by E G Manetti
“No, milord,” Lilian admits.
“Has this happened before?” milord interrogates.
“Yes, milord,” Lilian nods. “Several times.”
“And you saw no one?” Milord’s harsh tone has lost the dangerous hint of silk.
“No, milord,” Lilian admits, fixing her eyes on milord’s boots to resist the temptation to sneak a peek at his expression.
“You should discuss this with Malcon,” milord instructs.
“I have, milord,” Lilian confesses, glad that this once she has anticipated milord’s will. “Master Malcon thinks it is but an overreaction to stealth training.”
“Look at me,” milord commands. Milord’s dark eyes are as inscrutable as his expression. “Inattention is inexcusable. For the next sevenday your liberty is limited to only what is necessary for personal hygiene.”
Relief swamps Lilian at milord’s forbearance. After nearly two years as an apprentice, such a transgression could carry a far harsher penalty. With heartfelt gratitude, Lilian offers the required response. “My thanks, milord.”
“Rise and return to your duty,” milord dismisses her.
»◊«
“Master Nickolas has reserved the small conference chamber.” Mistress Marieth waves a perfectly manicured hand to the chamber farthest from milord’s scarlet door. Not that it matters, milord is not within the Cartel. Activity within the Cartel always slows on the bimonthly Settlement Days, when those with the rank to command it take the entire day as liberty rather than the allotted half day. The Settlement Day before the Five Warriors’ Festival is always sparsely populated—this one more so, with the Bright Star summit fast approaching. Milord departed immediately after eighth-bell attendance, an event that Lilian found a relief. In the two bells since, she has managed to regain her equilibrium. Although milord’s correction was mild, it is never pleasant to be on the wrong side of milord’s will.
After politely thanking milord’s executive servitor, Lilian leads Chrys, Rebecca, and Douglas into the small chamber. Already part of the Bright Star media management team, Douglas is curious, but not overly excited. For Rebecca and Chrys, it is their first chance to participate in the historic venture, and they listen eagerly to Lilian’s explanation of the Bright Star code.
As Lilian finishes, Chrys gives a long whistle of amazement. “Why us? There are many far more senior associates who warrant an assignment of this importance.”
“Monsignor Lucius wishes the Bright Star code to remain a Serengeti secret until it is revealed at the summit,” Lilian explains. “A new team of highly skilled associates would raise questions.”
“If that is the case, I am surprised Monsignor Lucius is not keeping this within Blooded Dagger,” Douglas responds.
“That was Monsignor’s original intent,” Lilian admits. “But we need a linguist, Douglas, and you are already within the security-privilege of Bright Star. Had we a Blooded Dagger junior associate with those skills, milord might have looked elsewhere.”
“It is a secondary area,” Douglas protests. “I have used it little since I completed advanced studies.”
“Seigneur Aristides assured Monsignor that your skills are sufficient for the demonstration,” Lilian returns. “If it is successful, a master scholar will be brought in for the true development.”
At Lilian’s words, Douglas visibly relaxes. “Seigneur Aristides would not assign me if he were not confident.”
“Rebecca’s role makes sense,” Chrys comments, nodding to the blonde. “She is one of Seigneur Trevelyan’s operatives, and she excels at data archival and encryption. But how can I be of use?”
“Your knowledge of the notes forms is what is needed, Chrys,” Lilian replies. “Of all of us, your skills are the most advanced, and you have worked nearly two years with the forms version used by research and development.”
“Lilian, it is but two dozen forms we all share,” Chrys exclaims. “Nowhere near what you desire for Bright Star.”
“Two dozen reliable communications are all that we need for the demonstration,” Lilian returns. “And you are of Blooded Dagger. Monsignor allowed Master Fletcher because he will pilot the exploratory flyer and will know what communications are valuable.”
“And Master Fletcher is Iron Hammer,” Chrys remarks. “Having included Douglas from Grey Spear, it could have been seen as an insult to Iron Hammer if they did not have a participant.”
Before the apprentices can explore their new assignment further, Nickolas and Fletcher arrive. Both protégés have the rank to be absent the Cartel this morning, but neither will neglect his duty. The challenge is daunting. Not only must they develop a meaningful demonstration of the Bright Star code, but they must also find a means to prove Nickolas’ theory that the tightly encoded form will travel the beaconed expanse more quickly than standard alerts.
Lilian is well aware that without the bonding experience of the prior year’s battle, Nickolas might never have considered the potential of the code. Nor would Fletcher have readily accepted apprentice contribution to such an important endeavor.
As Lilian observed to milord a year gone, too many coincidences are not happenstance, but a pattern. However, the random and powerful occurrences of Lilian’s insights have not revealed the form of this pattern. As is so often the case, the episodes of extraordinary analytical ability will not come when she wishes. Whether it is the energies of Universal Balance or the grace of the Five Warriors, Lilian is beginning to suspect that powerful forces are gathering on behalf of Bright Star. It is both comforting and disquieting.
»◊«
“Tiger is coming up in the world,” Malcon comments to his companions, his eyes on the imposing façade of the Commerce District Indulgence popular for games of chance. One of Trevelyan’s senior operatives, Malcon could have requisitioned a Blooded Dagger Militia escort, but for the prestigious Commerce District location, discretion is preferable. Since the couple is known to Tiger, Trevelyan preferred to pull the two associates from their duty guarding Lilian’s worksite rather than reveal other operatives to the black commerce raider. “This is a far cry from cage matches in the Refinery District slums.”
“He will not hold it long if he defies Monsignor Lucius,” Rodolfo promises, his grim smile reflected by Joyce.
Flanked by Joyce and Rodolfo, Malcon strides through the entrance, barely glancing at the doorman and receptionist. “We are here for Tiger. We know the way.”
Ignoring the risers, the three spies mount the elaborate central stairs. As they reach the top, a paneled door opens to emit two burly guards in Tiger’s unlovely chartreuse livery. A moment later, fireburst pistols appear in Joyce’s and Rodolfo’s hands. Both guards pale, but neither moves.
“Joyce, destroy the crystal light sculpture.” Malcon’s voice is just loud enough to carry through the open door.
“Malcon?” Rodolfo raises a brow as he covers the guards with his weapon. Joyce’s pistol is already trained on the elaborate fixture dangling from the ceiling.
“Tiger has always valued things over people,” Malcon snorts. “Joyce, shatter it.”
“Stop!” A deep voice snarls from within the chamber. “Let them pass.”
The two guards retreat into the office, eyes on the casually held fireburst weapons.
Seated behind a massive walnut desk, Tiger Sylvester glowers at his uninvited guests. Of average height and build, Tiger has closely cropped dark hair, uneven features that include a nose that has been broken several times, and a ragged scar defining his left jawline. His deep-set black eyes hold intelligence, ruthlessness, and, at the moment, annoyance. “What brings you here?”
Pushing a leather guest chair so that he can see both Tiger and the door, Malcon settles comfortably, crossing his knees. By unspoken agreement, Joyce remains by the door while Rodolfo covers the two guards who have moved to flank Tiger.
With a small smile, Malcon comments, “If you want to replace your guards, get someone else to do your dirty work.
”
“What makes you think I want to replace them?” Tiger’s annoyance turns to confusion.
“You sent them to stop us.” Malcon glances coolly at the guards.
“Testing your resolve and their loyalty.” Tiger shrugs. “What does Mercio want?”
“Who hunts Mistress Lilian?” Malcon pins the raider in a cold glare.
“Mercio’s doxy?” Tiger startles.
“Careful, Tiger,” Malcon warns as Rodolfo’s fingers tighten on his weapon. “It is a short breath from insult to defiance.”
“Mercio would have you slay me over an apprentice?” Tiger scoffs. “I’m worth more to him than that.”
“Monsignor Lucius’ will is clear.” The coldness in Malcon’s eyes reaches his voice. “You are not to interfere with Blooded Dagger or Serengeti. That includes Mistress Lilian.”
“What makes you think I have any interest in Monsignor Lucius’ apprentice?” Tiger mocks.
“Someone hunts her,” Malcon snaps. “Someone skilled in stealth.”
“An assassin?” Tiger sits bolt upright in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Not in the Third System. Not without paying my fee.”
Malcon has good reason to know that Tiger is not only a member of the supposedly mythical assassins’ guild, but he is also the guild’s Third System primus. All guild contracts require his approval and forfeit to him a tenth of the fee.
“And yet,” Malcon sneers, “she is hunted by stealth.”
“Not by the guild,” Tiger insists. “We do not own all the killings in the Third System.”
“Your Odds Management ventures would benefit from her death,” Malcon accuses. “Incentive to lie.”
“You are mistaken.” Tiger relaxes into his chair with a smirk. “I hedged those wager pools seasons ago. Now, I benefit each season she lives and bankrupts my rivals. I have no reason to see her die.”
“Now you have a reason to see she lives.” Malcon’s voice cuts like a blade. “If she dies, Monsignor will see you destroyed.”
It is not an idle threat. Tiger is deeply in debt to Lucius, and Lucius’ power in the Third System has few limits.
“I don’t control every thug in the Third System,” Tiger sputters, a hint of fear behind the bluster. “Besides, it’s far more likely to be warrior work. I control them even less.”
“Monsignor Lucius will not care.” Malcon rises. “And neither will I.”
»◊«
Katleen’s red-gold curls dance in the sunlight as she trips along the thoroughfare, swinging the parcel containing her old and new racing shoes, and occasionally glancing at her new ankle boots. Five Warriors willing, they will last until the rainy season, Lilian prays. Unlike most of Katleen’s garb, Lilian cannot pull footgear from the diminishing contents of her university trunks. Although Lilian must admit, the turquoise tunic and trousers are far nicer on Katleen than they ever were on Lilian. Nor was she compelled to cut the outfit. A few tucks and hems, and a tight belt have sufficed. As Katleen grows, the garb will continue to fit.
Reaching the entrance to the river park, Lilian feels the familiar spark of awareness—they are being watched. Master Malcon’s reassurances and milord’s correction for inattention mean naught. Lilian cannot shake the certainty. In the dense crowd drawn by the seasonal cafés and pavilions, it is impossible to spot a potential assailant. Grabbing Katleen’s hand, Lilian pulls her through the entrance, ignoring her sister’s startled protest as she weaves through the throng to the path that leads to the café Rebecca prefers.
Pulling free from Lilian’s grasp once they are free of the entry crowds, Katleen demands, “What ails you?”
“Naught,” Lilian denies, rapidly scanning the area. There is naught. No reason for Lilian to feel unusually threatened. Knowing that standing in the path arguing with Katleen will draw undesirable attention, Lilian drops a hand to Katleen’s shoulder, urging her onward. “You know I dislike crowds.”
Rolling her eyes at Lilian’s excessive caution, Katleen demands, “Will we visit the pavilions? The weapons cabinet came out well. I could do another. Your bedchamber mirror is so flyspecked, it is all but useless.”
“Not this season, sweetling,” Lilian replies. “We have not the funds.”
“Please, Lilian?” Katleen turns dark, beseeching eyes on Lilian.
Regretting the need to disappoint her, Lilian refuses. “I must leave extra funds for emergencies while I am on Fortuna. We dare not use our reserves.”
It has not been easy, but Lilian has managed to eke out a small savings from her apprentice stipend. Enough that if Lilian should fail in her trial, it will keep Katleen and Maman in the house until Dean Joseph can come for them. At the thought of her academic mentor and foster father, a pang of longing lances through Lilian. She has not seen or contacted Dean Joseph since she sealed her bond. Until it is proved, Lilian looks to milord and only milord. Unwilling to dwell on Dean Joseph, Lilian seeks a distraction. “Katleen, there is the café. Do you see Master Chrys?”
“Master Chrys?” Katleen immediately quickens her pace, scanning the crowded open-air café. With a glad cry, she races to the tall man waving from a waterfront table.
Following at a more decorous pace, Lilian marvels at Rebecca’s ability to use her looks and flirtatious ways to gain such a prized location. The blonde is exceptionally lovely in a pale yellow tunic dress that turns her sun-kissed skin warm and golden. Beside her, Chrys is equally compelling, the blue tunic and dark gray trousers showing his strong muscular build to advantage. Throughout the café, most of the men and some of the women are sneaking glances at the attractive pair. Next to her friends, Lilian is naught but a shadow in faded black training trousers and a loose gray linen shirt that conceals her thorn and the gold warbelt with its sparkling gems and scarlet conservator’s seal.
“Well met, Lilian,” Rebecca greets as Chrys gallantly helps Katleen into a chair.
Before Lilian can respond, the café servitor arrives with wine, water, and a tray of small bites, the minimum order required for a table.
“Half water, half wine for Katleen,” Lilian says as Chrys picks up the carafe to pour. “And only one.”
There are no strictures limiting minors’ access to alcoholic beverages, but Lilian does not care for the combination of teenage hormones and intoxicants.
“May I have the peach pastry?” Katleen asks, eyeing the tray.
“Of course,” Rebecca and Chrys answer together. Both apprentices are as fond of Katleen as she is of them.
“We should order more,” Lilian suggests as Chrys fills her glass and then Rebecca’s. “Clarice and Douglas will wish wine and food.”
“Clarice and Douglas will be a while,” Rebecca says as Chrys fills his glass.
“The later it grows, the slower the service,” Lilian warns.
“And the wine is mostly gone,” Chrys holds up the carafe.
As soon as the order is placed, Lilian turns to her friends. “It is well Douglas and Clarice are delayed. There is something I wish to discuss.”
“Blooded Dagger privilege?” Chrys leaps to the obvious conclusion.
“Not truly.” Lilian glances toward Katleen, who is assaulting the small sweet with her fork. “But, I would prefer it not go beyond us.”
“Of course,” Chrys agrees with a nod from Rebecca.
At her friends’ expectant regard, Lilian forces herself to speak. “How does one manage? Traveling with one’s master? When do I retreat to my quarters, when do I attend Monsignor? Where and how do I train or take my meals? What are the customs? How does one know?”
Her excitement at the prospect of the Bright Star summit has dimmed with the discovery she is to have the servitor’s chamber in milord’s quarters for the two sevendays. Her hard-won skills and experience in the apprentice protocols have centered on life within the Cartel. Naught has prepared her for the challenges of nuance, stricture, and custom beyond the corridors of Serengeti. After this morning’s disaster at eighth bell, Lilian is more d
etermined than ever to avoid mistakes and missteps that could place her on the wrong side of milord’s will. The wrong side of milord’s will is unpleasant within Serengeti; how much worse would it be in the close quarters of the stellar transport or the Fortuna guesthouse?
In response, Chrys and Rebecca exchange a startled glance and a few moments of silent communion. It is not the first time Lilian has asked them for tutoring in apprentice custom. Unlike Chrys and Rebecca, Lilian did not have decades of training to prepare for apprenticeship. The protocols, strictures, and customs are convoluted and, more often than not, conflicting. Within the rigid protocol of the Cartel, Lilian has learned enough to get by, her small transgressions overlooked for fear of Monsignor Lucius’ retaliation. Beyond Serengeti, she will have much less latitude.
Finally, Chrys says, “Lilian, the answers are complicated. Rebecca and I learned the nuance of residing with our masters while at our advanced studies.”
It is as Lilian feared; she is inadequately trained for the task. She will fail Monsignor.
“Give us no such look,” Rebecca states acerbically. “It’s not so ill. The same protocol applies to Monsignor’s quarters as his office. When you enter the quarters with Monsignor, or enter and Monsignor is present, you wait until you are dismissed. Once in your chamber, you wait until you are summoned or there is a scheduled requirement. Should you return to the quarters and Monsignor is not present, retire to your chamber.”
Relaxing at Rebecca’s instructions, Lilian picks up her wine. It is not so different from the attendance protocols. Appear when milord summons her. Disappear when dismissed. Take care of herself and her assignments otherwise.
“You will need to schedule all your training time, not only those where you are engaged with others,” Chrys adds, knowing how important regular training is to Lilian. “You will need to use whatever facilities are available. Your chamber will not be much larger than the bed.”
“Meals,” Rebecca says darkly. “Monsignor has a habit of forgetting you need—ow!”