Even the Wingless

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Another long pause, then, /There are Glaseah./

  /Glaseah!/ Lisinthir snorted aloud. /They do not have the passion required to understand these people. The Chatcaava are nothing but passion, barely suppressed, barely withheld. Creatures of instinct and aggression and wild feeling. And you would put a Glaseah in their midst? It would be laughable./

  /You would be surprised, far-cousin... sometimes opposition works better than like-mindedness./

  /Perhaps/, Lisinthir wrote. /But would you bet the lives of their citizens on it—ours?/

  /If all else failed, perhaps/, the anonymous other wrote. /But back to the crate. Food we shall send. Do you have other requests? Otherwise, I shall pack for you, far-cousin./

  Lisinthir wondered with interest what this stranger would send him. /No, that is all I can think of. Only send the competent crewmen and all will be well... and send them as soon as possible./

  /I am told the best personnel will need to be extricated. It may be several days. Is that acceptable?/

  Lisinthir rolled his lip between his teeth. The operation was going to be difficult enough—having what the Alliance considered the best would make a difference in the likelihood of success. But it wouldn't be long before the Emperor tested him, if he'd heard what the Slave Queen had said—and hadn't—correctly. Finally, he typed, /I can wait. But not long./

  /We'll expedite/, the other replied. /I will update you in the morning. Until then, far-cousin?/

  /Yes/, Lisinthir wrote.

  /Good hunting, then./

  Good hunting, indeed. Lisinthir locked the tablet, turned it off and tossed it on the side table. He had only begun to loll back long enough to study the mosaic on the ceiling again when he heard the luff of wings from the study. Rolling off the bed and coming to the study door, he found Second perched on the railing.

  "The scarf is not wound, I know," Second said. "But I must have a message to you. We must devise a way of delivering such messages to you when you are not receiving."

  "So having women slip in my back door is not typical," Lisinthir said.

  "No," Second said. Was that a scowl? Was gifting the Ambassador with women unusual, or was it a practice that Second disapproved of in general? So hard to tell—he had so little information.

  "How was it done before?" Lisinthir asked.

  "Before, when a message needed delivery someone simply delivered it," Second said.

  "That won't do at all." Lisinthir leaned on the door frame, neither entering the study proper nor giving permission to Second to leave the perch on the balcony. "Perhaps I should put a box for mail somewhere unobtrusive."

  "One supposes that would work," Second said. "It would lack dignity for the messenger."

  "And hovering on my balcony, calling for me to open the doors wouldn't?"

  Second definitely scowled then. "A box, then."

  "Yes," Lisinthir said. "I will send for one." He didn't want the Chatcaava to provide one; anything they gave him would be compromised. If he was receiving mail, he wanted to be the only one reading it. "Which segues nicely into my notice that I will be receiving an extra trunk of supplies shortly. I seem to have left half my wardrobe at home."

  "Your minimal luggage was commented upon," Second said.

  "It will be remedied shortly," Lisinthir said. "I will inform you when the shuttle is due. And now you had a message for me?"

  "Yes," Second said. "Dinner is in an hour... and it should please you. A servant will be by to escort you, and will knock at the inner chamber door." And without waiting for reply, the Chatcaavan launched from the perch. Lisinthir supposed this was a token bit of rudeness to even out their conversation.

  One hour didn't give him much time to send his contact the request for a locked box and for additional wardrobe items, plus freshen up. Lisinthir hastened to both matters, leaving a message for the former and dropping back into the Chatcaavan version of a shower for the second. His body wasn't altogether sure of the climate—at the foot of the towers, he found it humid and warm with a smart breeze sharp with the scent of the sea. But in the heights of the towers, with their frequently open windows and doors, the air was thin, chilled and dry. Dressing for the top of the tower was too warm for the base, and the frequent passage from one to the other left his skin sore from the changes in pressure and moisture.

  All the stories he'd ever heard told about dragons placed them deep underground in warm caves, encrusting their breasts with their golden hoards. The Chatcaava, meanwhile, could not be pulled out of the cold, high sky for long.

  He dressed for the base of the tower and took the precaution of gloves; he had been more sanguine about touching the Chatcaava casually until the Slave Queen had educated him. The servant caught him buttoning the last few holes on his cuffs and watched with frank curiosity until he finished.

  "I'm ready," Lisinthir said.

  The servant said nothing and walked back into the hall. As he followed, Lisinthir wondered at the social structure. Were females only chattel, to be used for reproduction and pleasure? He had yet to see a female servant—males populated the court, guarded the doors to the towers and led him to and from his engagements. Did the Chatcaava marry as, say, an Eldritch did? Or did they all have harems?

  What a life. And yet, if they discounted their women so it could only bode well for the Alliance.

  The servant led him down the interminable steps, through the echoing stairwells and out of the tower, where the sea-stained air tossed Lisinthir's hair past his back and left a humid weight in it. They walked around the back of the tower, where the palace grounds surprised Lisinthir by spreading up from the stony plateau and onto an area of softly rumpled hills. The pale grass was studded with the remains of tumbled columns; they skirted an entire cracked entablature, missing its frieze and most of the decorative molding... if it had ever had either. Through this strange graveyard of statuary and architecture, the servant wound him until he could hear the hiss of Chatcaavan conversation.

  "Through here," the servant said, and left him at a surprisingly intact arch, though no building remained to give it context. Lisinthir walked through it and onto a gentle plain dotted with white flowers. Low tables had been set in a horseshoe shape open to the arch, and the ubiquitous pillows were the only other furniture. The distant moons, the soft breeze, the perfume of spring, all of it could have been mistaken for a pleasant evening on his own world. Lisinthir wished the Chatcaava would not oscillate between barbarity and beauty so swiftly.

  A silent server led him to a pillow distant from just about everyone. Lisinthir settled on it and scanned the gathering until he found Third, Second and the Emperor at a table in the middle of the horseshoe. The closest individual to Lisinthir was still several seats away... or would have been, had there been pillows. He suspected his corner seat was a form of alien quarantine, not meant as a position of honor but rather as a place to sequester the wingless freaks. He wondered how many former ambassadors had mistaken it for deference... if any had come to these suppers at all.

  A servant came by with meat and vegetables shaped like red spears, dishing them into the bowl in front of Lisinthir without looking at him before moving to the next place. Wine was served in a similar manner and tested with silent calm by what appeared to be poison-tasters available only to certain individuals. The susurrus of Chatcaavan conversation continued. Lisinthir ate absently and watched the Emperor's table. The male reclined in seeming languor on a very long pillow, and Second beside him offered him the occasional drink from a jeweled cup, a cup he'd drunk from first. He noticed he was not the only one watching—the courtiers, despite their chatter, often turned their narrow heads toward the middle table.

  Lisinthir had resigned himself to Chatcaavan court suppers being as dull as Eldritch ones when Second rose to his feet and spread his wings. It was the first time Lisinthir had seen them held open for longer than it took to flap them, and their small size surprised him. What were these creatures made of, that they could fly on such
narrow pinions?

  "There is a matter of justice," Second said. "I call on Firestorm's Heir. Stand and claim your name unless you live in fear."

  A Chatcaavan near Lisinthir stood. "I am he."

  "Your Emperor, whom you have offended, commands you," Second said, and the Emperor stood. He made Second look plain and friendly, and when his dark wings spread Lisinthir did not think at all of their size.

  "You have been informed of your crime by Second?" the Emperor asked.

  "I have," the male near Lisinthir replied. "Though I dispute that it was a crime. That which is not deserving of respect should not have it."

  "So you concede your guilt?"

  "I do," the male replied, then said, "I invoke the right of the Heir to evade the Emperor's justice."

  The court had ceased its chatter, had in fact become so silent Lisinthir wondered if they feared to move. He watched with unease as the Emperor's eyes half-lidded, dimming a fluorescence visible even from this distance.

  Then the Emperor laughed. "Do not play the fool with us, Firestorm's Heir. Last we checked your brother was still alive. Your progenitor will have another to fill your place. Now do you choose the fight or do you choose execution?"

  Lisinthir laced his fingers together beneath the table to keep them from trembling.

  "I choose the fight," the Heir said, and leaped over the table toward the Emperor.

  A black blur, the sudden iron stink of blood, a gut-chilling noise, thick and spongy, and the male was sprawled at the feet of the Emperor, his entire midsection open and glinting red organs showing at the ragged tear.

  "We are satisfied... as we trust those who shared our offense are now satisfied." The Emperor met Lisinthir's eyes.

  Lisinthir clenched his hands together until he bruised.

  The Slave Queen had not expected to see the Ambassador again so soon. If she'd known... some part of her would have tried to prepare, to work through the way he treated her and the strangeness of knowing what it was like to live in an Eldritch skin. When he appeared at the top of her stairwell, she unnerved herself by recognizing that he looked unwell... that the tension in his shoulders had meaning she could now understand. She had been shown the door by Laniis and given the key by this male and there would be no returning now to blissful ignorance.

  Had her ignorance been so blissful?

  "My lord?" Laniis said, hesitating as she rose. "Are you well?"

  "I am in need of a harem's special skills," the Ambassador said, one edge of his mouth trembling, and the Slave Queen was relieved to find that the complexity of some expressions she still could not unriddle. She glanced at Laniis, then at the Ambassador, waiting to see whether he spoke in earnest.

  "I jest," he said when Laniis seemed frozen, incapable of response. "Unless you are conversant with the other uses of a harem, in the traditional sense."

  "Entertainment? Relaxation?" Laniis suggested at last. "The Chatcaava also do these things, my lord."

  "Very good," he said. "Then with your permission, I will sit here and allow you to relax me."

  "You do not need our permission for anything," the Slave Queen said, finally speaking. She wasn't sure whether she felt relief that the Ambassador had been joking... or something else. Something she didn't want to examine too closely.

  "Where I am from it is only courtesy," he said, though he now sounded distracted. "My lady, can you tell me of the Chatcaavan justice system?"

  "Justice system?" the Slave Queen asked, puzzled. "As in our ways with criminals?"

  "Yes," the Ambassador said.

  "I suppose we kill them, if they are guilty," the Queen said. "I had not thought much about it."

  He ran a hand over his face. "I see."

  Laniis kneeled near the Ambassador—not so near as to touch him, but near enough. The Queen had never seen the Seersa so pliant... oh, she kneeled for the Emperor and the males who came through the harem, but never with the grace and peace she showed for the Ambassador. The Queen wondered at this serenity. Were the Eldritch so valued in the Alliance? Or did Laniis merely like him?

  "Someone died at supper," he said, then amended, "Rather, the Emperor dispatched someone at supper."

  "That is the time usually chosen for executions if they involve a courtier," the Slave Queen said. "Duels also take place during dinner, as it guarantees an audience and the Emperor's oversight."

  "No evidence was presented," the Ambassador said.

  "It would have been gathered beforehand," the Slave Queen replied. She folded her hands in her lap. "You seem distraught. Is it not so where you come from?"

  "You can tell he's distraught?" Laniis asked.

  The Slave Queen ducked her head. "He asks strange questions. As if he cannot believe them. I assumed."

  "How is dueling different from the Emperor's justice, then?" the Ambassador asked.

  "No evidence is required for a duel," the Slave Queen said. "And no warning."

  "And duels, too, are to the death," the Ambassador said.

  "Among adults, yes," the Slave Queen said. She watched his face; it was still, eyes closed against revealing too much. He knew then that of his face only his eyes betrayed him when he allowed any hint of his mask to slip at all. She said, "Do you now see the folly of remaining in the Empire after your attempt, Ambassador?"

  "I must stay," he said. "I will stay."

  "What if they kill you?" Laniis whispered.

  "Then I will have to hope I am faster with a sword than a dragon is with his hands," he said and straightened, eyes darkening. "I will not leave our people here. And I will not apologize for doing what any male would do for his people."

  The Slave Queen cocked her head. "Claim them?"

  He stared at her. "Save them. Protect them."

  A faint pang in her heart, then... like the ghost of sorrow, that distant, that long deceased. "Males do not protect the weak, Ambassador. They use them, claim them, fight over them and dispose of them when they are done."

  His gaze hardened. "Then I will show the males here how a man is supposed to act."

  She could not move beneath the intensity of his stare, could only think, pinned into silence, into paralysis, that there was something of a Chatcaavan's strength in that gaze.

  "I was thinking... " Laniis said, breaking the quiet. "About the dungeon."

  "The what?" the Ambassador said, startled.

  "There is a dungeon in this tower, my lord," Laniis said. "A holding cell at its base."

  His interest sharpened. "Do you have access to it?"

  "We have walked there before," Laniis said. "The guards did not stop us."

  "And the base is more accessible than the tower," the Ambassador said.

  Laniis said nothing more.

  "I see," the Ambassador said. "And I thank you."

  "For what?" the Slave Queen asked as he stood and stretched. He was unnaturally long, the alien, and the movement was unfettered and sensual. She wondered at his ease... and at this glimpse into a part of him he'd been hiding.

  "For distracting me." He eyed Laniis. "For giving me purpose. I will be back tomorrow. To talk about the plan."

  "Of course," the Slave Queen said.

  "Good night, ladies."

  "Good night, my lord," Laniis said softly. The Slave Queen did not speak; she watched Laniis follow the Ambassador down the stairs with her eyes, with ears that trembled to catch the scuff of his boots on the stone stairs.

  The Slave Queen looked, and puzzled. "You told him about the cell."

  "Yes," Laniis said. She remained peacefully kneeling, hands on her knees. "He needed to know. If we can get the slaves there it will be easier to steal them away."

  "And now you will be involved in this," the Queen said.

  Laniis looked at her with large eyes. "Mistress, I have always been involved in this. These are my kind. How can I not help?"

  "If it fails—," the Slave Queen began.

  "It will not fail," Laniis said.

  "If it fa
ils," the Slave Queen continued, "The slaves will most likely die."

  "Better a swift death in an escape attempt than a long death on our knees," the girl said.

  "And I?" the Slave Queen asked, surprised into the question. "Is that what I am doing?"

  "I do not know, Mistress," Laniis said, and bowed her head. "It is not for me to decide for you or any Chatcaavan. You are too different. But the rest of us yearn to belong only to ourselves again. To belong to another without consent erodes us."

  "So much that you would prefer death to this," the Slave Queen said.

  "Yes," Laniis said, without pause, without thought, and conviction made the softness of her voice incongruous.

  "And yet," the Slave Queen said softly, "you kneel to the Ambassador."

  "He needs someone to soothe him," Laniis said.

  "And so there are still some of you, no matter how much you yearn for freedom, who are soothed by the servitude of others," the Slave Queen said.

  Laniis looked up at her with solemn eyes. "To give yourself freely in service to others is not the same as slavery, Mistress."

  The Queen rose to her feet and left the alien there. Somehow she found herself at the window and there she tucked herself into one of its cold stone corners, to look out over the broadness of the sky. Servitude, slavery... it was all the same. It was all bowing on hands and knees to the wishes of another, taking into one's body, heart and mind their desires, their needs, their pain and anger. To serve was to be no more than someone's tool, transforming frustration into satiation, wrath into quiet, need into fulfillment. To serve was to be an object. Willing or not.

  The Slave Queen thought of her tears dripping from the Ambassador's eyes, and watched the stars fall oh-so-slowly toward the distant horizon. After a few moments, she heard Laniis rise, fur whispering, and pad quietly to the closet and into it. Let her hide with the other aliens, then, if that's where she felt she belonged.