Only the Open

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “And talk?” Lisinthir said.

  “And... talk.”

  Lisinthir smiled. “Worldlord... it would be my pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was inevitable that his closeness with the Worldlord would provoke an attack from his fellow guests, and from the way Manufactory-East glared at him when he entered on the Worldlord’s wake to their delayed supper, he guessed he would see that attack sooner rather than later. The male was woefully inept at concealing his feelings; he would have lasted all of a few weeks, if that, at the throneworld court. Over the meal, Lisinthir weighed the pros and cons of inciting the challenge sooner rather than later while he gave the meat his roquelaure-prompted attention. Delaying the confrontation might make it easier to stay at the Worldlord’s until the Silhouette returned; on the other hand, forcing it might drive Manufactory-East to leave, which would make it easier to keep the Emperor safe while he recuperated.

  Easy choice that.

  Lisinthir spent their dinner pointedly ignoring all Manufactory-East’s signs of temper, discoursing with Deputy-East and the Worldlord about hunt tactics in a manner calculated to imply his own prowess… and Manufactory-East’s failure. He never said anything overt, of course; it was not his aim to alienate his host, and too he had a reputation to maintain. For his own sake, as much as anyone else’s; with Manufactory-East so easy to manipulate, it would be trivial to become careless. Complacency would endanger his people.

  So he danced on that knife’s edge of insolence and suavity, and by the end of supper judged his target near to explosion. Manufactory-East trailed them all the way to the harem, nursing his rage in silence, and continued to simmer while the females lined up for their selection and—as Lisinthir had begun to expect—tittered through the entire process, awarding all of them coy looks through their parted manes, or subtly shifting from foot to foot to draw attention to their hips.

  “Which will you have?” Deputy-East said to Manufactory-East in an obvious bid to draw him out of his mood.

  “I think I will watch tonight,” Manufactory-East said, perching on a stool and leaning forward. “The Sword seems to find it so diverting, after all. Maybe he can provide the entertainment this time.”

  Deputy-East guffawed. “After the way he ate? You’re lucky he can stand up straight.”

  Reclining on a nest of pillows, Lisinthir grinned lazily. “I like eating. Food on ship is nowhere near so delicious.”

  The Worldlord chuckled. “I’m glad my table pleases. Though as a recommendation, ‘it’s better than rations’ isn’t very flattering, Sword.”

  “If it was only better than rations, Worldlord, I wouldn’t be eating so much of it.” Lisinthir paused, then finished, “It is much better than rations.”

  Both the two males laughed, leaving Manufactory-East to glare at him, narrow-eyed and far too calculating. Lisinthir quirked a brow at him.

  “I hear,” Manufactory-East drawled, “that you have a soft hand with those slaves of yours, Sword. I had no idea they needed such a gentle touch.”

  The Worldlord, who’d been in the process of guiding his chosen companion to a pillow, twitched and looked slowly over his shoulder.

  “I’m not interested in damaging the wares before I sell them.”

  “Oh, is that it. Not, say, an unnatural interest in creatures no better than animals?” Manufactory-East canted his head. “They go up to your room at night, Sword, but they come back in perfect condition, without needing so much as a bath or a brush. You’ve already proven you’re not interested in Chatcaavan females. But you don’t appear to be using your slaves, either.”

  “I trust you have a point to make,” Lisinthir said, relaxed. “Though you are taking a very long and circuitous route to it. Say what you want to say, Manufactory-East.”

  “If you really are male, and whole, and not unnatural,” Manufactory-East said. “You’ll prove it. That slave has been in this harem every time I’ve visited, but no one has used her.”

  In the shadowed corner where she seemed to have been installed, the Harat-Shar lifted her head, ears moving toward him.

  “That sounds fun,” Deputy-East said. “And you have a way with slaves, surely, Sword. You’ve probably had more go through your hands than all of us combined.”

  “You owe us an entertainment,” Manufactory-East said.

  “He owes you nothing.” The Worldlord was brusque. “He is a guest.”

  “I thought he wanted to be our huntbrother?” Manufactory-East opened a hand, the image of innocent curiosity. “But he will not slake his needs among us. What is it that you fear, Sword? Maybe you are incapable?”

  “It’s obvious he’s not incapable,” Deputy-East said. “No cut male could stand down a stalker the way the Sword did.”

  “I never said he was cut,” Manufactory-East said sweetly. “Only… impaired.”

  “This,” the Worldlord said, “is interrupting my own entertainment. Perhaps less talk and more pleasure?”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Manufactory-East said. “So perhaps the Sword will—”

  They all stopped as the Harat-Shar poured off her pillow and ghosted past them, hips and tail swaying in counterpoint. She approached Lisinthir so that her back was to their watchers, allowing him to see her unguarded expression: no fear and no hesitation. Her hand fell onto his ankle, glided up toward his knee, and she flowed after it, draping herself on him.

  The touch gave him the fleeting end of her thought: …going to be the one who rescues us, so I can’t let them cut him down.

  He let her straddle him, lean down to brush her nose against his. Resting his hands on her thighs, he tried a whisper back.

  /I am, yes. But you don’t have to do this./

  She pressed her head into his chest, her face turned toward the wall to hide the startlement that stung his fingertips through their contact. /You can read minds?/

  /I fear I am not Chatcaavan at all. This is but a seeming./

  She dragged her tongue up his neck. /If that’s a domino, it’s the most amazing domino I’ve ever heard of. Which suggests military. You military?/

  /Of sorts./

  She reared back, spreading her palms on his chest. /Mmm. Curiouser and curiouser./

  He chuckled aloud. /You will not unriddle me so easily, alet./

  /Dominika. If we’re about to get into this. You’ll let me protect you?/

  He hid his hesitation by shifting under her. /If you will permit me to ride your desire. I don’t know that I am capable of it with a stranger, and this particular audience./

  /You have a sweetheart?/ she asked, grinning and running her finger down his nose.

  /More than one, if you’ll believe. But I prefer to cleave to them./

  She purred, a deep rumble in her chest. /You are too delicious. You’ll let me lead, then?/

  /My lady, you find me entirely at your service./

  She laughed aloud too, then, and nipped his palm, at the base of the thumb. /Yes… you will be. It’s been far too long since I’ve had something I wanted./

  /And you want me?/ he asked, surprised.

  /You’re here to rescue us. You’re mysterious. Your touch in my mind is full of all sorts of interesting hints of things: smells and tastes and sounds I can almost make sense of. But no violence in you at all./

  /Not for you,/ he promised.

  /Then,/ she answered, /You lie back and we’ll show them what the Sword, who ‘treats his slaves well,’ can accomplish with honey and kind words./

  She curved over him and he fed on the desire that rose in her until he could make answer—at least, as much as he could. She was magnificent. The undulation of her hips was mesmerizing—and felt like nothing he’d ever experienced—and her talent for the act was as much performative as it was sensual. He could sense all three Chatcaava staring as she rode him, her entire body involved in the liquid roll, from tail-tip to the nape of her neck. And the sounds she made, deep chuckles, rumbles, throaty nois
es…

  Not all Harat-Shar were masters of these arts, though enough of them were to have earned them their reputation. Until Dominika, though, Lisinthir had not appreciated just how superlative their grasp on those arts could be, or how helpless they could render their unsuspecting participants.

  He wasn’t sure how long it was before she decided they were both done, and very distinctly it was Dominika who decided. But eventually she was puddled on his chest, boneless and sticky and damp, and she looked through heavily lidded eyes at the room with a smug satisfaction he felt like a second heartbeat. She had, he noted, caused all three males to spend, just from watching… even Manufactory-East, who had lost the fight to sustain his anger in the face of so much lust.

  Lisinthir brought a hand to his mouth, licked one of the fingers, catlike, let the arm fall behind his head. He shifted under his Harat-Shariin blanket and said, lazy, “You were saying, Manufactory-East? Something about my being incapable. I thought.”

  Deputy-East broke out in peals of laughter so hard that he fell back on his pillow.

  “I think,” the Worldlord said ruefully, “I am done here tonight. Anything else will fail to measure up.” He crawled over to Lisinthir and arched his head over him, examining his face. “Are you even conscious after that, Sword?”

  Lisinthir considered. Then said, “Actually, I’m hungry.”

  Deputy-East fell over again. Against the backdrop of his muffled laughter, Manufactory-East rose and said, “I’m for a bathing chamber, and my bed.”

  “I’m not far behind you,” the Worldlord said. “Good night, Manufactory-East.”

  Rubbing his aching cheeks, Deputy-East sat up again and said, “Really, Sword. Do you get that sort of performance from all of your slaves?”

  “We’ll just say,” Lisinthir said, ignoring Dominika’s silent snickering, “that understanding how to maximize my inventory is part of my… success.”

  Deputy-East moaned and pressed his ribs. “No more, please. I can’t laugh anymore. Worldlord, you need to rename this the Place of Giggling. Hang a sign on it. ‘Enter at risk of ruptured diaphragm.’”

  “I’ll consider it strongly,” the Worldlord said gravely.

  “I’m off. Don’t have any more fun without me. Or… no. Please, if you’re going to have fun, do it now while I’m gone. I need a chance to recover.”

  “I’ll be sure to wait until you’ve gotten your strength back,” Lisinthir replied, and listened to the other male leave.

  He expected the Worldlord to draw near, but the other male hung back, looking down at him—at him and Dominika, still purring on his body.

  “That looks uncomfortable,” the Worldlord said.

  “Mm?”

  “The wings. On your back that way.”

  Lisinthir chuckled softly. “It was the last thing on my mind when she pressed me down. And by now, I think they’ve gone numb.”

  The Worldlord barked a laugh. “Is that why you haven’t gotten up yet?”

  “A little. The rest of it is that she’s warm and very soft.”

  “And you like the obedience of soft things,” the Worldlord said. “I remember.” Now he did come closer, crouching alongside the spill of pillows to look at the Harat-Shar’s face, at her closed eyes and contented little smirk. “She came to you willingly.”

  “It’s more fun that way.”

  The Worldlord glanced at him, then back at the Harat-Shar. “Some would say that part of the pleasure is the struggle of the prey to escape the inevitable.”

  “When is it pleasure to overcome something that can’t win?”

  “Ahh....” The Worldlord sighed, smiled. “Somehow I knew you would say something like that. Doesn’t it exhaust you, Sword, to need all your life to have meaning, even in its most minor moments?”

  “I don’t know, Worldlord. Doesn’t it exhaust you, to have your life lack that meaning, in all but its most major moments?”

  A wince. Had he struck too deep a blow? But the Worldlord was reaching now toward Dominika’s shoulder, only to pause above it. “Is she as soft as she looks?”

  “Softer, because she is relaxed. Even for a Harat-Shar, that was work.”

  Against him, Dominika rumbled an almost inaudible chuckle.

  “This kind of alien is called Harat-Shar, then.” The Worldlord made a fist of his hand. “I have not asked her if I could touch her.”

  “All your life you have heard that you need not ask permission.”

  “And I don’t. But if I do...”

  “Then she may say yes. And she may say no. But yes is sweeter if the no is possible. Don’t you think?”

  “Only if you value the obedience of soft things.” The Worldlord paused. “I named her Silky.”

  “You might ask her name.”

  “Because the aliens love names so much.”

  “Nika,” Dominika said in Universal. “Tell him he may call me that.”

  Startled, the Worldlord pulled his hand back.

  “He understands a little of the language, so long as there is not much specialized vocabulary involved,” Lisinthir told her. To the Worldlord, “Well?”

  “Nika,” the Worldlord said in his accented Universal. “May I pet your shoulder?”

  She lifted her head just enough to consider him, pupils dilating and nose twitching. Then she put her chin on Lisinthir’s chest again. “Yes.”

  /Thank you,/ he whispered to her.

  /I see what you’re trying to do,/ she answered. /Will it work?/

  /I don’t know. But it has so far, so.../

  She chuckled then. /Gambler./

  /I am here, am I not?/

  The Worldlord set a hand on Dominika’s shoulder, stroked the fur. And then laughed. “She’s hot!” To her, “You are hot. That was exertion after all?”

  “It’s not that pleasure isn’t work,” Dominika said. “It’s that you don’t notice how much work it is until much later.” She grinned lazily at Lisinthir, all fang. “And such pleasure it was.”

  “I’m glad to have delivered,” Lisinthir said.

  Dominika chuckled again, throatily, and cuddled back onto him. To the Worldlord, absently, “You can keep doing that.”

  “Oh, can I,” the Worldlord said, but obligingly he petted her. And after a moment, asked, tentative, “You understand our language, I am guessing? Maybe I can ask... I would not have thought that being touched this way would please. It is what one does to an animal, yes?”

  “I am an animal,” Dominika said, unperturbed. “So are you. To say otherwise is to deny my carnal nature, and I am Harat-Shar.” She grinned again. “Have your friend tell you what that means one day.”

  “So it does not trouble you to be treated like... like a beast.”

  She snorted. “If you’re going to use this as an excuse for making yourself feel better... don’t. Even animals deserve to live their lives free.”

  “Are they all so feisty?” the Worldlord asked Lisinthir, perplexed and—if Lisinthir judged the expression right—charmed.

  “There are meek Pelted,” Lisinthir answered. “Who would prefer not to fight for their own comfort. But they are few, and knowing their own weaknesses, they elect and pay for their fiercer compatriots to protect them.”

  “Such priceless intelligence,” the Worldlord murmured. “It could win the war for us. And yet... no one would listen to it if I brought it forth.”

  “No,” Lisinthir said. And added, “Did you do it on purpose? The females here.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Said females had already melted from the room, as easily distracted as a flock of colorful birds. “Some would call them stupid.”

  “And you?” the Worldlord added, quiet.

  Lisinthir smiled. “Wit has its uses, but it is not the only virtue in a person.”

  “That is why I chose them.”

  “Is it?” Lisinthir asked.

  The Worldlord looked at him, wary. “Why else?”

  “Pity perhaps. A desire to pro
tect them, since they have so little ability to protect themselves. Or perhaps,” Lisinthir rested a hand on the back of Dominika’s head, “because they don’t think to break any rules that would require you to punish them.”

  The Worldlord stared at him, hands resting now on the edge of the dais. He flexed his fingers, claws arching, flattened them. At last he looked at Dominika and said, “I find myself uncomfortable, aware now that I have a non-Chatcaavan audience.”

  “Another good reason to divest yourself of the slaves, I would think.”

  The Worldlord snorted. “Yes, you would.” He rose. “I don’t think I need to answer that question, Sword.”

  “No,” Lisinthir said. “I don’t think you do either.” And then grinned lopsidedly. “But your confidences repose safely with me.”

  The male huffed softly, twitched his head. “I leave you to find your own way to your suite, Sword. If your alien permits you to rise.”

  “Maybe later,” Dominika said. “He makes a nice couch.”

  The Worldlord chuckled and left, and the Harat-Shar exhaled and put her cheek back down on Lisinthir’s chest. “I guess I should get up.”

  “At some point,” Lisinthir said. “I find I am sticky and cold, and I fear that when you rise you will have left a great deal of fur adhered to my skin.”

  “Your skin,” she repeated, shaking her head. And silently, /So you’re an Eldritch./

  /And you have divined this how?/

  She snorted. /You’re an esper. And you’re wearing some kind of domino. Even the best domino would have trouble making a centauroid feel like a Chatcaavan./

  /Given that Glaseah also have wings, one would think they’d take to the shape better./

  /Maybe,/ she conceded, pushing herself up and stretching luxuriously. /But I tasted your body-memories while I was with you. Your body remembers how to make love like this. Like a biped. So that leaves… Eldritch./

  /Other races do occasionally produce espers./

  She snorted, smiled. /I know you can’t confirm it. That would be bad for me, yes? But I’m not scared of torture. Back at home, I volunteered at an indentured servants’ counseling group, training people how to handle contracts they found distasteful./ Something in Lisinthir’s expression must have warned her, because she said, /We’re not like you, arii. Not like most of the Alliance, even. We do things our own way on the homeworld. And that means criminals get put to work./