by E G Manetti
Lilian’s boot finds Rebecca’s shin.
“Why?” Rebecca sputters and is cut off again, this time by Lilian’s sharp glance at Katleen. Lilian does not wish Katleen reminded of Lilian’s collapse in her first season as milord’s apprentice. Nor will she debate Rebecca over the cause. None will speak ill of milord to Lilian, not even Rebecca.
“Protein bars,” Chrys announces, breaking the tension. “Take some of those protein bars you favor. That will help you manage until you understand Monsignor’s will.”
“Lilian, will not Monsignor inform you of his wishes?” Katleen interrupts.
“When it pleases him,” Rebecca says into her wine, adroitly avoiding another kick.
Resigned to ignoring Rebecca’s ongoing irreverence to milord, Lilian turns to Katleen. “For the most part, yes, sweetling, but Monsignor also expects me to be competent.”
Searching for a way to help her sister understand, Lilian continues, “It is rather similar to dining manners. You use a fork for salad and a spoon for soup. You were not born knowing it, you were taught. Anyone would reasonably expect that a well-brought-up girl past her thirteenth year would know these things. Monsignor reasonably expects me to know how to conduct myself on a travel assignment. That I do not is my problem to solve. It is not Monsignor’s.”
“With our help,” Chrys assures. “There are five sevendays before you depart for Fortuna. Between now and then, Rebecca and I will teach you what you require.”
“Of course we will.” Rebecca raises her glass. “We have faced greater dangers than his whims.”
“Rebecca,” Lilian warns. Before she can say more, Douglas and Clarice arrive.
“Where is Tabitha?” Clarice asks, taking a seat held out by Douglas.
“Absent the city,” Rebecca says with dismissive shrug. Tabitha is another of Seigneur Trevelyan’s operatives, and this is not the first occasion Tabitha has been absent on a slim pretext. If Rebecca knows the true tale, she will not voice it. “She can hear Chrys’ tales of Troy another time.”
Picking up the wine, Douglas pours as Chrys launches into the tale of his adventures on Troy in the Fifth System and the construction of the Mercium plant.
“Truly,” Chrys insists as he completes his account, “I invent it not. Master Simon reached the limit of his patience with the plant supervisor and pitched him into the saltmarsh. The man kept trying to climb out, and Master Simon kept pushing him back in, insisting the plant manager had the choice of pickling or cooperation. There would be no more challenges to the Mercium manufacturing protocols.”
The laughter at Chrys’ clearly articulated image of the slender, slouch-shouldered chemist offering violence to the burly plant supervisor lasts for several minutes. Eventually, Lilian, well familiar with the research and development seigneur, questions, “Was Seigneur Rachelle displeased that Master Simon abused the plant supervisor so?”
“Not at all.” Chrys flashes a grin. “My seigneur found the man every bit as irritating as the rest of us. Seigneur also won a hundred from Seigneur Tristan, who was convinced that man would bulldoze Master Simon into his way of thinking.”
“Was Seigneur Tristan disappointed to lose the wager?” Clarice asks, curious to know more about the Iron Hammer seigneur who is close friends with Clarice’s master, Serengeti Legalistics Seigneur Herman.
“Not at all.” Chrys turns his smile on the petite, dark-haired apprentice. Her honey-gold skin and elegant features are as delicate as her frame. “He enjoyed seeing the plant supervisor threatened with pickling. According to Verity, had Master Simon not taken action, Seigneur Tristan was close to it.”
“I must find Verity on First Day.” Clarice returns Chrys’ smile, her black, almond-shaped eyes flashing with humor. “Seigneur Tristan is always so formal. It is difficult to imagine him brawling with a common servitor.”
“Seigneur Tristan was not alone in it,” Chrys admits. “One more ‘this is an ill-conceived venture’ and I was dropping the man.” With a grin at Douglas, Chrys adds, “It would have been worth the five strokes for striking a superior in rank.”
With an appreciative nod, Douglas raises his nearly empty glass to Chrys, followed by the others. All but Katleen, who is appalled. “Oh Chrys, you should not be caned.”
“Worry not, Katleen.” Chrys lightly tosses Katleen’s curls. “I am not a fool. In the circumstances, it would have been Master Simon applying the cane. I believe his hand would have been quite light.” Swallowing the last of his wine, Chrys adds, “Master Simon is a decent one. It may well be that he knew how close I was to breaking and decided if he were going to strike someone, he preferred it to be the plant supervisor.”
“None of this is in the archives’ reports,” Clarice laughs. “From those descriptions, it was all very dull.”
“It is as stark as the visuals,” Chrys replies, “but it is more alive than I could have imagined.”
“Alive?” Lilian questions. Lilian personally executed the ecological studies of the Troy saltmarshes. It is supposed to be dead. The Troy plant offers no harm to the environment and may be potentially beneficial as the marshes are drained to support Mercium. “How is that possible? The studies showed naught but development-retarding chemicals and scum.”
“The marshes are as dead as portrayed, Lilian. Worry not,” Chrys hastens to reassure her. “It is the land that bounds the marshes, and the sea beyond. It is distant life but full of sound. There are birds mostly, shrieks and shrills and the occasional song. There are the sounds of healthy land as well. There is the light sound of vegetation rustling in the wind or at the passing of small animals.”
Such subtle signs of life, it is a wonder to Lilian that Chrys is so attuned to it. “It sounds remarkable. I envy you the experience.”
“Envy not the scent,” Chrys returns. “From the sounds, I know Troy owns pleasant air. None is found in the marshes. It is heavy and stale, and does it contain salt, it is not in evidence.”
“And the water must be worse.” Douglas grins. “No wonder the plant manager was eager to escape it.”
More laughter and congratulations follow as they divide the last of the wine and food. In the pause, Katleen leans over to whisper, “Lilian, do not forget about Sinead’s Pavilion.”
At the reminder, Lilian’s thoughtful expression brightens. “Katleen you do well to remind me. It is your play. You must speak of it.”
Delighted to be the center of attention, and with good news, Katleen’s words come out in a rush, “Maman has arranged for us to have a place at the back of Sinead’s Pavilion for the festival Duet. We must be there no later than a half period before the start or risk losing our places. They are using the amphitheater in Jonathan’s Greenway this year. Adelaide’s Prelate is to be there, and the crowds are expected to be huge. We will be able to see everything! And, we will be shaded.”
Jonathan’s Greenway is a large meadow in the center of the Garden Center parklands with an amphitheater at its base. By custom, the amphitheater is devoted to the sect that leads the festival cycle. This year focuses on the First Warrior, Socraide Omsted, and the Duet is the cornerstone of the cycle.
“Sinead’s Pavilion?” Chrys grins. “I like that far better than competing for a place in the open meadow.”
“And shade will be welcome.” Douglas smiles at Katleen. “The green-season sun is uncomfortable after two periods.”
None mentions that in addition to comfort, the pavilion offers protection by the shrine guards and the discipline master’s acolytes. They all remember last year’s Five Warriors’ Festival and the violent assault by five drunken warriors who took exception to Katleen’s and Lilian’s continued existence. Although naught will deter them from attending the shrines, it is a relief to know they can enjoy the entertainment, separated from the boisterous and unpredictable crowds.
6. Shrine Relic
With the alliance of the Five Warriors, warfare among the stellar systems ceased. However, regional conflicts and localized
incidents of civil unrest, piracy, and conquest continued into the third century. To protect their growing wealth and provide temporary havens for the devoted, the Warriors’ Shrines became fortresses of Order as well as archives. What are now sacred pools were once water sources, and the fireburst niches that provide light and air served for defense.
In return for the Shrines’ protection, the devoted gladly provided labor and offerings. As civil unrest dwindled, the need for the fortresses abated, but the practice of shrine offerings continued. Among the warrior elite, generous shrine offerings are a reflection of piety and their genetic connection to the Five Warriors. The wealthier the Cartouche, the more generous are the shrine offerings. By the Fifth Century, the highest-ranking warrior of a shrine was also the most generous benefactor and became recognized as the ‘patron.’
By the Sixth Century, it was a matter of great prestige to be the patron of a single shrine within a sect. In the modern era, the most renowned and highly ranked warriors vie for the position of patron for a planet or system. To be a sect patron is to be recognized as the secular representative of one of the Five Warriors. It is an honor reserved for the highest-ranking member of the sect, a warrior of proven commerce ability and therefore the ability to meet the obligations of sect patron. The position of sect patron is not transferrable by inheritance; when a new warrior rises to the highest ranking within a sect, the existing patron is displaced, thus insuring that each of the Five Warriors’ Sects is always protected by one of the highest-ranking warriors in the Twelve Systems. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 92, Day 2
Setting aside his tea, Lucius ponders Trevelyan’s report. “Malcon is certain that Tiger was truthful?”
“Yes, Monsignor.” Trevelyan leans back in his chair. “Malcon has enough experience with Tiger to discern falsehood. The assassins’ guild is not in play.”
“Blooded Dagger is not the only Cartouche to employ those trained in stealth.” Lucius frowns thoughtfully. “But to what end?”
“Martin’s father?” Trevelyan suggests.
“Possibly.” Lucius considers the suggestion only to reject it. “Not likely, though. It would be murder by proxy to slay my conservator, particularly with Martin already convicted of assault by proxy. If caught, it would see them severed from their Cartouche and sent to the Final Draught.”
“Odds managers?” Trevelyan hazards. “Tiger did mention that Lilian’s survival is bankrupting them by the Settlement Day. The odds on her surviving two years were nearly forty-to-one. Next Settlement Day will go ill for many.”
“More likely,” Lucius agrees. “But they would not have the resources for stealth operatives. They would need the assassins’ guild.”
“And thugs would not be using stealth,” Trevelyan concludes.
“That was a clever threat of Malcon’s,” Lucius notes with approval. “Tiger may not control all the thugs in the Third System, but he controls many of them.”
“Aye, Monsignor,” Trevelyan agrees. “Once Tiger puts out the word, those he does not control will think twice about going against him.”
“Which leaves us with Lilian’s unknown stalker.” Lucius frowns.
“If there is one,” Trevelyan reminds him. “It could be as Malcon believes. Coupled with the assaults of the past two years, Lilian’s recent training in stealth has her starting at shadows.”
“The strain on her has been extreme.” Lucius pushes back from the table and rises. “At one point, I feared she would not hold. Her resiliency has surprised me.”
“She has surprised us all.” Trevelyan rises with Lucius. “The Fortuna summit comes at an opportune time. The change will do her good.”
Trevelyan is right. Lucius paces to the windows, staring at the Garden Center but seeing his apprentice. For all her resiliency, there are telltales of continuing strain in her often reserved and wary expression. He does not mention her inattention the past Sixth Day, but such an error is not like her. It could be a sign that Lilian is closer to breaking than he thought. If she is to have any true respite while voyaging to Fortuna, she needs to be relieved of as many burdens as possible. “It concerns me that Lilian will worry about her sister and mother during her absence.”
“Not if one she trusts resides with them.” Trevelyan joins Lucius by the windows. “Rebecca would be willing.”
“Rebecca?” Lucius sighs. Trevelyan’s apprentice is ill disciplined, vulgar, and irreverent. All in all, a lamentable influence on Lilian.
“She is fiercely loyal to Lilian and well known to Katleen and the seer,” Trevelyan returns.
“What of Tabitha?” Lucius suggests. Sebastian’s former apprentice owes Lilian a great debt.
“It would be noticed and I prefer Tabitha to be less visible,” Trevelyan returns with the air of one who has considered the matter. “And Lady Helena is unknown to her. Her sudden residence might overset the seer.”
“Lady Helena’s derangement is an ongoing concern to Lilian.” Lucius nods. “This serves no purpose if it adds to Lilian’s strain. Let it be Rebecca.”
After her trials of the last two years, Lucius seized the opportunity presented by the Fortuna summit to arrange for Lilian to have as much respite as possible. Now he is doubly glad. “It is well she shares my quarters. If Malcon is correct, and the strain is finally taking its toll, I will be able to note it.”
»◊«
I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian tries to control her excitement as she enters the shrine ring. It has been two years since she has seen Apollo. I am the foundation of my family. As Adelaide’s Prelate, Lord Apollo is Lilian’s spiritual guide. He is the exception to the stricture that forbids Lilian to contact any of those who were instructors or mentors before her apprenticeship. Honor is my blade and shield. He will have news of Dean Joseph.
Jonathan’s Shrine is all but empty when Lilian enters with the fourth-bell chimes. A shadow moving in the corner of her eye has Lilian swinging around, her hand on her thorn, her training boots echoing in the vast crevasse stone and marble edifice. Adelaide’s Thorn! Lilian corrects her pace to move soundlessly, searching among the pillars and galleries for that fleeting shadow.
There—a flicker of movement behind the base of Jonathan’s effigy, all but invisible in the shadow of the fourteen-foot green marble statue of the Fourth Warrior in battle dress. Balanced on the balls of her feet, Lilian slides the thorn free. The shadow lengthens, takes form. An acolyte.
Sheathing her thorn, Lilian offers a small acknowledging bow. The acolyte returns her courtesy with a frown, no doubt annoyed by the interruption of her duties. With a quick assessing glance at Lilian’s black training garb, gold warbelt, and visibly displayed thorn and conservator’s seal, the acolyte waves Lilian toward the east wall and the entrance to Adelaide’s Alcove. Lilian is expected.
Within the alcove, a small crowd surrounds a fit man of average height and broad build. Springy red-brown hair forms a halo above a narrow, mobile face with a wide, full-lipped mouth, a hooked nose, and prominent amber eyes. It is not a handsome face, but the brilliance of the lurking intellect and the energy of the man’s personality make him impossible to ignore.
Apollo Acacia, Adelaide’s Prelate, and Lilian’s one-time instructor. Spying the young woman as she enters the alcove, the Lord Prelate breaks from the group and strides forward with a glad cry. “Lilian, girl!”
Grasping her shoulders, he exuberantly kisses one cheek.
Shocked by the sudden—and possibly illegal—contact Lilian jerks away and steps back.
Chagrinned, the prelate drops his hands and apologizes. “Forgive me, child. I did not mean to startle you. We are well chaperoned. No offense will attach.”
“My thanks, Lord Prelate. I am certain none will take offense. It was the surprise,” Lilian says, embarrassed by her overreaction. “Truly, you are well come. What is it you wish of me?”
“For the most part, to determine if you are well. I was please
d you have kept up your training. You acquitted yourself quite well last festival day.” Apollo smiles proudly.
“You have viewed the visual? It reached so far as Socraide Prime?” Lilian says in dismay.
“Half the Twelve Systems viewed that visual, Lilian.” Apollo laughs. “It is the substance of legend. Such valor is rare in these civilized times. How fares Katleen? Has she recovered?”
Relieved to find she retains Apollo’s affection, Lilian replies, “Katleen is well and looks forward to the festival. She is in no way daunted by last year’s assault.”
“What of those Servants of Anarchy? Have they received due retribution?” Apollo bounces on his toes, eager for every detail.
As much as she wishes the incident forgotten, and her notoriety with it, Lilian is not immune to the prelate’s buoyant charm. “As for Katleen’s tormentors—one went to the Final Draught. Two more were severed from their Cartouches and exiled. The final two were found guilty of a poor choice of companions and too much drink. They have been disgraced and relegated to menial labor in their family holdings until they demonstrate the way of warrior honor.”
Nodding at Lilian’s grim gratification, Apollo pursues, “You will seek no further retribution?”
Shaking her head, Lilian responds, “Katleen is satisfied. Of the two in disgrace, I thorn scored one. I would serve the other a similar fate when my bond proves, but it is Katleen’s choice, and she wishes it left as it is.”
“Lilian, I would not have thought it possible, but you grow fiercer.” Apollo grins. “What is this frivolous item you wear? It is a weak belt for arms. What is the purpose of such ornaments?”
The prelate wears the same stark black training garb as Lilian. A crimson sash is his only concession to vestments. In contrast to Lilian’s slender chain, his black warbelt is serviceable rather than ornamental and hung with both a thorn and a short sword.
Lightly fingering her conservator’s seal, Lilian proudly explains, “It is a gift from Monsignor Lucius. It serves well enough to hold the thorn Monsignor permits me to carry within the Cartel. The rubies represent defeated enemies. The other stones are commerce victories.”