The Crimson Claw

by Deborah Chester

  But he was also capable of tremendous cruelty and ruthless indifference. He had been a selfish creature, spending fortunes on his restoration projects, oblivious to how his city and his empire crumbled around him. He had spoiled Israi, indulged and pampered her, then grown angry when she misbehaved. He had ruled his empire in much the same way.

  And now Israi would take the throne. Ampris closed her eyes, squeezing her fist tightly around the Eye of Clarity which Israi had given her so long ago.

  Israi would be in the audience hall now, receiving the declarations of loyalty from her new subjects. Surrounding her would be the favorite wives and the multitude of the Kaa’s young progeny. All would be in mourning. There would be much ceremony, much panoply. Israi would be crowned Imperial Mother of the empire. How her vain head would swell as more attention was showered upon her than ever before.

  She had inherited a great responsibility. She had the abilities to be a just and capable Kaa. But would she exercise those abilities or would she indulge herself in idleness and pleasure? Would she squander her riches while the empire fell apart around her? Or would she hold it together?

  Ampris found that she did not really care. After such a long time of shutting away her memories, of shutting away the pain of betrayal and separation, Ampris now found that thinking of Israi did not hurt her the way it once had.

  She thought she would envy Israi, now privileged above all others. But instead she felt nothing. Inheriting the throne would make Israi very happy, but Ampris no longer cared about her former friend’s happiness. Israi, so selfish and cruel, cared only for herself. Now that she was the Imperial Mother, her general indifference to the plight of those less fortunate than she would probably increase. There would be no one to calm her tantrums, no one whose advice she would willingly take.

  Ampris hoped Israi found that possessing the throne was nothing so great, after all.

  CHAPTER•FOURTEEN

  Israi entered the audience hall with an escort of guards that might soon turn and arrest her should this go wrong. Temondahl walked the correct pace behind her, tapping his staff of office on the floor with every other step.

  A dozen ploys and strategies went through Israi’s mind with lightning speed. She felt it was a mistake to come here like this, with Oviel already standing beside the throne. Yet she had no choice but to confront him here and now. It was time the rivalry between them was finished, forever. He must learn he had no chance, and would never have a chance.

  The members of the council stood to one side before the throne. Courtiers, their rills stiff with shock and grief, had retreated from its proximity. Several were sobbing. Others stared into space as though frozen.

  Seeing so many devastated faces, Israi felt her own grief fill her throat. She swallowed it ruthlessly. She could mourn her father later. Now she must survive.

  Oviel stood beside the throne, which was covered with a black cloth to indicate the death of the Kaa. Only the successor had the right to remove that cloth. But already Oviel’s hand rested lightly, possessively on the back of the throne.

  Israi burned with rage. She wanted to hurl herself at him, screaming, but she battled with herself to remain in control. She had the advantages, she reminded herself. The court would support her, for she had been her father’s choice. Oviel had only his own ambitions and his self-delusions to support his claim.

  He looked up at her entry, and smiled. “Ah, captain,” he said, pitching his voice so that it rang out across the audience hall. “I see you have brought my egg-sister. Excellent. Now we can begin.”

  The smug triumph in his voice warned her. Israi glanced at the captain, who remained impassive. She knew he had not given her his allegiance. But was he in the service of Oviel?

  Fear pierced her, as cold as ice. If she lost the Guard, she might indeed be lost. Temondahl, she realized, would side with whoever appeared the strongest. She must win this, Israi told herself, rigid with determination as she continued to walk forward. At all costs, she must win. And once she did, she would see that the executioner broke Oviel’s scrawny neck.

  The guards halted before the throne. Israi, however, stepped around them and continued forward, taking her place beside the chair opposite Oviel. To match his insolence, she also placed her hand on its back, then stared at him with a bold confidence she did not entirely feel.

  His evil smile faltered. He glared at her, his rill stiff and crimson behind his head. “You have no place here, Israi,” he said. “The throne cannot possibly go to you.”

  “I am sri-Kaa, chosen successor to Sahmrahd Kaa,” she said, making her voice clear, distinct, and fearless. “Into my hand did his vital force pass. My name was the last word he uttered.”

  Fresh sobs broke out from some of the courtiers. Others crept closer as though to make sure they missed nothing.

  “The Palace Guard has chosen me,” Oviel said angrily, his rill redder than ever. “The empire is in trouble. It needs a ruler who is strong and capable of—”

  Israi’s contemptuous laugh cut him off. “What strength have you? What capabilities have you? Only ambition beyond your place, nothing more.”

  “The Kaa chose me!” Oviel insisted. “I have been his confidant in recent times. I have become his favorite. He appreciated my assistance in various matters. He knew I was more worthy than his empty-headed daughter.”

  Her rill stiffened. “You go too far,” she said, her voice dangerous. “You dare too much.”

  “Yes, I dare!” he shouted, not backing down. “Because I care about the fate of the empire! This is not a game, Israi. This is not about choosing new jewels or what gown to wear to a banquet. This is about—”

  “What are the security codes to our principal defense installations?” she broke in furiously, glaring at him. “What are they? Can you recite them?”

  Oviel’s eyes shifted to the captain, then back to her. “Of course not,” he said stiffly. “I have not yet had access to information given only to the Kaa and the Commander General.”

  “Haven’t you?” she said sweetly. “Where are the defense installations? Name them!”

  “I—I cannot,” he stammered, his eyes full of loathing. “Nor can you—”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twelve,” he snapped, then hesitated with visible doubt. “At least that many.”

  “There are forty,” she replied, her voice as sharp as a whipcrack. “Starting with Suvedi Prime—”

  “May I have leave to interrupt the Imperial Mother!” a gruff voice rang out.

  Commotion filled the hall, and many craned to look at the officer striding inside. Israi took one glance at the scarred Viis and recognized the Commander General with a feeling of relief. She did not know Lord Belz well. She did not know how his loyalty would fall, but she was sure Oviel would not have been able to bribe him.

  “Greetings, Lord Belz,” she said warmly. “You are most welcome here.”

  “Indeed,” Oviel said, but his voice held strain. “You were about to say, Israi—”

  “That’s the Imperial Mother to you, Lord Oviel,” Belz said in a voice like iron. He stepped onto the dais and drew his side arm before anyone realized what he was doing. His rill lifted behind his head in stiff aggression as he pressed the end of his weapon to Oviel’s throat.

  “Take your hand off the throne,” he said. “It does not belong to you.”

  Oviel’s rill dropped as though deflated. Fear flashed in his eyes, but he tried to bluster. “You dare!” he sputtered. “You have no right to threaten me in this way. Guards!”

  “They won’t help you,” Belz said without even glancing at the guards behind him. “I have not brought the imperial army into the palace, but by the gods, I will if necessary. Remove your hand!”

  Oviel made a queer little hissing noise and dropped his hand from the throne.

  Belz gripped him by the front of his elegant coat and pulled him off the dais. Only then did the Commander General release him and lower his si
de arm. No one else in the hall dared move, not even the guards.

  Belz glared at them all, especially the members of the council, who stared as though stricken dumb. “What madness is this?” he demanded. “What treason do I see, that you would allow this piece of puffery one second’s hope of sitting on that throne?”

  Lord Brax stepped forward. “We must consider the greater good of the empire. Lord Oviel has some well-argued points to—”

  “Well-argued . . . in his own interests,” Belz said scornfully. He glanced up at Israi, who still stood next to the throne. “You were about to reveal classified military information, majesty. Even in a moment of duress, that is unwise.”

  She took the rebuke without annoyance. She was too grateful for his intervention, and his support. “The Commander General is correct,” she acknowledged and had the satisfaction of seeing respect enter his fierce eyes.

  He swung around to glare at everyone. “The successor must be able to produce the imperial seal. Do you have it, Lord Oviel?”

  Oviel opened his mouth, his tongue flicking out helplessly. “No,” he said after a moment, although the admission clearly hurt his pride. “But neither does she.”

  “I do!” Israi declared.

  “One moment, majesty,” Lord Belz said. He shot her a look of warning, and Israi realized she was failing to keep her imperial dignity. The court would not respect her if she haggled and squabbled with Oviel at his level of desperation.

  “She lies,” Oviel said.

  The guards reached for their weapons, and Oviel lifted his hands in fear. “I may speak freely. The throne is not yet taken.”

  “Guard your tongue,” Belz warned him. “Give her the proper respect that is required.”

  “She does not have the seal,” Oviel insisted.

  Israi lifted her head very high, seething, but she waited until the Commander General swung his gaze in her direction. She understood now what he wanted to hear, and that is exactly what she said. “The Imperial Father gave it to me with his last breath. His hand placed it in mine.”

  “Was this witnessed?” Oviel shouted. “Who saw this done?”

  “Were you present at the Kaa’s deathbed?” Belz asked.

  Oviel sputtered and fell silent. He glared at Israi, who reached into her pocket. She pulled out the seal, taking care not to reveal the key to the treasury or the other important items she had taken from her father’s desk. This small lie was workable, but it would all fall apart if anyone realized she had the keys and security codes. No one would believe the Kaa had been able to give her all those things.

  Israi held up the seal, and the hall fell completely silent. No one spoke, and she wondered if they were going to doubt her after all. For Temondahl—the one witness present—had only to deny what she had said to wreck her story . . . and her future.

  It took every ounce of willpower for her not to look at the chancellor. He would do what he would do. She held her breath, showing the seal to all present.

  Temondahl said nothing, and Israi began to breathe again.

  Lord Belz was bending his knee to her. He bowed his scarred head. “The Imperial Mother,” he said.

  Chancellor Temondahl also knelt. “The Imperial Mother.”

  Murmurs of declaration rose through the hall as courtier after courtier knelt. The guards knelt, then at last the members of the council sank before her. Only Oviel was left standing.

  “No!” he shouted. “No!”

  Israi’s heart sang with triumph and satisfaction. She had won. But she let no smile cross her face.

  Grimly she gestured, and two of the guards jumped up to take Oviel from the hall. Struggling and shouting curses, he fought them all the way.

  Belz pulled himself stiffly to his feet. “Long live the Kaa!” he said.

  The others rose. “Long live the Kaa! Long live the Imperial Mother!”

  The acclaim rang in her ears. Israi swelled with it, savoring it, and knowing that at long last she had come into her own. She had been born for this. She had spent her life waiting for this. Israi knew already in her bones that her reign would be long. She would have to be fierce and wily to hold it, but hold it she would.

  Only then did she look down at the seat of the throne, where the black cloth lay. Israi bent down and twitched it off, letting the dark silk square flutter to the floor. She seated herself, the seal still in her hand, and felt ultimate satisfaction flow through her body.

  The throne was hers now. No one would take it from her. From this day forward, her word was supreme law. Never again would she have to answer to anyone. Never again would she be held back from what she wanted.

  “Let the mourning begin for he who ruled before us,” she declared. “Five days may the empire mourn. So says Israi, Kaa of the Viis.”

  On the sixth day after their incarceration, the cargo bay doors of Shrazhak Ohr were unlocked and the abiru prisoners released.

  They emerged, blinking in the bright lights. They were wary, unsure of what to expect. Trainers, handlers, and station supervisors came to sort out the various abiru. The gladiators were reclaimed with scanners, documentation, and qualifiers.

  Halehl, looking impatient and haggard, watched like a raptul as Ampris and her teammates were brought forth. Ampris noticed a long scratch down one side of his neck and wondered if he had been fighting. Unable to believe it, she decided her imagination was running away with her.

  In curt silence Halehl led them through the station back to their quarters. The station looked wrecked. In every direction Ampris saw destruction and the aftermath of pillaging. Shops lay dark, their wares spilling out into the central axis. Wall panels hung open, exposing torn circuitry. The floor was scored and stained. Dead Viis still lay where they had fallen, not yet cleared away. Injured Viis, their clothing torn and blood-soaked, lay groaning with no one to care for them. The stench of death, charred cloth, and chemical spills choked the air.

  Shocked and appalled, Ampris stared at the carnage and destruction, unable to believe that the supremely civilized Viis had done this to themselves. Yes, she could understand grief. Yes, she could even understand the urge to release that grief by hacking at walls and tearing apart furnishings. But she could not understand how the Viis could turn on each other. Stepping over a moaning Viis official with a battered face, Ampris contrasted what she saw now with how the frightened abiru folk had behaved during their incarceration. They, the inferior species, had not fought, had not stolen one another’s meager rations, had not preyed on each other. Surely this indicated that they could indeed form an alliance and work together for freedom. If the Viis had turned on one another with this kind of savagery, perhaps they could one day be tricked into doing it again.

  Ampris paused a moment by the defaced shrine to Ruu-113, as they waited for the lift to come.

  “All the workers were imprisoned,” Elrabin whispered to her. “So they haven’t even cleared their dead. What kind of folk can do that to each other?”

  Ampris gazed out the observation port at the dead accelerator rings. Were they indeed unable to function, or had the Zrheli sabotaged them? She’d hoped to talk to some of the engineers, but none of the Zrheli had been incarcerated with the main group of abiru.

  Ruu-113 did exist. She had studied it long ago with Israi. To the Viis it had become a legend, hardly a place that seemed real anymore. But Ampris wondered why it could not be a new world for the abiru folk who had lost their homeworlds. The Aarouns, if they were ever freed, could not return to their place of origin. But they could perhaps one day go to Ruu-113. It was a dream, she knew, the largest dream she’d had yet. But as she stared out at space, clutching her Eye of Clarity in her hand, she felt the pendant warm slightly against her palm, and knew this goal was right and good.

  “Someday,” she whispered, making a promise. “Someday.”

  “Ampris!” shouted a voice. “Come on!”

  She turned and hurried onto the lift, descending back into her normal life of combat and b
loodshed.

  Israi leaned forward and struck her fist upon the desktop. “Here!” she cried, tossing the gold-colored key to the imperial treasury onto the wood. It bounced and spun on the polished surface. “Here is the key. Tell me why the treasury cannot be accessed?”

  Chancellor Temondahl puffed out his air sacs and looked grave. “Shall I call in the Minister of Finance to explain?”

  “No! You explain it to me. You explain!”

  Temondahl began talking, his voice droning through the long explanation. Israi settled back in her chair, feeling fury burning to the tip of her tail. Her rill stood up stiffly behind her head. It had been at full extension all afternoon, since this session began. It ached, but she was too angry to let it go down.

  Although she made Temondahl run through his explanation of finances, military campaigns, extravagances, poor investments, lack of interest, and shortsighted policies, Israi already grasped the situation perfectly. She had inherited a bankrupt empire. Most of her nobles were ruined, unable to pay their high court expenses, unable to recoup their losses even by selling their ancestral estates. The city of Vir was operating at an annual loss. Issued credit was practically worthless. The economic sanctions leveled against Malraaket had not only ruined that prosperous city but had ruined the economy of Viisymel also.

  Even worse, Israi’s personal inherited fortune was practically gone. She stopped listening to what Temondahl was saying and wanted to jump to her feet, to scream and throw priceless treasures at the walls. How could her father have spent it all? She had listened to reports until her ear canals rang. What had he spent it on? His stupid restoration projects? How could he have been so foolish? When she learned that he had deliberately withdrawn the treasury from Mynchepop, leaving his aristocracy to face ruin without any warning, and had refused to reinvest it, so that inflation ate away a huge portion of it, she wanted to rush to his tomb and throw his corpse into the river.