153 - I Must Be Still

It was late enough to be early. Nadian had gone home for long enough to eat something more substantial than honey wafers and raki, and come back, his need for sleep seething at the back of his eyes.  The zardukar sitting in Shashi’s place was one of the younger ones.  Why Diryish had zardukar guard his door was just too prurient to think on.

He leaned his head back against the wall and considered.  He had to severely punish his younger brother for trying to kill him in so public a place; especially without succeeding.  The boy had been trying, pushing, re-tooling, for years.  Nadian had felt his pressure particularly keenly the past ten years, since their da had died so foolishly trying to take Diryish down.

Why hadn’t da just waited?  We’re a long-lived family.  Of course I’d tried to kill him a dozen times before and Billiph had tried to kill me twice.  Ah, memories.  So heart-warming. Billiph had only tried to kill him twice at that point, and had been stopped by their father’s intervention.

Da had called them in, just before everything had gone awry, just before he’d called both of them in and laid down the law.  “I will have you defend each other, boys.  You are NOT to fight each other, but support each other.  If I find that you are destroying your brother’s good works, inadvertently, I’ll have you  be a minor programmer for years, supporting his ideas.”

That was da for you.  If he thought you were right, he’d support you till the sun died.  If he thought you were wrong, he’d tie you to a hellish existence of minor programming, to make sure it happened.  Even if you had no profit from it.

He blinked, roused out of his memories, his sweat starting up and his rage barely contained.  It was like walking into his mother’s boudoir.  Diryish held all the power and all the information and he, Nadian, was left waiting, left wanting.  His head was pounding, the rhythm of agony bursting just behind his eyes.  He needed to sleep, but he could not leave this room for long enough.  The Emperor was dying and if he was not physically there when he breathed his unfiltered last, he could lose everything he’d worked so hard for.

The little zardukar on the chair blocking the Emperor’s door was attractive enough.  Dark, sleek hair showing at the edges of the fine veil.  Eyes clear and bright and chocolate warm.  Chocolate, so rare that it was worth more than gold or silver or biomass. She was several fingerwidths shorter than his wife, who was probably at home fussing over the latest larva, even though it was female.  Again.  Female.  It just made him rage at night when no one could see.  It made him break things and throw things and swear and pound stone till his knuckles were raw.

He wanted to be in his mother’s boudoir.  There was something absolutely fascinating about the silks tearing in his fingers.  It took real strength to do that.  He’d torn ragged wounds in his hands making the silk give.  He was stronger than it.  He was stronger than her and anything she formed around herself.

This zardukar ... probably unassigned.  No patron.  Mother Thriti couldn’t value her that much if she were still a free agent.  It was likely that she’d be the perfect target to slake his rage on.  Pound a fist into that perfect, shadowy, veiled face.  Pour his semen into, even as he locked his hands around her neck and choked the life nearly out of her.  Or out of her.  Who would care?  An orphan?  A female sex worker?  Diryish might enjoy having these creatures around him all the time but it was a sign of weakness.  A sign of  prurience.  That kind of thing should be kept quiet, behind closed doors.

He could feel himself get hard as he thought of pounding her with himself and with his fists.  When she rises, to yield to the next zardukar, so shall I yield my place.  I’ll follow her, take her into a dark and quiet place in these hive corridors and pour my rage into her.  No one will see.  No one will credit her.  No one will believe her, since I haven’t done any such thing before.  I will do this and get off with no more than a minor disapproval, the raising of an eyebrow.

He could feel the surplus of rage building in him and was vaguely glad it wasn’t his wife blocking his access to Diryish, to power.  There was no reason for these sex workers to be the chosen ones between the Emperor and himself.  None at all.

He rose to his feet, tugging his tunic down to make a better silhouette.  She was just rising as well and he felt the thrill of a hunting cat as he locked on her, as his prey.  I can afford the time to indulge myself.

There was a commotion at the door and a quiet, early morning fanfare, all very correct.  He turned just in time to see his mother, in full veil, in full regalia, with every servitor to her command, come sweeping in like an airship under full rotor, to settle right next to him as though he were some kind of docking boom.  “Mother!” he hissed. What the fakkin’ endarkened is she doing out of her rooms?  She’s an invalid!

“I am here to witness my great uncle’s passing, my son.” She said, the motion of her mouth invisible in the depths of her veils.  “It is not only a right.  It is proper.  It is something that would make people talk if I were not here.”  He could feel his veins pulse in his head as she spoke.

I cannot kill her.  I cannot kill her, I cannot punch her face into her brain.  I cannot raise a hand to her.  I must be still.