Alien Chronicles 2 - The Crimson Claw (16 page)

He held it up again, then dropped it on the bed. “You’ll like these better.”

Leather wrist protectors, also adorned with the flames of gold. Greaves for her lower legs. A belt of fine workmanship, studded with blue semiprecious stones in gold settings. And finally, a dagger and a pair of swords in ornate sheaths that Elrabin held out to her with a proud gleam in his eyes.

Ampris felt stunned. For a moment she could not touch them. She stared, unable to believe that she actually had her own weapons.

“For show or use?” she asked, thinking of how they had to parade around the arena in the precompetition show. If they survived, they went on the vidcast, standing behind their trainer, who granted a short interview.

“For use, of course,” Elrabin said quickly. He swiveled his ears. “Don’t you want to look at them?”

He held them out to her again. This time Ampris grasped the hilt of the glaudoon and drew it from its scabbard.

The weight and balance of the weapon were exactly right, as though it had been made for her alone.

“It was,” Elrabin said as though he could read her mind. “Remember all those medical scans and measurements you went through when you first came here?” He gestured at the finery on the bed. “Everything tailor-made. Only the best for the Blues.”

Ampris could not find words. She hefted the glaudoon again, then sighted critically down the blade. Although the weapon had a fancy, wire-wrapped hilt with an elaborate guard of engraved metal, the blade was simple and strong. It remained a serviceable, working weapon. She tested the edge with her thumb, and found it honed to razor sharpness.

In silence, she sheathed it and drew out the other weapon. It was a glevritar, curved and serrated, a deadly piece intended only for destruction. How it shone in the lamplight as she turned it over in her hands. Only yesterday Halehl had mentioned to her that he wanted her to become proficient with swords showier than the simple glaudoon. It appeared he had meant what he said.

By the time she sheathed it, Elrabin was opening a long, slender case. Inside it lay a spardan, as tall as Ampris herself, the wood polished and smooth against the curve of her palms. She lifted it above her shoulder and hefted it, knowing already that if she threw it, it would fly true. If she stabbed with it, its haft would not break.

She put it back in its case, and Elrabin grunted as he lifted another. Inside this one lay a parvalleh, a heavy brutal weapon that was half hammer and half ax. She had never used one, but she had seen demonstrations. Both hands were required to throw it, and it was necessary to spin around and around in a circle to get up enough momentum to hurl the thing at its intended target. It was an ancient weapon, impractical in close combat, but the Viis audiences for some reason always cheered when the parvalleh was brought out.

“Ylea can use these single-handed,” Elrabin said.

Ampris backed her ears, understanding his warning, and lifted the parvalleh from its case. Although she had expected it to be heavy, its actual weight still surprised her. She nearly dropped it, then fitted its carved wooden handle properly into her grip. She swung it back and forth experimentally. There was a rhythm to the handling of it. At once she understood on some instinctive level that to swing it two-handedly was wrong.

She lifted it in one hand, and Elrabin took a step back. His eyes shone a moment, reflecting the lamplight, and she felt something primitive and ancient go through her. She growled deep in her throat.

“You know how to use that?” Elrabin asked. His voice sounded shrill and oddly breathless.

“It’s a parvalleh,” she answered dreamily, holding the Eye of Clarity unconsciously in her free hand while she swung the hammer back and forth. “A weapon of war.”

“I—I looked it up,” Elrabin said nervously. “It’s not Viis. It’s Aaroun, some kind of old, ceremonial weapon.”

Ampris nodded, accepting the information which he offered like a gift. Instinctively she knew he was right. “The Viis do not know how it should be handled,” she said. “This way.”

And again she swung it aloft with one hand.

Elrabin backed up until he stood with his back to the wall. “Be careful with that thing.”

But Ampris was thinking, flexing her muscles and feeling the quiver in them that told her she needed to double her strengthening exercises. The parvalleh should feel lightweight in her grip, not heavy. It should be thrown in an underhanded swing, with the wrist not snapping but instead held like an extension of the haft. Then the release—

“Be careful!” Elrabin said with a yip of warning.

Ampris blinked back to the here and now and found herself clutching the Eye and growling loudly while she swung the parvalleh back and forth.

She stopped immediately and put the weapon in its case. For an instant she imagined the Eye to be warm inside her hand, but when she looked at the clear stone, it was not glowing. She must be imagining things, she thought. The only warmth here lay in her blood, which still thudded through her ears.

Ampris closed the lid of the case and left her fingertips pressed against its top. She drew in several deep breaths, trying to still her raging instincts.

“This is the proper Aaroun weapon,” she said, and her voice sounded deep and foreign to her ears. “It had another name, once.”

“I—I don’t know it,” Elrabin said cautiously. He stayed by the wall. “You, uh, like it, don’t you, Goldie?”

She forced herself to stop staring at the case and glanced over at him. “Yes. It feels right to hold it. Natural.”

“Yeah, Ylea likes it too.”

Something about the way he said that made her attention suddenly snap and focus. She stared at him in suspicion. “Does Halehl know it was originally an Aaroun weapon?”

Elrabin looked everywhere but at her. “Don’t know. Maybe. Uh, what difference does it make?”

“He knows.” She drew in a sharp breath and turned away, thinking hard.

Elrabin crept up to her. “Why do you care, Goldie? It’s just a weapon—”

“No it’s not,” she said sharply. “Do the males have these? Or just Ylea and me?”

“Just you two females. He said something one day about it looking flashy for the—”

“Flashy,” she said in contempt. She snarled and left the bedchamber.

Elrabin trotted after her. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d like to see your new gear, Goldie. Thought you’d be proud of it.”

She turned on him so fast he yelped and jumped back. “Halehl is manipulating us,” she said.

“Sure. That’s what trainers do,” Elrabin said uncertainly. “Make you fight.”

“What kind of ceremony was it originally used for?” she asked, feeling the fur starting to bristle around her neck.

“How should I know? Just a ceremony, see? Don’t matter.”

“Yes, it does matter. You find out.”

He panted, looking rebellious. “What for? Why you getting all stirred up like this?”

“It’s a war weapon,” she said in excitement. “Not for combat. For something bigger. I have to know all about it.”

“Maybe when I get the signal switched in your vid—”

“Are you going with me to Rentaur?” she demanded.

“Sure. All the successful fighters take their servants. The more prestigious the team, the bigger the retinue.”

“Then you can ask around.”

“Ask what?”

“Ask about the parvallehs—where they came from, what their original purpose was.”

He rubbed his muzzle, looking more skeptical than ever. “No one’s going to know stuff like that. It’s too old.”

“Someone knows,” she said. “Halehl knows. He’s realized that just my holding it will make me want to fight. He’s out to get me to turn savage, the way he turned Ylea savage.”

“Born that way, she was,” Elrabin said.

“No,” Ampris retorted. “She’s Aaroun. We aren’t born like that, not crazy and vicious. Never. I may not know much about my people or their ways, but I know that much. I remember the birth memories, and they are good.”

“Hey, Goldie, you were lucky,” he said. “Maybe Ylea’s mother wasn’t as wonderful as yours. Maybe when she was a cub, things weren’t sweet like you had it.”

Ampris turned on him with a snarl. “I was stolen from my mother before I could walk. I was starved and mishandled, then sold in a shop by a Gorlican scoundrel out to make all he could off black market wares. What do you know about sweet beginnings? What do you know about how things were when I was a cub?”

Elrabin lowered his head submissively and backed up. “Sorry. Guess I got that wrong.”

“Don’t make assumptions about me,” she said, still in a huff. “And don’t make assumptions about Ylea. She may be crazy now, but she was all right once. Aarouns don’t go bad unless they’re driven to it. I won’t let Halehl do that to me. I won’t.”

Elrabin watched her, pity in his eyes. “Gotta be bad in the arena, Goldie. Gotta learn to be so bad you can’t stand yourself the rest of the time. That’s why Halehl uses the conditioning words, and your instincts, and the sensor suit. He’s trying to make you crazy, see? Crazy like the others.”

“Only Ylea is insane—”

“Nope,” Elrabin told her. “They’re all crazy. Some more than others. You ain’t seen them go for blood yet. But get ready, Goldie, ’cause it ain’t going to be pretty and it ain’t going to be nice. The more you hack and slash, the better they like it. The more blood and gore you smear, the more they’ll cheer your name. Gotta play to the crowd, see?”

She faced him with her head held high. “Halehl isn’t going to make an animal of me. I had his throat in my teeth, but I let him go. As long as I have a rational mind, and can make my own decisions, I know they haven’t turned me into a beast. They won’t do that to me.”

“I hope not, Goldie,” Elrabin said. “But I ain’t going to bet on it.”

CHAPTER
•SEVEN

The Kaa stood at the tall windows of his throne room, gazing out at the broad expanse of the parade ground below. It was barely daybreak, with the sky a grayness still glittering with dimming stars. The cold air of dawn made him shiver beneath his heavy robes, but he did not leave the window.

Around him the palace still slumbered, except for the furtive comings and goings of the servants. No one, however, disturbed him here. He was alone, a rarity in his life of ceremony and endless responsibility. The guards outside the door had orders to let no one disturb him prior to the meeting scheduled with his council this morning.

Outside, on the parade ground, he could see tiny figures moving about in the center of the vast field. A shuttle waited there, to take the prisoners away.

The Kaa sighed and turned from the sight. His daughter’s lovers were to be banished, exiled for life. Although he had been tempted to order them executed, in the end he had realized that such an action would disgrace the males’ families and create an ever-widening pool of scandal. Better to dispatch the matter swiftly and quietly, with a drop of mercy sufficient to avoid future trouble.

Fatigue pulled at him. He ached all over in his joints, and his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Still, he could not rest. Even if he curled up among his bed cushions, there would still be no sleep and no rest from the endless thoughts circling through his weary brain.

Slowly he walked over to his throne and sank into it with a soft groan. If only he could find his old energy and drive, but both seemed to have vanished recently. Normally he enjoyed Sahvrazaa Festival and looked forward to it as a respite from his usual obligations. But this Festival had seemed flat, below par. The amusements and evening banquets had barely held his interest. No doubt much of it was Israi’s fault. How could a father enjoy festivities when his beloved daughter sulked and pouted, casting sour looks over the company the few times she deigned to appear at all? While her body might have reached maturity, she continued to exhibit the self-centeredness of a ta-chune.

The Kaa sighed. He craved rest and solitude, neither of which were possible. If only he could recover his old decisiveness, his former assurance. But so many things seemed to be going wrong lately.

The Progressionist Party continued to foment unrest and discord across his empire. Many long-standing treaties were expiring, requiring innumerable diplomatic summits and new, tedious negotiations. His treasury was depleted at present, bringing a complete halt to his beloved project, the restoration of the old palace. The ground radiation problem on the western continent here on Viisymel was spreading again, threatening to contaminate the primary water sources. There were so many demands, so many petitions. Galactic border nine—long a trouble spot—had rebelled in open warfare, and prompt action needed to be taken.

He was tired. He felt a thousand years old.

Only yesterday Festival had ended. Only yesterday he had been informed by the trembling Master of the Imperial Hatchery that of all the imperial eggs laid and fertilized this spring, only four hatchlings were strong enough or suitable enough in appearance for acceptance. Seven Rejects and four hatchlings . . . a dismal result, especially in consideration of years past, when he’d accepted at least double that number. Even now, thinking of yesterday, when the salutes had fired only four times and the crowds had waited in disbelieving silence for a long, long moment before raising a ragged cheer, the Kaa’s heart swelled with grief.

He wanted to shut himself away and mourn the hatchlings he would never know. He could barely bring himself to visit the wives’ court, where the nursery was almost empty and his ladies wandered aimlessly about with vacant, unhappy eyes.

But he knew he could not withdraw from his duties, his endless obligations. He must tell his heart to be strong. He must lock away his grief. He must ignore the hollow silences in all but one corner of the nursery. He must go on, for he was Kaa, the Imperial Father, the Supreme Being who held his troubled empire together by sheer strength of will.

Worst of all, there still remained the problem of Israi. How to solve it? The chancellors were outraged. The whole court was whispering, shocked and titillated by rumors which flew in all directions. If not curbed soon, this situation she had created would be blown out of all proportion. Israi’s own tantrums and sulks were not helping.