"You think, lady?" the Ambassador mused.
"He would not have invited you to drink otherwise," the Slave Queen said. She slid off the window ledge, resting a hand on it, still warm from her legs. "I have some knowledge of these things, however accidentally I gleaned it. He has extended the invitation to you. Now you must take it."
"I had planned to," the Ambassador said.
"Perhaps you do not understand me," the Slave Queen said. "Or perhaps I do not understand you. You wish to climb further into the Emperor's confidences?"
"Yes," he said. "As far as an alien might."
"And I do not know how far you can go," the Queen said. She felt warm and nervous. "But if you are to go further than you have yet, then you must not treat this invitation as an invitation to a drink. You have had those before, correct?"
He was watching her intently now, the mask slowly removing him from view and sealing him behind those alien, shuttered eyes. "Yes."
"Then you must treat this as an invitation to the test. You must challenge him, Ambassador. If he indeed he is treating you as he would a new courtier, the tests are administered only when the courtier proves himself dangerous enough to need them."
"I see," he said, then hesitated and laughed. "No, I don't. It almost sounds as if you're telling me I have to do something new to insult him."
"And so you must," the Slave Queen said.
This time the shock slipped past his mask, and with it, alarm. "You jest."
"You have proven to him that you can go against his will when following the dictates of your duty, and that is promising," the Slave Queen said, uncertain what drove her to say these things to him. "Now you must insult him more personally."
Something in his eyes reminded her of her own, sometimes. When she was not careful with memories. When they haunted her face. He said, "I'm not sure I'd survive insulting the Emperor."
"You might not," the Slave Queen said. "He might torture you, or kill you. Or he might simply ignore you." She shrugged. "But you chose this course, I think, did you not?"
"So I did," he whispered, and with that admission made her wonder how he could possibly survive.
He thought about returning for his sword but decided against it. From the harem he made the long journey directly to the Emperor's chambers. It was grueling enough on normal nights... tonight it seemed interminable, passing through the circles of yellow lamp-light and beneath the baleful glowing stares of the guards. He had plenty of time on the way up to talk himself out of what he was about to do. He could merely take a drink with the male, just as he had before. He could turn back and be ill. He could find some excuse or some flaw in the Slave Queen's logic... but he could not. She was right. He had been jumped most the court's pillows to the high table and then given a week's respite. Now he had been called to prove his mettle. Lisinthir presented himself to the guards at the Emperor's door and entered the room, had to proceed past it to a smaller sitting room off its side.
"Ah, Ambassador." The Emperor was reclining on a round couch the size of a bed, propped up with a heap of burgundy pillows edged in gold swirls. The purple robe loosely tied around his waist gave shape to his black body, usually so difficult to trace in low light. Try as he might, Lisinthir could find no evidence of the evening's fight on his body, no scratch, no blood, nothing.
"Most Exalted Emperor," Lisinthir said, bowing. "I am pleased to be here."
"And well you should be," the Emperor said in apparent fine humor. "Sit. Did you enjoy the spectacle this evening?"
"It impressed, Exalted," Lisinthir said calmly, sitting on the couch across from the Emperor's and folding his hands on one knee. "You have put Third in his place."
"One hopes," the Emperor said, "And yet, one is so often disappointed. Why is it that those for whom we cherish the most hope so often go astray, Ambassador?"
"Would that I knew," Lisinthir said. "But some might say it is a fault of judgment on the part of the wisher."
One of the Chatcaavan's brow ridges lifted. "And would you be one of those 'some', then?"
Lisinthir laughed. "I have been so often on the wrong side of this equation, Exalted Emperor, that I could scarcely make any claim to wisdom. Save perhaps that Chatcaavan nature and Eldritch nature are not similar enough for me to tell."
"Ah, now that truly is wisdom," the Emperor said, baring white teeth in what passed for part-grin, part-threat. He sipped from his cup—for a Chatcaavan, an exercise that involved lapping at it with a long and strangely sensual tongue. "You continue to please me, Ambassador."
"And how is that?" Lisinthir asked.
"You do not stink of fear in the court. Your predecessors were laughably afraid of every Chatcaavan there, rather than properly only of me."
"Do I stink of fear now?" Lisinthir asked with more calm than he thought he had.
"Enough to assure me that you aren't stupid," the Emperor said, "But not enough to make me think you craven." He grinned and Lisinthir despaired. They were re-treading ground they'd already visited, and the discussion remained too cordial. He had to find a way to insult the male without earning his death. As the Emperor rose, Lisinthir watched and tried to think of a way to inform him that his newest Ambassador was more than a novelty, an Alliance dignitary who cringed from the culture.
The smell of wood-smoke and fruit rose from the sideboard as the Emperor poured two glasses of brown brandy. A crazed idea formed in Lisinthir's mind from equal parts aroma and candlelight. Before he could second-guess himself, he held out his hand for the glass, felt its weight as the Emperor slipped it into his palm.
"Thank you," Lisinthir said, then forced a laugh.
"What amuses you?" the Emperor asked with the curiosity Lisinthir had been counting on.
"I just find it endearing that you pour my drink for me," Lisinthir said. "On my world, only females offer such service to males."
The Emperor froze. "Are you suggesting something, Ambassador?"
"Why ever would I do that?" Lisinthir said, lifting his eyes to meet the dragon's, and putting all the sly contempt he could muster into the gaze.
That first violence was as sudden, as unexpected as the glass the Emperor dashed to the floor before grabbing his throat. Then the dragon threw him to the couch and leaped for him before he could scrabble away. Oh, the wave that came on that forced grasp, scaled palm to white skin: power-lust, an avarice so sharp Lisinthir's eyes watered at its thrust into his mind. He offered only reflexive defense in his confusion, and his ambivalence undid him. He fought the talons that shredded his clothing, but mind-blinded could barely find them much less block them with full strength.
With unfurled wings and hands locked on neck and arms, the Emperor shoved him against the couch and raped him. Lisinthir bit the crumpled silk of a pillow to keep from screaming, half in surprise and all in pain. His vision failed him, and for a minute light and life.
The Emperor lifted himself away. Panting, Lisinthir stared at the fabric beneath his face, drenched with sweat. His own: another droplet slid off his chin and soaked into the couch. He had never sweated from pain before. It stank.
The Emperor propped himself on an elbow to stare down at him. His grin spread the dark lips along the length of his beak-like mouth and exposed a long fringe of pale ivory fangs. The candlelight fought to give his naked black-scaled body contour, only suggesting the lithe power of his reptilian body. The Chatcaava might stand as humanoids did, but in the smoldering fluorescent yellow of the Emperor's eyes, Lisinthir saw none of the softness of the Alliance's races. He waited for death, too stunned by the experience to be afraid.
"Drink?" The Emperor asked, and in his eyes was an open challenge to call him female now for the offer. In his voice was a tease, was laughter.
That was it. No final swipe. No finishing blow. For a moment, Lisinthir could only stare at the male and try to make sense of him, of being on a couch naked with him.
Then Lisinthir drew himself upright, wincing at the bruises and the mass o
f paper cuts the other man's barbs had left in their wake. "Yes," he said, forgoing any of the 'exalted emperor's. It was his voice, he was fairly sure, but not completely. He wasn't that calm.
Companionably, the Emperor handed him a snifter of brandy. Together on the sheets they drank: the most powerful Chatcaavan in the Empire, and the fragile Eldritch ambassador the Alliance had sent to have his mien.
When the Emperor finished his cup he rolled off the couch with the languid grace of the satisfied. "See the Surgeon before you retire."
Lisinthir said nothing, taking it for dismissal. When he reached for his clothes he found them too ragged to be donned—the Emperor threw him a robe and then vanished into another room. The robe stank of sex and power, but it was clothing. Lisinthir put it on and stepped out of the room.
The guards did not watch him—overtly, anyway. He walked with great deliberation down the stairs, feeling every step all the way up his legs, through his abused hips and into his back which, he now noticed, had clasped the robe to itself using the blood he hadn't noticed dripping down his spine. If his progress was slower than usual, he was not, he trusted, the first to leave the Emperor in such estate. At least he was on his feet. Except that halfway down the stairs his strength gave out, and heedless of the possibility of surveillance his shoulder struck the wall and he slid down it, hunching on the stairs. He began to shake and dragged a hand through tangled white hair, fisting it at his forehead. From the harsh impressions rammed through his mind, Lisinthir guessed his body held no specific attraction for the Emperor. He saw himself through the Chatcaavan's eyes: taller and sharper-featured than any human, though human-seeming in face and body. Skin and hair of milk, eyes like twin pieces of the oldest dusk. Fragile, without scales to shield him; weak, without the shape-change to pronounce him a true male; a wingless freak, like the rest of the Alliance. But still, a hint of fascination.
He had succeeded in convincing the Emperor to treat a wingless freak like a Chatcaavan. Somehow, against all odds, he had gotten himself invited to the true tests of a courtier, the ones the Slave Queen had described and Lisinthir had hardly believed. He should have been grateful; the Emperor could have chosen some new way to test him, some way he couldn't have survived with his fragile, unshielded flesh. Multiple rapes he could survive.
Instead, he wanted nothing more than to pack his bags and leave.
Yet here he was, with no one else to blame, and indeed every reason to celebrate. Lisinthir coiled into a ball against the tower wall. His violation had gone just as planned.
"See the Surgeon," the Emperor had said. Lisinthir could not imagine taking himself into that alien presence and asking for help. There was only one helpmeet to him in this God-forgotten place. Shaking, Lisinthir pulled himself to his feet and forced himself on. One step. The next. Slowly down the tower, while his body cramped and the robe began to pull at his back. That blood wasn't coming off his neck, then, but off his shoulder-blades. When he reached the ground floor he stopped to lean against the cool stone wall. The sweat that had dried in the Emperor's chamber had returned. Was the chamber tilted? He found his bearings with difficulty and continued trudging toward safety. Clutching the robe and bracing himself with a hand on the rough wall, he began the climb. Somewhere into the second flight, he lost his grasp on time and found himself only able to focus on the foot he was currently moving. How did women survive this treatment? How did the Chatcaavan women survive it? Did it always grow worse before it grew better? Did it always involve this much bleeding?
One step, and then the next. Something hot was dripping down one leg.
The scent of perfume and incense and pheromones. He was passing the gift harem.
Now laughter and spice and light that hurt his eyes. The lower harem.
Finally the topmost room. How many times had he been here? How many times had he traced the intricate mosaics on the ceiling with appreciative eyes? How many times had he rested on those plush pillows, orange and mauve and midnight blue, and breathed deep of the fresh high air flowing in through the windows?
How had he been here so often and missed the loops and catches built onto the wall? His eyes caught on them and this place that had been refuge now held silent menace. How many times had the Slave Queen been restrained by a leash through that loop? That series of hooks... had they been built to spread her against the stone? And that one, to hang her from the ceiling?
How long would it be before he ended up on one of those hooks?
His strength failed him. Lisinthir collapsed.
The Slave Queen lunged toward the male, then snatched her arms back before she brushed his skin, remembering almost too late that he might not want her touch. But then, she expected him to catch himself as he fell and he most assuredly did not. His shoulder and chest and head struck the stone floor with solid, horrible sounds, and his hair splayed in white disarray, stained pink and sullied with blood and sweat. Here and there a black jewel twinkled, still threaded into a braid.
Protocol and hierarchy in the Empire dictated the use of messengers rather than technology when communicating... but in emergencies, the Chatcaava used what tool came most readily to hand. The Slave Queen scrambled for the little-used comm panel and plugged her claw-tips into the slots to activate it.
"Surgeon to see an alien male with honor wounds in the Slave Queen's suite."
"Clinic acknowledges and dispatches."
Turning from the wall, the Slave Queen stared at the Ambassador's limp body. Had he been Chatcaavan she would have approached, straightened him, examined him for damage she could stanch while waiting for the medic. But he was Eldritch, and she feared the catatonia she might accidentally inspire. She had touched him before, but he'd been willing and conscious then. So instead, she approached and crouched near him, balancing herself with her tail.
He wore one of the Emperor's robes, but beneath it, nothing at all from the contours suggested. Blood glued the fabric to his skin in several places. Thankfully it was not staining her floor, so whatever wounds he had they were no longer freely bleeding. She forced herself to look at his face. As expected, unconscious he did not hide the pain that had finally taken him down.
The Surgeon arrived through the window with extreme precision, not even hesitating as he drew in his wings and swooped to a landing at her side. He dropped his bag and squinted at the Ambassador.
"I thought perhaps you did not understand what you saw," the Surgeon said.
The Slave Queen did not reply. Despite being Outside, the Surgeon still stood above her in standing and while his impersonal treatment of her was no different than his treatment of anyone, including the Emperor, his manner did not invite intimacy.
"I am not accustomed to treating aliens for honor wounds," the Surgeon said, in apparent puzzlement.
"Do you-my-better require this one's assistance?" the Slave Queen asked.
"Do you have knowledge of this alien?" the Surgeon asked.
"Some small knowledge," the Slave Queen said. "He feels the thoughts and feelings of others through his skin."
"So I have heard," the Surgeon said. "Very well. We will treat him here."
"My-better?" the Slave Queen asked, surprised. The Ambassador's wounds looked deserving of far more serious help than could be applied on her floor.
"If it is a typical honor set, he will only need a few cuts healed and fluids," the Surgeon said. "There is no need to haul his carcass to the clinic. Help me strip the clothing off him."
"Yes, my-better," the Slave Queen said, for there was no other response to direct command. She carefully began to pull the robe free of the Ambassador's legs. The Surgeon was nowhere near so cautious; he yanked it off, or wedged a claw or two between skin and fabric until it came free. Blood oozed back to the surface, sending a red tear running between two starkly shadowed ribs.
"Why do you pause?" the Surgeon asked.
"This one has never seen a naked alien male," the Slave Queen replied, which was true enough. Ignoring the rents
in the Ambassador's back and the sweat, blood and seed that discolored his skin, he looked... different. Longer. Strange without a tail to give shape to his lower back and protect the cleft of his buttocks. Surely the Emperor had found the detail salacious.
What a terrible thought, and yet the evidence was plainly visible. The Ambassador had succeeded in crossing the barrier between freak and male.
"He's just like a naked alien female, but male," the Surgeon said with little interest.
"With honor wounds," the Slave Queen said. "Surely that is difference enough."
"A peculiar one," the Surgeon said. "But not surprising. The Emperor had indicated the possibility of this occurring. Here. Clean him with this."
The Slave Queen caught the wet towel with surprise and began applying it before she could become too comfortable with the notion of the Surgeon addressing her directly. He seemed to think nothing of it. Perhaps he had always thought nothing of it, and had simply not had a reason to address her for long enough to make it clear. How peculiar were the Chatcaava who lived Outside. Did the Surgeon like it there?
Wounds that the Slave Queen would have dismissed on herself looked horrendous on the Ambassador. His thin skin had clearly offered no resistance to the Emperor's claws, and the deep furrows in his flesh had halos of discolored skin far larger than the wounds themselves seemed to merit. He might be good with masks, the Ambassador... but his body was nowhere near so good at hiding its distress.
"Up here now," the Surgeon said. "I will apply the suppository. It must remain in place for two hours, then it can be removed."
"You-my-better—This one... remove it?" the Slave Queen fumbled, startled.
Even the Wingless Page 19
