"Hand of Third," one of the guards said to the Hand, who was staring at Firemint's writhing body. "We have her."
"Ah, very good. It's no use my appearing without Third. Take her to the court."
"Yes, Hand," the guard said.
And that easily, she was back on her feet, following the stairs to the ground floor. The Slave Queen shivered with the aftermath of the plan's success. Now if only she could fool the Emperor for long enough for the slaves to escape! She kept her head dipped so the guards would not see her eyes—if even they remembered what color the real Eldritch's had been. Their professional nonchalance beat through her skin and pressed against her mind. She shuddered.
To be escorted to the court as the Emperor's newest toy was a completely different experience from being escorted as the Slave Queen, most exalted and most debased of all females in the Chatcaavan Empire. For all her status as female and harem-kept, the Slave Queen's position had been, at least, understood. Protected from the average citizen. Even respected. Tossed to her thin knees on the floor of the court, the furthest level from the Emperor's perch and surrounded by the avaricious stares of the courtiers, the Queen realized just how exalted her debasement had been, compared to this.
She dared not lift her head, lest she be recognized as an impostor. So she remained on her hands and knees, shivering in the twilight cool, praying that the prisoners were already on their way to the shuttle. She heard the courtiers rising, the chime of the bells. After the rustle of wings and whispers came a long silence interrupted at last by the long stride of boots on the stone floor.
"Ah, Ambassador. Welcome again."
"Exalted Emperor. It gives me great pleasure to once again bask in your radiance."
A laugh. "Flattery, groundling."
The Queen bit her lip at the faint contempt in the Emperor's voice.
"Selfishness, Exalted. Each time I inspire you to address me personally, I gain status at home and among your court."
"We love an honest man, Ambassador."
She let out her breath, and realized then that her lip throbbed. Too tender flesh.
"Flattery, Exalted?"
"Selfishness, Ambassador. Honest men are easier to manage."
"How fortunate for the Empire and the Alliance, then."
The Emperor laughed. "Enough. There will be time for sparring later. We did not summon you to talk. See here—the slave. We thought you would enjoy her possession."
The Slave Queen tensed.
"Is she not already possessed by you, Exalted?"
"Oh! No, no. We forgive your ignorance of our tongue. She is still untouched by us. But we have heeded your words and prepared for her a setting cold, austere and hard, to contrast her very softness."
"I anticipate the spectacle, Lord."
"Let it begin, then."
The guards stepped forward and pulled her to her feet by her leash; the Slave Queen stumbled as they dragged her forward, up onto a dais. The floor was especially cold and she opened her eyes to glance at it—and swiftly looked away.
It was a round mirror extending to the ends of the dais, edged with knives. The center of the mirror had been pierced by a stone spike, and it was to this that they tied her, stomach to the stone, before stripping her bare. The Queen was familiar with the general layout, but the angles and the mirror were new, and dangerous. She closed her eyes tightly.
The rustle and murmur of the crowd watching preceded the bells ringing in order now: highest tone to lowest, for the Emperor's descent to the earth. Silence, then.
"So, do you wonder how we possess one of the harem-kept, Ambassador?"
"I do have some curiosity over the matter, Exalted Emperor."
"There are many ways." She heard the Emperor walking nearer and tried to stop shivering. A few minutes later, his fingers skated down her naked back, and greed and cold lust pierced her mind like the head of a spear. She cried out. "She may be too fragile for most of them, but we hear there are compensations. Tell me, Ambassador. Is it true that the Eldritch feel emotions and thoughts through their skins?"
"Just so, Exalted."
"And that they take cold easily?"
"Indeed, Exalted."
"Then she must be suffering already."
The Ambassador did not even pause, his voice level as if discussing the weather. "Without question, Most Exalted."
"How... fascinating." The hot breath of the Chatcaavan moistened her shoulder. "It is not a very visible suffering, though. We prefer our slaves more vocal."
He grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back, then pressed a hand against her chin and growled.
red swords, thrust through her—
claws scraping flesh in curls from her spine—
a thousand needles piercing her feet and hands—
The Slave Queen screamed, who had never screamed in her life.
"How gratifying!"
"Without even a mark on her, Exalted. Truly you are expert."
"Let us continue, then."
As the ordeal began in earnest, the Slave Queen gave thanks over and over to have spared the Eldritch female this horror, for if Third's thoughts alone had sent her into catatonia than this would have destroyed her. But soon she lost the ability to string thoughts together, for each time she tried the Emperor's touch dashed them to pieces and replaced them with his own. His hungers. His rage. His complexities and cold curiosities. His intentions were so defined they became realities, and she could no longer tell whether it was him or his thoughts raping her frail and borrowed body. When at last the stimulus left her, the Queen found herself curled on the mirror, separated from the stone, pooled hair beneath her head obscuring her reflection. She gasped for breath, desperate to feel clean again, to separate dreams from truth.
The alien smell clogging her nostrils was herself: blood and sweat. What part of the feelings had actually been true happenings was uncertain, but the insides of her thighs skidded against one another, and her body felt cold and sticky with blood and other things.
"We think that is sufficient. What do you think, Ambassador?"
"She seems subdued, Exalted Emperor."
"Quite an experience," the Emperor mused. "One could wish all people had this highly exploitable talent." She could hear the grin in his voice, and then he crouched beside her and turned her head to his. "So, look at us, fragile flower, and tell us who owns you."
She kept her eyes tightly shut.
"I fear she does not understand you, Emperor."
"Ah. Tell her for me, then."
A pause, then a long string of unintelligible words, liquid-soft. The Slave Queen hesitated. Open her eyes as presumably she was bidden and end this? Or keep them closed and invite more violence?
The Ambassador's second speech carried more urgency.
She opened her eyes.
The Emperor smiled. "How sweetly weak. She weeps, Ambassador. That is normal for your kind?"
"When in pain, Exalted One, or in sadness."
"Ah! Both entirely appropriate. We approve. It is too bad it makes her eyes seem different... they are a most rare shade usually. Nevertheless! She makes a fine addition to our many others."
"Indeed, Emperor."
As the Slave Queen watched in shock, he turned from her and walked to the Ambassador. "And you are also a fine addition to our court, Ambassador. We had expected you to show some weakness of your own during this display."
The Ambassador shrugged and smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes. "There is no use weeping over what cannot be changed."
"But you still hate slavery," the Emperor said.
"I deplore it," the Ambassador said.
A hint of menace and amusement surfaced in the Emperor's voice. "And you say so in front of all my court."
"Your court doesn't frighten me, my lord," the Ambassador said. "And on the day I die, I would prefer to do so with my convictions intact."
"Unviolated," the Emperor said.
"Pristine," agreed the Ambas
sador.
"And you are certain they will remain so... even here, where you have no power," the Emperor said.
The Ambassador's grin sounded in his voice, and the Slave Queen could hear the teeth in it. "Make no assumptions, Exalted. Not even here in the place of your greatest dominion."
The Emperor laughed, wings stretching. "Such gall! Such recklessness! We are amused. We shall keep you." He waved to the guards. "Take the slave away."
And as swiftly as that, it was over. The guards half-carried, half-dragged her the long journey to the topmost tower of the harem. Black Rose and Moon were gone, their toys with them, though the smell of blood and pleasure was still trapped in the corners of her suite. The Slave Queen crawled into one of the nests until the guards left her, then forced herself, in spurts, to make the agonizing Change back to her true shape.
And there, in the utter silence of her tower, she curled up and stared blankly at the stairs. It did not occur to her until hours later that some part of her was waiting for someone to come.
The chest was in his chambers. The sight of it alone might not have undone him, though resting there it symbolized the magnitude of his attempt. But that it was not merely a chest, but a jackal's chest, proved too much. Lisinthir stumbled to it, rested a hand on the grinning jackal head on its lid and then slowly slumped beside it. He pressed his forehead against his coat arm and tilted his face away from any possible surveillance devices.
And so, carefully muffled and hidden, he wept for the Slave Queen, for the despair he'd tasted through her skin when the Emperor had brought her too close to avoid brushing against her. He wept for the trembling and the screams and the tears... and for her courage and her steadfast loyalty to their plan, that had cost him so little and her so much. And he wept for himself, for having born witness to such barbarity without having the decency to stop it, no matter the cause. What could allow him to stand through hours of someone's misery without ever flinching?
When he finally stopped, he did so not because he'd run out of tears but because of ridiculous, mundane considerations. Every rib in his chest ached from how forcefully he'd controlled his heaves. His eyes were painfully dry, and his careful pose had become uncomfortable. By these things, he knew himself not to be in an epic ballad... in epic ballads, no one ever stopped crying because his nose was running or his legs had gone numb.
With some balance restored, Lisinthir washed his face in the bathroom, doffed the coat and gloves and attended the chest. As expected, it had been inspected by customs officials who'd been less than rigorous about re-folding everything they'd ruffled. The chest contained the promised clothing, the lockable mailbox, extra victuals and, of all things, a lute with a book of music. He put away the clothing, undressed and turned out the lights for bed, wondering just how sensitive the surveillance equipment in his room was. He supposed he would know soon.
After waiting an appropriate interval to "fall asleep," Lisinthir slid out of bed with all the quiet he'd learned sneaking past the over-zealous hounds guarding the house he'd grown in as a boy. Sitting in front of the chest, he felt around its sides until the fangs of the jackals pricked his fingertips. He pressed upward until he felt blood well from them... and the button-latch hidden in the roofs of the mouths.
Lisinthir didn't know what Eldritch had owned, or even made, the first jackal chest. But everyone knew the story; it was a court favorite, rich with irony. The chest that had been created to hide its contents became so popular that everyone recognized it and knew how to release its trick bottom. His correspondent had a wicked sense of humor to send him a chest so obvious when he was among people who would have no clue of its notoriety.
They would have scanned it, of course... which was why when the bottom pan dropped onto the floor, its edges had been padded with exotic Alliance foam and lined with a mysterious wire leading to an electronic head no larger than a pin. But the items in the pan were simple enough. One of them was a weapon Lisinthir had never expected to handle in his life: a matched set of claw-knives. Claw-knives were illegal in the Alliance, a law dating back to the Pelted escape from Earth and their bitterness toward their creators. They had not wanted humans to have facsimiles of their own natural weaponry, and so every form of finger-mounted knife had been outlawed.
Lisinthir slipped one on. It seemed made of leather but was probably some expensive synthetic. The knives were mounted on top of each finger, jointed so they could bend with his hand but otherwise hidden beneath a layer of black fabric. It took some experimentation, but by splaying his fingers with enough force, he could cause them to eject from their pockets, hinges snapping rigid to form claw-like extensions nearly two inches long.
Dangerous. Lisinthir touched one with a fingertip and came away with a red slice. They would easily punch through his gloves if he wore them beneath a set.
He put them away and turned to the other item in the pan. From a soft ivory pouch came another distinctly Eldritch gift: an amulet rampant, a pendant of a rearing unicorn meant to invoke sacred powers to protect the wearer. They came in two styles; the most common was the rampant rampant, brightly colored, large and obvious. The one in Lisinthir's palm was a secret rampant. Made of ivory, mother of pearl and white gold, with much open tooling and strung on a white satin cord, it was difficult to see against an Eldritch's white skin.
Inside the pouch was a note, written in a strong hand and colored silver and serious shadow-gray: "Against your future need."
Lisinthir slid the pan back into the jackal chest, still holding the amulet. He tied it on before sliding back beneath the covers. He wouldn't know for a while yet if the escape had been successful, and he didn't want to be awake through the long hours to come.
The following day, Lisinthir did not fly his scarf. Nor, though he thought himself craven for it, did he go to the Slave Queen to thank her and to ensure she'd recovered from her ordeal. Her eyes were alien eyes, but not so alien that he couldn't imagine regret in them, or melancholy... or pain.
So instead he spent the day organizing the trade requests his superiors had sent him to negotiate. He did so in obvious view, for though he didn't feel up to company he wanted any Chatcaavan that flew past to note his industry. Let them think that the day after witnessing the rape of a countryman that he could sit down and work with all appearance of normalcy.
Halfway into the evening, his data tablet chirped and interposed a real-time window on top of his documents.
/They are safe, far-cousin./ Gold, white, silver, all the colors of joy and truth and optimism.
His fingers spasmed; he almost dropped the tablet on the desk. /So soon?/
/The shuttle met with a Dusted Alliance courier, which fled into contested space... and met up with a squadron. The dragons would have to fight five cruisers to retrieve a handful of slaves... hardly worth their while./
/And the snow-one?/
/Sends her thanks... as does the jewel of the Crown./
/Will she recover?/
A pause. /We are... optimistic. Though she will probably be timid all her life./
Which for an Eldritch was not an insignificant span. Lisinthir lifted his fingers to reply when the window vanished. Startled, he attempted to re-establish the connection and got back the chilling words, "Signal Jammed."
He did not have to ask the source of the interference. Instead he stood and pulled on his coat. He didn't quite have time for the gloves when the door opened and four guards marched in, headed by Third.
"Take him," Third said. "The Emperor will have news of this!"
He allowed them to seize his arms; thankfully, the guards did not care about his crimes and their minds were focused on their duty and not on thoughts of vengeance or cruelty. Better them than Third—
Except that Third stepped up to him and studied his face. The Chatcaavan's lips were pulled back from the rows of yellow teeth. "I know about you Eldritch now, freak. I know that I can make you suffer just... by... touching you."
Brown claws hovered o
ver Lisinthir's cheek, so close his skin felt cold beneath their pointed shadows. He didn't move.
"The Emperor might not approve pre-emptive punishment," the Hand said.
Third's fingers remained suspended above Lisinthir's face. Through his skin he felt the guards' unease.
"Fine," Third said, and whirled away, back through the door. Relieved, the guards pulled him along afterwards. He knew the way they were marching within minutes, and patiently climbed the many stairs to the harem's topmost tower. They gained the final suite to find the Emperor standing in front of the Slave Queen, who had been decoratively bound into the shape of a statue using silver ribbons. A few ribbons trailed from her pierced wing vanes, forgotten or part of an unfinished plan.
Third bowed low, then straightened and growled displeasure. "Exalted one! Many pardons for interrupting your pleasure, but the Alliance slaves have escaped... including your newest treasure, the Eldritch female!"
"What?" the Emperor hissed, stepping toward them with talons curved outward.
Dread filtered through Lisinthir's arms from his guards. Third continued, "We don't know how. But we suspect this one," he pointed at Lisinthir, "is responsible!"
The Emperor turned to him and casually asked, "Is this so?"
Lisinthir allowed all his conviction—and a little of his pride—to surface in his steady gaze. "It is."
"You admit it?" Third asked, pupils contracting.
"Yes," Lisinthir said. Strangely, the nonchalance of his body, slightly slouched, was not an act. He honestly didn't care if the Emperor eviscerated him now for what he'd done or if he would go free... it was enough to have made it to this moment, this moment where the slaves were gone, liberated by him from the heart of the Empire beneath the very nostrils of its court and ruler. He had done it. He had conquered.
Even the Wingless Page 17
