Work Text:
"Bring it to me," ordered Balem Abrasax.
The tailor did just that. With a clack of his pincers and a turn of his many legs, he disengaged the garment from its hanger and brought it before Balem's chariot. The eldest Abrasax had no intention, apparently, of climbing down for this showing. He sat as still as crystal, moving only his eyes across the fabric.
"Lay it in my lap, Mr. Grosgran." Balem Abrasax was an emaciated thing; his lap was a sliver of bone, curtained in leather and gold. Approaching him was like reaching into the cage of a venomous, ill-tempered reptile. With trepidation, and some assistance from two androids, the tailor Grosgran hoisted a garment toward the chariot. He advanced his precious work as close to Lord Balem as he dared go. As the cloth passed under a beam of light, it sparkled; Grosgran blinked eight eyes, eight times.
Initially, the spider splice had been nervous to present a garment showcase in the hangar of Lord Balem's cruiser. Now, Grosgran blessed the cathedral lighting. At least it will be pretty, he thought, when this one ejects me into space.
The commission really was a special calling: a robe, floor-length, all glitter and black chiffon (sheer like film, but heavy like oil.) There was satin lining and patterned trim. Welt pockets. Stabilizing lines and rows of standing sequins gave the robe a reinforced appearance. Like an army, Grosgran thought. He raised it up to meet its fate.
Balem sat statue-still. His eyes glazed over and refocused. After that, he drew one, long slow breath: in. Then out. Grosgran held his own breath in his six pneumonial chambers.
"Such a ... remarkable creation," whispered the Entitled.
The splice relaxed, joints unlocking and pincers in a-whir. "May I just say again," the Arachnid gushed, "how grateful I am for my salvation, My Lord Balem?"
"Of course. Your life has value to me, Mr. Grosgran. I would not squander it as my brother and sister would. It pleases me that Mr. Greeghan picked you up. This is very fine work. You are... dismissed." The sentence was pitted with a well of silence, as if he'd left the conversation well before he deigned to end his thought. Perhaps he had.