.

  “Manufactory-East thinks of them as something to torture,” Lisinthir said. “There is a difference.”

  /Uh, stop now!/ the Knife exclaimed at his side. /Or I will bite you!/

  That made him cough. It wasn’t a laugh—his anger was too bitter for that—but it was close cousin to one at least, and it made both Chatcaava glance at him. The Worldlord’s gaze lingered, took in both slaves lean
ing on him. His expression was impenetrable, but there was no disgust in it, and the way his eyes remained on Laniis... no. There was something going on there. Lisinthir noted it, said, “Pardon. I hate to see good merchandise destroyed so frivolously. Alliance slaves are expensive, difficult to procure, and each is unique. I do not find it virtuous to casually wreck one’s possessions. It indicates instability. Lack of discipline.”

  “Maybe you do belong in the Navy,” the Worldlord said, considering him again.

  “I doubt it, given how much I enjoy being my own master,” Lisinthir said. “But... I am not averse to evaluating the possibility. We shall see, shall we?”

  “I suppose,” the Worldlord said with interest. “This way is the waiting room.”

  “I am glad,” the Steward said behind them, “That neither Deputy-East nor Manufactory-East were here to hear you say that they had a master.”

  Lisinthir snorted. “Don’t fool yourself, Steward. We all have a master if we accept the yoke of society. It’s just a question of choosing who we serve.”

  “And you? Who do you serve?” the Steward asked, nettled.

  “I serve myself. And commerce.” Lisinthir grinned. “So, the waiting room.”

  Surprisingly, the remaining rooms dedicated to the Alliance slaves were... passable. He would not have wanted to be imprisoned in them, and they were notable in their lack of any sort of entertainment, but the slaves were permitted to go into the “safe” garden, a gated greenspace protected from the game that ran wild through the remaining walled area. But the whole of it was a cage, and not even a particularly well-gilded one, and touring the areas devoted to washing, doctoring, and decorating those slaves stripped bare the truth under the façade. Touring the area and pretending to find parts of it acceptable was galling in the extreme. The only reason he felt comfortable leaving Laniis and the Knife behind was because he knew their competence... and that they were leaving this place as soon as they’d discovered any information they could use to locate the Emperor. A few days of gossip-mongering and he could depart to chase whatever leads they’d gathered.