Only the Open

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “If this sort of thing is available on the throneworld I have no idea how anyone gets any work done,” Deputy-East said, still untidily spread over the lip of the bath. Even his wings were sagging, the vanes pillowed on the surface of the water.

  “You really did take his claws out,” Lisinthir said to the Worldlord, quiet.

  “I did.”

  Deputy-East raised his head.

  “Do you know what that’s like for one of the clawed Pelted?” Lisinthir asked, Laniis’s lecture ringing in his ears.

  The Worldlord said nothing, so Lisinthir swam to his side of the pool and took the male’s unresisting hand, resting it flat on the tile. “These claws,” he said, tapping the Worldlord’s. “They are like human nails, and do not retract. Like human nails, when they grow too long, they are cut. So long as no one rips them out at the bed, they are… decorative, shall we say. The clawed Pelted, however, can retract their claws, and those claws don’t function like Chatcaavan talons. When you cut off their claws, you take a part of their finger bones with it.” He made a blade of his hand and pressed it halfway up the first digit of the Worldlord’s forefinger. “About here.”

  The Worldlord stared down at their two hands.

  The silence grew too uncomfortable for Deputy-East, who said, “Worse has been done to slaves.”

  “Shall I applaud the amputation of someone’s fingertips because it is a minor abuse compared to most?” Lisinthir asked.

  Deputy-East shook his damp mane back. “You treat them like people, Sword. They’re aliens.”

  “To them, we are the aliens,” Lisinthir said. “And yet oddly they don’t raid our facilities to capture us in order to cage us and keep us as pets. Would you enjoy that, Deputy-East? They might cut decorative patterns into your wings to prevent you from flying away.”

  Deputy-East shuddered. “Dying Air, Sword. You come up with the most heinous ideas.”

  “Do I? Or do we?”

  “You talk too much,” Deputy-East said. “You should talk less, if you want to be welcome where you walk.”

  Lisinthir smiled a little. “Fortunately, I don’t need to be welcome where I walk, if I can kill those who disagree with me.”

  “And if you can’t kill them all?” the Worldlord asked, low.

  Lisinthir said, “You would be surprised, Worldlord, just how many people I can kill if I put my mind to it.”

  With another shiver, Deputy-East said, “This conversation has turned far too dark. It needs wine! Because we are all friends here. Aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know,” the Worldlord said, meeting Lisinthir’s eyes. There was fear in his, and shame. “Are we?”

  “I think so,” Lisinthir said. “And yes, wine sounds very good. We should send a guard for it.”

  They drank until Deputy-East was reduced to snoring on the divan and someone had to be sent to carry him back to his own quarters. The Worldlord, like Lisinthir, was still on his feet. Enough to pause at the door and say, “We really are still friends?”

  “I don’t think you would rip the claws off another alien, Worldlord.”

  “I don’t think I would either,” the Worldlord murmured. “And I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means you aren’t so uncertain of your own strength that you must handicap others into losing to ensure your victory.” Lisinthir rested a hand on the other male’s shoulder. “Go, Worldlord. See to your gentle guest.”

  “My guest.” The Worldlord sighed a little, smiled. “Do you suppose… the other one. The medical specialist. Do you think she would come check her regularly?”

  “I think you’d be surprised what would happen if you asked.”

  “I would be, yes. Particularly since I’ve given none of them any reason to say ‘yes’. But… for the sake of their own kind… maybe she will.”

  “You understand them well if you understand that.” Lisinthir smiled. “Will you have my own sent to me?”

  “I will, yes. And good night, Sword.”

  The Emperor did not rouse when Lisinthir joined him in bed that night, and that was hopefully both normal and salutary. With Laniis and the Knife scattered to the ingresses for the night, he slept, expecting only to sleep. But he woke midway through the night with hunger pangs so intense he thought initially something far more serious was wrong. Only the flashing red indicator in the corner of his vision assured him otherwise. The roquelaure was adamant: he needed food. Immediately. Pushing out of the bed, Lisinthir staggered into the outer room and managed to make his needs known; Laniis fled for the corridor and returned in a manner most dilatory, or at least so it seemed to Lisinthir who had by then slid to the floor with his back to the wall. He should not have been able to smell the cold meat and cheese set out for him, but their aroma hit him like a fist from as far away as the corridor. By the time Laniis had it in front of him, he was salivating, and fell on it like an animal. And ate all of it, and it was a meal of distressingly large proportions.

  The Knife was staring at him with enormous eyes. Laniis’s expression was more considering, but just as concerned.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I woke ravenous.”

  “Did something change?” Laniis asked. “Has the ship gotten back?”

  Having placated his artificial appetite, Lisinthir checked the corner of his vision and was surprised to find a new icon there. “It claims the ship is here.”

  “But no one contacted you?”

  “No. I presume there is a way I might…”

  “Just try hailing them. ‘Call Silhouette.’”

  He made the attempt. “Nothing. Is that normal?”

  “Maybe they cannot answer at this time?” the Knife suggested. “They may need to maintain comm silence for some reason.”

  “I hope not,” Laniis said glumly. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons they might be doing that which don’t involve trouble for us.”

  “Does it explain the hunger?” Lisinthir said. “I’m not sure I can continue eating this way. I have a reputation for being a male of significant hungers, but there is gluttony and then there is medical impossibility.”

  “Maybe they’ll think you have some kind of metabolic disorder?” Laniis offered, ears lopsided with rue.

  The Knife grimaced. “You can have my food. I am rarely hungry.” At Laniis’s questioning look, he finished, “I find living this way nauseating.”

  “Now you know how the rest of us feel.”

  Lisinthir scrubbed his face. “Is there any chance this represents a malfunction?”

  “You’d better hope not,” she said. “Because if it does, we’re rhacked.”

  “But is it likely?” the Knife pressed. “Because I do not want to be trapped here!”

  “We won’t be trapped here,” Lisinthir said. “We’ll give it a day, see if it resolves. If it doesn’t, we’ll go back to the port and use the smallcraft to see if we can find the Silhouette. In the mean…” He smiled apologetically at Laniis, “perhaps we should order breakfast now. Just in case I need it before dawn.”

  “You do put away a meal well.” Laniis pushed herself to her feet, gathering the tray. “It’s kind of cute.”

  “It’s appalling,” Lisinthir said. “But one does what one must.”

  “Isn’t that always the way,” the Knife muttered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the morning, Lisinthir was forced to eat breakfast in his own chambers before leaving for the formal one with the Worldlord and the other guests, and the roquelaure continued to insist that it was both in need of fuel and aware of the Silhouette but unable to contact it. He began to wonder if Laniis was wrong and if the device was malfunctioning, and privately rehearsed speeches that would excuse him so that he could check the ship at the port. Perhaps Deputy-East could be convinced to fly him? But then the male might tarry and perhaps pry into the Sword’s affairs, enough to wonder what he was doing for so long in the ship…

  He would have to manage on his own.

 
; Laniis and the Knife went down to the slave annex for the day and Lisinthir presented himself to breakfast, this time at the top of one of the towers. Deputy-East was already there along with the Steward, but they were alone, talking at the edge of the platform with the breeze ruffling manes and wings. The view was beautiful, a sky streaked with distant clouds that made Lisinthir wish his wings were real. Perhaps the Alliance would one day develop a roquelaure capable of mimicking a species’ abilities and not just its appearance.

  And yet, he would be glad to be quit of this masquerade.

  “Deputy-East, Steward,” he said. “Good morning.”

  “Ah, Sword!” Deputy-East said. “It is fine, isn’t it? We might have a hunt later.”

  “A hunt would be lovely. Shall we try our hand at another of the stalker packs? Or would that bait Manufactory-East past bearing?”

  “Manufactory-East has departed,” the Steward murmured.

  “Oh?” Lisinthir said.

  Deputy-East snorted, but without amusement. “Don’t sound so pleased, Sword. He’s up to something. And he’ll be back.”

  “Will he.”

  “We are hosting his slaves,” the Steward said, quiet. “They arrived last night. And he said this morning when he left that an urgent matter had arisen that needed his attention.”

  “He’ll be back to gloat,” Deputy-East said. “Just watch.”

  “No doubt,” Lisinthir said. “And what have we for our meal this morning, if I may ask?”

  As the Steward expounded on the menu, Lisinthir struggled with the ice that had gripped his gut. With mining and extraterrestrial industry as his bailiwick, Manufactory-East no doubt had many ships at his disposal wandering the solar system. Had they found something? Was that why the Silhouette failed to respond to the roquelaure’s signal?

  The Worldlord’s arrival was almost a relief, since it forced him to set those thoughts aside if only to confront his ambivalence at needing to receive two enormous pelts. He was grateful that the Worldlord thought highly enough of him to grant him the gift—he also felt a pang that he might harbor gentler feelings for those who had served his beloved so cruelly.

  “I saved one for Deputy-East,” the Worldlord said. “Since he killed one. But I hesitated to give one to Manufactory-East, since he only finished the one you’d already put claws to.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Lisinthir said, running a hand over the dense, black fur. The pelts were unbelievably supple, and some deft hand had sewn them together so they could be used as a throw. “And you are politic to have waited before bestowing them. It makes me wonder something.”

  “That being?” the Worldlord said, seating himself at the table and reaching for the pitcher of water.

  “Would it be such a bad thing if Manufactory-East was to die?”

  Only the Steward didn’t stare at him, keeping himself busy by checking the table. Unnecessarily, since everything there was in order and had been since before Lisinthir’s arrival, no doubt.

  “Making plans?” Deputy-East said lightly.

  “Let us say… arranging for contingencies.”

  “Hopefully none you need to execute,” Deputy-East said, sitting.

  And then, surprising them all, the Worldlord said, “It would not be a bad thing, no.”

  Deputy-East blurted, wide-eyed, “But the upheaval—”

  The Worldlord scooped several chunks of fruit onto his plate. “Would be bad.”

  “But?” Deputy-East pressed.

  “But at some point, the risk of leaving someone in a position becomes greater than the risk of removing them from it.” The Worldlord glanced at Lisinthir, then back at his plate as he continued serving himself. “I may know some people who would not be out of place in such a position.”

  “It’s not that easy to replace Manufactory-East!” Deputy-East exclaimed.

  “No, huntfriend,” the Worldlord said heavily. “What is more difficult to bear is knowing that it is that easy. Has not the Emperor learned this lesson? Even the highest among us, and the best protected, can fall.” He tapped the plate next to his with a claw. “Sit. Eat.”

  Deputy-East fluttered onto his chair, still agape. “You would have the Sword kill him.”

  “No. I like the Sword.” The Worldlord smiled lopsidedly at Lisinthir. “I’d rather he not be killed himself. But I don’t like the news I’m hearing lately.” He tipped his nose toward the Steward, who looked up with a grave countenance. “Not just from space but on the ground, from those taking furlough here.”

  Deputy-East glanced at the Steward, who said only, “The situation looks bad.” He inclined his head to the Worldlord. “With permission. I go to see that Manufactory-East’s slaves have settled into the annex.”

  “Thank you, Steward.” The Worldlord finished heaping his plate. “One of my younger sons has arrived in system aboard one of the Naval carriers. I don’t like what he tells me, Deputy-East. The coup is sitting badly in people’s stomachs. Huntbrother set against huntbrother… this is not our way.”

  “One would say it is exactly our way,” Lisinthir said. “Do we not fight? Male against male? System lord against Naval prince? Industrialized sector versus underdeveloped? Male against female? All of us against alien?”

  Deputy-East was toying with the rib he’d dragged off the plate, turning it in his talons. “No. The Worldlord is right, Sword. Maybe this perspective is less obvious from your external point of view, but if what you said was true the Empire would have collapsed long ago. The reason we survive is because we know there are fights one does not begin.”

  Lisinthir set his new throw on his chair and sat on it. “I understand. You are both contemplating how best to prepare for the Empire’s fall, aren’t you.”

  They looked at him sharply, but not in surprise. Shock, that he was willing to say aloud what they would not. Ignoring them, Lisinthir reached for the water pitcher and poured for himself and Deputy-East. He topped off the Worldlord’s glass as well, and now their stares were incredulity as well as shock.

  “One takes care of one’s huntkin. Does one not?”

  “Yes,” the Worldlord said slowly. “Yes, one does.”

  “Let us eat, then. I find myself strangely famished.”

  “Ha!” Deputy-East tossed his mane over his shoulder. “You and food, Sword!”

  Laniis entered the slave annex into chaos. Emlyn and Dominika were both present and attempting to calm down three other Pelted who were clinging to one another, bare-toothed and aggressive, as Andrea made a futile effort to bypass them to a fourth person no one could quite see. It reminded her so powerfully of the moment in the cell at the basement of the palace’s harem tower that she stopped short. Bumping into her, the Knife said, “What now!”

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “These are new people,” Emlyn said, backing away to join them near the ramp. “They’re Manufactory-East’s, he apparently sent for them last night. But one of them won’t stop crying and they won’t let us help.”

  “You’re the same people,” the Knife said, puzzled. “Why do you not trust each other?”

  “It’s less that they don’t trust us, and more that they’ve been through so much together that they trust one another more,” Laniis said, tail low. But she couldn’t help the satisfaction in her voice at the realization that Manufactory-East had made his last mistake, and the newcomers froze at the sound.

  One of them, an Asanii felid with a silver Mau patterning that did not hide the ragged scars on her arms and shoulders, said, “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

  “I’m not happy that you’re miserable.” Laniis stepped past Emlyn and stood in front of them. They were a wreck, and it tore her heart to see the obvious signs of frequent abuse. Not just the scarring, either… the Tam-illee foxine was missing an ear, and that Harat-Shar… Laniis was willing to bet she hadn’t been born tailless. “I’m happy you’re here. Are you four the only slaves Manufactory-East has?”

 
; Their suspicious looks were an improvement on the snarls and arguing she’d interrupted. Somewhat. Again, it was the silver Asanii who answered. “Yes. The only ones left, anyway. For now.”

  “He’ll buy more,” the Tam-illee whispered, chest rising and falling too rapidly. “He’ll buy more and then we’ll be the next ones he kills, and the cycle will start all over again—”

  “Not this time,” Laniis said. “Because we were planning on breaking you out. The fact that he’s had you brought here makes your rescue a lot easier.”

  Utter shock. This rage at the sight of how with only one ear the foxine’s expression looked wry instead of stunned… was this what drove the Ambassador? No wonder he never let anything stop him. Laniis flicked her own ears back, then forced them forward again. “It’s true.”

  “It is true,” the Knife said from behind her. “Our keeper had some plan. But he wasn’t going to leave without you.”

  “Insane,” the Harat-Shar said. “But… you’re not teasing us?”

  Laniis frowned at her. “Never. Now will you let Andrea behind you? She’s an EMA, she can help.”

  “I’m not sure anyone can help Claudia,” the Asanii said heavily. “But you can try.” She stepped away to reveal another figure huddled in on itself, intensifying Laniis’s memories of that long-ago tableau. She half-expected to see another Eldritch face, tear-streaked and jewel-eyed, and couldn’t help her relief when she saw the conical ears of a Tam-illee instead. The Ambassador’s wrath had there been another Eldritch in the hands of someone like Manufactory-East…

  Not that this wasn’t bad enough. The woman was nearly catatonic, curled into a ball and unwilling to respond to anyone. As Andrea crouched alongside her and began murmuring comforting words, Laniis said, “What happened to her last?”

  “To make her like this?” The Asanii shook her head. “She was always like this, from the moment she was taken. We never got much out of her, but what little we did… she was some kind of pilot? For someone important. They all got taken in the raid, and she doesn’t know what happened to that person but it’s devastated her.”