CHAPTER TWO

Palace of the First, Yoyette, Coroleas

S alome strolled slowly through the colonnade, happier than she’d been in months. She adored Fillip Day. For the past six years she had contrived to have herself crowned Fillip Queen and, having put in the footwork, bribes, threats, and intrigue over the past few months, expected the same today.

She’d dressed for the part. Salome wore a filmy gown of pale blue that set off her coloring and features beautifully. It also revealed most of her body, for it was so diaphanous as to appear almost nonexistent.

She wore very little jewelry—a spot of gold at her ears and about one ankle—sandals of the finest leather, and no bronzed deities at all.

That made the best statement of all: Look at me, envy me, for I am the one who controls access to the greatest deity of them all, the Weeper. What need I a score of pathetic lesser deities?

As she moved through the gathering, Salome made the best possible use of the light, walking in and out of pools of sunlight, appearing suddenly from shadows, and dazzling all who saw her virtual nakedness spotlighted in the golden light streaming down from the roof windows, before slinking off again into the shadows, making people glance nervously over their shoulders, wondering where she was, and what she might be plotting.

Everyone deferred to Salome, but no one loved her.

No one save her son, Ezra. Salome had been making her slow, dramatic way toward the emperor’s dais at the eastern end of the colonnade when Ezra, standing just to the side of the dais, saw her. He gave a cry of glee, making the emperor wince, and walked down to greet Salome.

Ezra did not take after his mother in anything save her height. He was dark, somewhat heavy of feature and body, and had none of her grace.

Ezra and Salome kissed in the Corolean manner, touching foreheads before a decorous brushing of lips, then Salome turned and gave a light bow in the emperor’s direction. “My Gracious Lord,” she murmured, despising him as he looked on her with lust.

“I hear you are to be Fillip Queen this year, Salome,” the emperor said. “Again.”

“Will you fight for me, Gracious Lord?”

That was going too far, even for Salome, and for a moment the emperor reddened under her forthright gaze.

“Will you service me if I win?” he countered, and now Salome looked slightly uncomfortable before recovering.

“Fight for me,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t lift a finger for you, bitch,” the emperor hissed back.

Salome smiled, inclined her head, and turned back to the colonnade. There was an hour to spare yet before the fun began, and she could use that hour to her benefit.

StarDrifter watched her from the side aisle, where he’d taken a glass of golden wine to sip. He well knew who Salome was—there was no one who attended the court at the Palace of the First for more than five minutes without learning her identity—and had amused himself on many occasions in watching her from some shadowed corner.

He didn’t like her—he didn’t know of anyone who actually did—but she intrigued him. Salome’s exotic looks and grace made him suspect a sprinkling of Icarii blood somewhere in her heritage. It certainly wouldn’t be impossible, given that Icarii had been coming here for years even before the Tencendorian disaster, and, combined with the total immorality of the Corolean court, a few Icarii bastards on Corolean women might not be totally unexpected. Stars, even Axis had come down here as a young man, and it wouldn’t have surprised StarDrifter to learn that he’d left a few by-blows scattered about the country. StarDrifter thought that few people other than himself would have picked up on Salome’s Icarii heritage. It was only because of his familiarity with Axis and Azhure that StarDrifter had suspected Salome. Both StarDrifter’s son Axis and Axis’ wife, Azhure, were almost full-blooded Icarii and yet did not look it.

If it had been anyone other than Salome, StarDrifter wouldn’t have cared less. He would have shrugged and lost interest immediately. But Salome…StarDrifter took a mouthful of his wine, his eyes still on the woman as she trailed treachery and sex through the gathering…Salome was virtually the most powerful member of the First, second only to the emperor. She commanded power and fear beyond knowing.

And yet the First had a rule, their most basic and rigid rule: the First admitted no new blood.

All members of the First could trace their ancestry back three thousand odd years to the original founders of their caste, and had admitted no new blood to the First since then. The instant a member was corrupted with outside blood, he or she (as well as any children of their body) was dropped into the Second. Outside blood was a total disaster.

Sometimes, in his most despairing moments, StarDrifter lifted his mood by imagining himself being able to prove the feathered shame in Salome’s past and watching her and her son topple from their position within Corolean society.

He thought Salome would be dead within hours. She’d made so many enemies (virtually the entire population of Coroleas hated her) that the instant this dirty secret (should it actually exist) was made known, daggers would be sliding out of sheaths all over the empire.

“If only I knew,” StarDrifter whispered, and took a new glass of the golden wine from the tray of a passing member of the Third. “If only…”

At that very moment Salome turned, and their eyes met.

StarDrifter lifted his glass to her—they had never talked, never made any connection until this moment—and was somewhat amused to see her eyes narrow speculatively at him for a moment.

Why? Was she pitying him? Marking him for seduction?

She moved away, the moment gone, but StarDrifter stood watching her for a long time, wondering what he would do if he received a command to her bed.

Eventually he shook himself out of his speculative mood. She had pitied him, no doubt. There would be no invitation.

And thank the stars for that, StarDrifter thought, for I would not wish to risk my life refusing the vile woman.

Some ten paces away a man watched StarDrifter with considerable interest. Ba’al’uz had arrived in Yoyette four days ago, and had wasted no time in acquiring an invitation to the Fillip Day celebrations.

He’d wanted to come here to observe Salome, and to discover for himself the best and safest way to steal the deity known as the Weeper.

Ba’al’uz had realized he was staring at the solution to his dilemma.

StarDrifter SunSoar.

He could hardly believe his luck—or was it that Kanubai had arranged this for him? When Ba’al’uz had first entered the Diamond Colonnade earlier he’d spotted StarDrifter almost immediately. Then the Icarii man had only pricked at Ba’al’uz’ interest. There’d been something about him, something that intrigued Ba’al’uz, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it…

So he’d asked a passing and more than half-drunk nobleman who the blond, wingless Icarii man was.

StarDrifter SunSoar.

Axis’ father.

Ba’al’uz was not one to ignore coincidences. They were not accidents, they were chances handed you by fate, yours to seize or ignore as your abilities dictated.

Ba’al’uz was not going to disregard this coincidence.

StarDrifter was not only going to acquire the Weeper for Ba’al’uz; he was also, if Ba’al’uz could manipulate circumstances skillfully enough, the means by which to manage Axis.

The festivities began with a sounding of trumpets and a cry of delight.

The emperor lumbered to his feet, and took a card from a golden platter held out for him by a nobleman.

“Ahem!” the emperor called, his voice surprisingly strong and elegant for such a fat man. “I have before me the name of she who the First love before any other, and who they desire to be their queen on this special day!”

StarDrifter smiled around the rim of his wineglass. He could almost hear the stomachs curdling throughout the vast hall.

“The Dowager Duchess of Sidon!” the emperor cried, flinging his arms wide. “The Greatly Beloved Salome!”

Feigning surprised delight, Salome stepped forward, bowing at the scattering of applause that broke out (started, StarDrifter thought, by those too drunk to realize who they were applauding). He finished off his wine, then snatched yet another glass from a passing waiter.

Salome clapped her hands, once, twice, then a third time, demanding silence. “I thank the gracious emperor,” she said, bowing now at the emperor, who was struggling to get back onto his throne without overturning it. “And,” she continued, once more facing the masses crowding the colonnade, “I declare the Day of Fillip begun! Come now, who will compete for my hand?”

The game of Fillip was, so far as StarDrifter was concerned, as tasteless, as cheap, and as tawdry as was the rest of Corolean society. There was no finesse to it, nothing but the promise of violence and blood and sex and humiliation and pain—the five prime ingredients for a successful Corolean life.

Hated as Salome was, there were no shortage of takers for her challenge. The winner, after all, not only enjoyed the services of Salome for a night, but also won the bronzed deity of his choice, freshly made for him once the game was over. This was the aspect of Fillip that StarDrifter loathed above all else: the winner, often badly hurt, making his bloody way down to the slave dais to select a soul from the slave of his choice, who was then slowly murdered before the victor’s eyes as the God Priest withdrew the slave’s soul from his or her body into the bronze figurine.

Added to these two exquisite pleasures, the winner also won the admiration of the entire collected First, and could look forward to a year of privilege, free dinners and sex, and perhaps even a small fortune to be had from listening to the whispered secrets about the bedrooms and dinner tables of the First’s most rich and fortunate.

The loser died.

Normally this did not happen in Fillip. Usually the loser was the one who lapsed into unconsciousness first, but this was just a very special day.

Salome slowly walked about the small throng of men who had stood forward, all high-ranking members of the First. There were elderly men and youths who had yet to beard up, thin men in the final stages of the wasting disease (no doubt hoping for a loss and a relatively quick exit from their suffering), and men as obese as the emperor. There were generals and diplomats, princes and scoundrels, assassins and cheats—men representing all the qualities for which the First were known. It was Salome’s task to select from this menagerie two men to battle it out for her favors, the deity, and a year of delights.

Her reward came not only in the selection (which would clearly indicate her current bedroom tastes), but in the choice of weapon. The woman over whom the men battled always chose the weapon with which they tried to beat themselves unconscious (or into death, on this day). The weapon could be anything at all, not necessarily something of great value on the battlefield. Thus was derived Salome’s greatest joy in this shambolic tragedy—choosing the weapon that would most humiliate her two suitors.

She stopped, her finger to her chin in a parody of thoughtfulness, then slowly smiled, seductive and murderous.

“You,” she said, pointing, “and you.”

The crowd gasped, the emperor mottled (thinking, correctly, that this was a gibe at him), and StarDrifter’s jaw dropped open in a mixture of surprise and disgust: Salome had selected two of the most massively obese men he’d ever seen. The fact that she was going to have to sleep with one of these creatures at the end of the day appalled him, as did the idea that they would undoubtedly humiliate themselves during the process of the game.

He wondered again, briefly, at whether or not she had Icarii blood within her. If she did, then she’d managed to get only the worst of the Icarii heritage. StarDrifter could not imagine any Icarii ever acting like this.

What? whispered an unwelcome voice deep in his mind. Not WolfStar? Not StarLaughter? Not some of the worst blood imaginable—and so much of it SunSoar?

As the disappointed suitors melted back into the crowd, the two winners divested themselves of their clothing, leaving themselves naked. Great folds and rolls of flesh covered their arms and legs, their buttocks were doughy and pockmarked, and their bellies dewlapped down almost to mid-thigh, hiding their genitals.

Before them, Salome snapped her fingers, and a servant came forth bearing a large tray covered with a silver dome.

The weapons tray.

For a long, taunting moment Salome held everyone in suspense, then she oh-so-slowly lifted the dome and held up the two weapons.

Two lengths of silken cord.

StarDrifter frowned. That was almost too obvious, and too easy. Two lengths of cord—the victor would be the one who strangled the other first.

But just as the two men reached for the cords, Salome smiled, shaking a finger at them.

She picked up one of the cords and, moving to one of the combatants, tied his wrists loosely behind his back.

Then she tied the hands of the other behind his back.

“Use your teeth,” she said. “Gnaw each other for my pleasure.”

The men went pale, but StarDrifter had no doubt they would do it. There was no other possible outcome save that one of these two men would, somehow, manage to murder the other with his teeth to then take Salome, and the slave’s soul of his choice embedded in a bronze figurine, in victory.

And everyone here would stay to watch, drinking themselves into a stupor in the process.

Sickened, StarDrifter put down his glass, turned, gave the slaves one last wretched glance of sympathy, and left the colonnade.

Deep in the shadows of the aisles, Ba’al’uz saw him leave, then followed.