by E G Manetti
Sevenday 89, Day 4
“This is an elegant explanation, Mistress Lilian.” Nickolas turns his gaze from his techno array to Lilian. Face becoming stern, Nickolas continues, “I have examined the detail in your Bright Star models. These exercises are not nearly as complex.”
“As you voice, Master Nickolas,” Lilian admits. She will not remind the protégé that he tore his hair in confusion at the standard models. Nickolas excels at financial and operational modeling. Complexity theory and risk analytics are far more involved. After the initial failure of her plan, Lilian gained a new respect for Dean Joseph and her university instructors. Transferring knowledge is more difficult than it appears. After two days of analysis, Lilian decided on a less academic and more pragmatic approach. “It is important to understand the framework and purpose before attempting to decipher the specifics.”
“Are you certain?” Nickolas asks hopefully. “I know you excelled at complexity analytics. What you first demonstrated exceeded the models of the master scholars at Mulan’s Temple.”
Master scholar. The words send sharp pain to Lilian’s soul. Her mastery trial scores for complexity analytics exceeded all previous records. It mattered naught. Mulan’s Temple refused to award master scholar credentials to a criminal undergoing Trial by Ordeal.
This day. I am the sum of my ancestors.
“Mistress Lilian?” Nickolas’ concerned voice cuts through the darkness of remembered injustice. “Are you well?”
I am the foundation of my family. It is ridiculous to lament what is lost. Lilian must focus on the future, which includes the promise of Bright Star. “I beg pardon, Master Nickolas. I was distracted by a stray thought. To your original question, with each season, we will add more complexity, focusing on those areas that are the most essential.”
“Are you certain?” Nickolas repeats with a frown at the reviewer. “We will be alone in the beaconless expanse.”
It is a well-founded concern. Stellar transit is perilous beyond the Twelve Systems’ passage markers, known as beacons. Without the beacons to guide navigation, stellar transports cannot safely achieve the velocity necessary for transit among the stars. Automated stellar discoverers routinely disappear without a trace. Entering the beaconless expanse, guided by naught but the signal satellites placed by Serengeti’s probe two years earlier, is unimaginably risky. In the thirteen months since the announcement of Bright Star, Lilian has spent countless bells attempting to mitigate that risk. “It is not as though the Cartel is going to drop into the abyss once the SEV1 exits the beaconed stars. It is only that communications will be much slower.”
“As to the communications, Mistress Lilian, I have been considering your notes form.” Nickolas is leaning back in his chair, gaze intent. For a moment, Lilian expects to see his fingers steeple. “Could we use your apprentice notes form? Such simple data will move more quickly than alerts or any form of audible or visual message. Its code-within-a-code nature is particularly useful. We can expect that other interests will be attempting to intercept our messages.”
The apprentice notes form is a cryptic and mostly symbolic rendering of events and instructions. The dense notes have saved more than one apprentice from correction for failure to recall details that would bring only mild rebuke to more highly ranked associates. Now, Nickolas is suggesting it could be adapted for rapid and stealthy communication with the SEV1. It is a stunning thought, but Lilian does not question it, setting her slate to execute a series of algorithms for assessing effort and timelines. “It is possible, but difficult. We use the written word for complex thought because symbols become cumbersome. There are too many possible combinations. For specific SEV1 communications, it might be done. Research and development has a unique set of symbols for their use. The skill consortium uses a special set for abbreviated alerts.”
At a tap to her slate, a planning chart appears on Nickolas’ reviewer. “This is rough. It will need refinement.”
“Jonathan’s Justice,” Nickolas murmurs in awe at the display. “You mapped an approach to this radical notion in ten minutes. Three seasons?”
“At a minimum,” Lilian insists. “It is but an outline. We will be creating what is essentially a secret code for use by Bright Star. Seigneur Trevelyan will be required to advise us. And, of course, Monsignor must approve.”
“Of course.” Nickolas nods as the list of tasks expands in response to Lilian’s rapid tapping. Turning abruptly, he asks, “Mistress Lilian, what is the skill consortium?”
Startled by Nickolas’ tone, Lilian’s fingers halt. “There are a group of us, apprentices mostly, who combine our skills to assist each other. It was effective in dealing with the counterfeiters and rather helpful with our traitors. We are careful of privilege, Master Nickolas.”
“Your consortium incorporates those not of Blooded Dagger?” Nickolas frowns.
“Yes, Master Nickolas. There is one of Iron Hammer, and we recently added Master Douglas of Grey Spear,” Lilian says, wariness replacing surprise.
Nickolas’ frown deepens. “Mistress Lilian, I do not believe this consortium of yours will please Monsignor Lucius.”
“Master Nickolas, Monsignor is well aware of the skill consortium. Monsignor has known from the first.” Lilian is shocked at the suggestion she might not have milord’s approval. Nickolas once disdained her, but of late she has come to view him as an ally. Has she erred? “Did you not hear me mention that it was helpful in the counterfeiters’ affair? At that time, it was but Chrys, Rebecca, and me. It has grown since then, and so Monsignor is aware.”
Lilian’s growing consternation is brought to an abrupt halt by Nickolas’ laughter.
“Mistress Lilian, I am a fool. I thought at the time it was remarkable you could marshal such a network of friends and allies for the Grey Spear profiles. By now, I should know better than to underestimate you. You have a most unconventional mind for one who presents such an obedient demeanor.”
Stunned by the laughter and shocked at the accusation that she lacks proper obedience, Lilian is at a loss for a response.
Laughter fading, Nickolas turns sober, his tone apologetic. “Peace, it is a compliment. We intend to enter the beaconless expanse. There is naught more unconventional.”
Sevenday 89, Day 5
Lilian starts awake, pulling her thorn from beneath her pillow. What is amiss?
The predawn air is cool as it slides along her shoulders and upper back, bared when her movement shrugged the comforter to her waist. Her eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. She is alone. What then? Turning to sit, soundlessly pushing the faded celestial blue quilt to her feet, Lilian listens hard.
At a faint rustling, Lilian tilts her head toward the courtyard eaves and the worn courtyard covers rolled up for the season. Another rustle. A soft coo. Doves. The doves have returned. They love to nest in the dry, secluded area between the courtyard covers and the eaves.
With a resigned sigh, Lilian pushes to her feet, the glinting warbelt settling into place. The birds are harmless, but their acidic droppings are not. The house’s ancient stone and decrepit courtyard covers cannot tolerate the erosion. Touching the Cartel slate seated in the stand on her bedside table, Lilian confirms the time. It lacks half a bell to dawn. Enough time for Lilian to climb into the harness and rout the squatting birds before she joins Maman in the courtyard.
»◊«
“You chased them off, didn’t you?” Katleen’s accusation breaks Lilian’s concentration.
“Adelaide’s Thorn!” Lilian profanes, clutching at the nape ties that have come loose in her hands. Whirling in the small cleansing chamber, Lilian scowls at her sister. “Another week and the doves would have nested and egged. Would you have cared to dine on dove eggs?”
Tilting her head, Lilian once again lets her damp hair fall toward the floor. In a practiced move, she gathers the heavy locks in one hand, the nape ties in another. Slightly wet, the heavy locks are far easier to work into a warrior’s queue.
> “They are so sweet,” Katleen complains. “And the eaves are so safe. Now some hawk or eagle is likely to eat them.”
“Do not be silly.” Lilian straightens, her tightly bound hair dropping along her spine in a disciplined queue. “The Garden Center District offers plenty of perches. Perches that will not rot our tattered courtyard covers. Recall you the cost of the rainy season repairs?”
“Yes, Lilian,” Katleen sulks.
Fastening the rose lace bra that matches her briefs, Lilian examines Katleen. The bright red-gold curls are in their morning disarray. The elfin face is set in a petulant expression. The milk-white complexion and light spangling of freckles are Helena’s, her black eyes the legacy of some forgotten ancestor. Remus Gariten’s eyes were blue, and it is a source of continued delight to Lilian that none of his features appear in Katleen.
As much as Lilian loves Katleen, she dare not indulge the moodiness that is increasing as the young girl nears her first female cycle. They are no longer warriors. A lack of discipline can bring dire results. Pulling on her black silk blouse, Lilian says, “I heard that contraction, sweetling. I will expect five hundred words on the vulgarity of contractions by ninth bell this evening.”
“Lilian!” Katleen whines.
Tugging on her skirt, Lilian steels herself to be firm. “Another word and it will be a thousand.”
Katleen’s mouth opens and wisely closes.
»◊«
Lilian masks her approach to Master Malcon’s office with the bustle of associates hurrying to complete their tasks prior to midday respite. Using the cover provided by a trio of associates deep in conversation, Lilian passes the interior window without catching the attention of the man hunched over his techno array. Knowing she can do naught to quiet the door chimes, Lilian crouches low and activates the mechanism. As soon as the opening widens sufficiently, she somersaults forward, rises, and strikes her hand against Malcon’s desk. The desk chair is empty.
Spinning, Lilian finds Malcon behind her, arms crossed on his chest.
“You improve.” Malcon nods. “If not for the pings, you would have had me.”
“My thanks, Master Malcon,” Lilian acknowledges the compliment. “It is due to your instruction.”
For several seasons Lilian has been tutored in the arts of stealth. It is not a common part of commerce training for those not of the militia or security-privilege. After several assaults, milord and Seigneur Trevelyan thought it wise Lilian acquire some skills. For over a month, Malcon has insisted that Lilian find her way to his desk without alerting him in time to stop her. This is the first time Malcon has failed to intercept before she reached the desk.
“Pretty words,” Malcon snorts. The one-time assassin is of average height, with a sinewy build that can appear fragile or deadly as he wishes. His medium complexion, medium build, medium brown eyes, and medium brown hair readily convert to whatever image he wishes. At the moment, he is all commerce. “Are you here for practice or is there something else?”
“Practice,” Lilian says and then hesitates. “And mayhap something else.”
“Sit.” Malcon waves her to a chair. “It is not like you to be uncertain. What troubles you?”
Taking the proffered seat, Lilian waits for Malcon to return to his desk chair before speaking. “Truly, it may be naught . . .”
At Malcon’s impatient frown, Lilian straightens her shoulders. Unless she wishes to approach milord or Seigneur Trevelyan with what may be naught but imagination, she must rely on Master Malcon. “Recently, I have felt as if some agent watches me.”
“Tell me more.” Malcon’s frown turns to concern. “Where and when has this occurred?”
“Twice on the public transport in the past sevenday,” Lilian replies, “at the market this past Seventh Day, and this morn as I entered the Cartel.”
“Have you noted anyone?” Malcon demands. He spent several sessions training her to notice stealthy followers.
“None,” Lilian admits. “I used the techniques to seek without looking, but I found naught.”
“It is not uncommon for those newly trained in the arts of stealth to be highly sensitive to a casual glance,” Malcon suggests. “It need not be hostile.”
“I have always been watchful,” Lilian returns. “Even more so after the shrine beggar’s attack. Would the stealth training truly make such a difference?”
“You have been assaulted multiple times,” Malcon replies. “And powerful warriors have sought your destruction. It is natural that you would be extra vigilant, and stealth training would further increase your awareness.”
“So it is likely naught but my imagination?” Lilian sighs, uncertain if she should be relieved or worried that she is starting at shadows.
“Not imagination.” Malcon shakes his head. “Overreaction to casual regard that you had not noticed in the past. It will fade as your psyche learns to filter the nonthreatening interest.”
“Is there naught else to be done?” Lilian wonders.
“Continue to practice the arts of stealth.” Malcon shrugs. “The more skilled you become, the easier it will be to determine if there is truly a threat.”
»◊«
Seated with Seigneur Marco on the scarlet sofa, milord is relaxed, the long, strong fingers of one hand lightly drumming on the armrest. Behind him, Seigneur Trevelyan leans on the sofa back, the informality of his pose at odds with the intent gaze focused on Lilian. Milord’s eyes flit between Lilian and Nickolas. “Lilian, explain the code once again.”
“Yes, milord.” Lilian briefly meets Nickolas’ gaze. The protégé cannot quite hide his elation that milord has not dismissed the wild notion of a Bright Star code. Pointing her slate at the reviewer where a column of symbols is marked by an occasional date, Lilian explains, “As milord knows from the Grey Spear investigation, apprentice notes can be very complex. This set summarizes the recent Bright Star review.”
“Two periods of discussion compressed into a hundred symbols?” Seigneur Marco wonders. A short, compact man of sixty years with blunt features in a square-jawed face, milord’s kinsman favors high fashion, his pale green silk suit a marked contrast to milord’s perfectly fitted, crisp gray one.
“One hundred and seven symbols, Seigneur.” Lilian turns to the Bright Star seigneur with unfeigned respect. One of milord’s most trusted lieutenants, Marco has proven exceptionally astute in managing both the politics and operations of the Bright Star Consortium. He has never failed to offer her the courtesy due to milord’s conservator. “But I had the help of my recording device. Otherwise, it would be but eighty or so.”
“The meeting minutes are nearly ten pages,” Marco says thoughtfully. “This could work.”
“I have seen the benefit of this code for investigation,” Trevelyan inserts. “It is indecipherable by all but the author. Useful for a spy but not for easy communications.”
“It can be adapted,” Nickolas insists. “If you will, Mistress Lilian.”
At a tap of Lilian’s slate, the reviewer displays a list of simple alerts, one line each. No body. No attachments. “These are from the Grey Spear profiles. This first one is from Mistress Tabitha. It indicates that Mistress Tabitha has finished her assignment and logged it in our files. This next one is my response with her next assignment. We established the syntax, a master key to indicate the individuals, and a few common symbols for this task.”
Lilian looks at milord, gauging his reaction.
Milord’s lips soften with a hint of a smile. “How long did it take to set this up?”
At milord’s expression, Lilian’s shoulders relax. “It required nearly four periods to set this up and test it. Once it was in place, it expedited the collection of the profiles by nearly a sevenday.”
“Truly!” Marco exclaims while Trevelyan straightens from his relaxed position.
“Yes, Seigneur,” Lilian replies and then hastens to add, “Please do not mistake me. This is a very simple example compared to what is needed for
a Bright Star code. Expanding this to be useful for the SEV1 will be the work of months, not periods.”
“Are you able to develop a demonstration for the summit?” milord interjects.
“The summit?” Marco echoes blankly and then his expression shifts to a grin. “Brilliant, Monsignor. It will be the perfect time to explore the potential—and cost—of a Bright Star code.”
“Indeed, Marco.” Milord’s eyes hood. “Blooded Dagger and Serengeti should be compensated for such a valuable addition to the consortium.”
As they speak, Lilian mentally juggles her duties, seeking a means to squeeze the additional periods for this new project.
“Marco, only Blooded Dagger staff for now,” milord instructs. “I will not risk news of this leaking.”
“Monsignor has doubts about Monsignor Hercules?” Marco asks.
“Not Hercules; he remains the best choice for Grey Spear.” Milord waves off his kinsman’s concern. “It is Damocles that troubles me.” Milord’s lips twist with distaste around the name of the Serengeti security-privilege seigneur. “He was Sebastian’s dog and remains so. Until Hercules can be rid of him, we must assume that Grey Spear leaks like a sieve.”
“As you voice, Monsignor,” Marco concurs, contempt lacing his voice.
“I could challenge him,” Trevelyan suggests softly. “I would enjoy pounding him into the mats, again.”
“Not yet.” Milord shakes his head. “At the moment, Hercules is an ally. A rank challenge to Damocles could be seen as a Blooded Dagger assault on Hercules. I do not need difficulty with Grey Spear to complicate the Bright Star summit.”
“As you will,” Trevelyan agrees.
Turning his attention to Lilian, milord holds out his hand. For a moment, Lilian is stymied. Milord cannot intend an embrace. Not in front of his warriors.