by E G Manetti
“At one time, he wished you for protégé.” Lucius frowns. “Conventional, Horatio may be. He can hardly believe being discredited shattered your intellect.”
Lilian blinks rapidly, bewilderment replacing her dutiful expression. “It was Monsignor Omar who wished the contract, milord. The Gariten connection was with Dark Axe, not Broken Blade.”
“Omar’s or Horatio’s, he had access to your university records,” Lucius reminds her. “Horatio cannot believe you a fool.”
“Perhaps, milord,” Lilian says slowly. Lucius can almost see her brilliant mind sifting the evidence, working through the pattern. “Monsignor Horatio is known for both patience and subtlety. The monsignor is also very conventional, as are his junior retainers. Both Mistress Mayling and Master Basil lack patience and subtlety. It may be no more than that the tools are not yet ready.”
Lilian’s conclusions are sound, but she does not know Horatio. The conventional warrior will believe that Remus Gariten’s tainted offspring is readily corrupted. This latest ploy is subtler than Damien or Basil, but it remains based in the certainty that Lilian can be beguiled into betraying Serengeti secrets. Although Lilian’s loyalty is proven, given the right inducement, anyone can be corrupted. To date, the only vulnerability Lucius has found in Lilian is her loyalty to her family and those she counts friend. Horatio is on the wrong path to appeal to her vanity or her ambition. She need know none of his thoughts in this. “Well considered. It is my will you keep me informed of all your speculations in this matter.”
Taking a quick kiss, Lucius rises and returns to his chamber to ready for the day.
»◊«
“What think you, shall I earn scholar credentials?” Nickolas half jests, setting his slate on the small table in the corner of the Leonardo conference area.
Lilian searches for a response that will encourage, but not deceive. Nickolas is doing as well as Lilian hoped with complexity theory, even somewhat better. It may not be enough. “You do not require scholar credentials for success. The First and Second Warriors built the Six Systems without any of these tools. Scholarship is about theory and extremes. Our goal is to manage the most likely risks so that the SEV1 crew’s considerable skills and abilities are directed against that which cannot be predicted.”
Nickolas recognizes an equivocation when he hears one. With a defeated sigh, he accepts. “I have no hope of scholar credentials, do I? I am unfit for lieutenant.”
“Master Nickolas, if you are unable, there are none who are,” Lilian insists. In this she is certain. If Nickolas cannot manage, Serengeti is unlikely to find the skills outside of the governors’ fleets. Neither milord nor his partners will invite the civil authorities into a commerce venture. “Had you two full years to commit to the study of this area, you would acquire the credentials of others who have committed the same. That is not our purpose. We labor to distill my area of expertise into something useable for Bright Star. We are making good progress. It will be well.”
Adelaide’s Grace, let it be so. Lilian’s encouraging words are as much for herself as for Nickolas. She has had little success in simplifying the advanced theories and sophisticated constructs that come so easily to her. When the challenges come in the beaconless expanse, even a scholar will have difficulty performing the calculations in time to aid decisions.
“Mistress Lilian, Nickolas, what goes forward?” Fletcher drops into a vacant chair in the small area segmented by one of the water displays.
“Little enough,” Nickolas replies wryly. “My training in risk and complexity analysis moves at a glacial pace.”
“I regret I asked,” Fletcher dismisses the dry topic. “Speaking of training, Mistress Lilian, how is it you matched Sinead’s Master with nary a mark and were pummeled by the glorious Hannah?”
“Training, as you say, Master Fletcher.” Lilian cannot help returning the moon racer’s bright smile. “I have trained since childhood in the use of the thorn. For two years now, a Sinead’s Master has tried me with a short sword, while Seigneur Trevelyan has tried me in almost all other methods. There was naught in the discipline master’s approach that I have not experienced and countered.”
Both warriors make sounds of approval at Lilian’s explanation, encouraging her to continue. “Free boxing is new to me, and I rarely train without arms. The free boxing square is also much smaller than the warrior square. I was not always successful in adapting the forms to the more limited space. Now that I have met the challenge once, I will do better in the future.”
“Sinead’s Discipline Master may be correct.” Fletcher grins. “Should you try for mastery, you may not be the one providing the blood offering.”
Nickolas opens his mouth to ask another question and stops. Lilian is speaking softly to herself—the gray eyes almost water clear. It is eerily reminiscent of her state when reviewing the Bright Star shares.
“Training . . . practice, not anatomy, wields a blade . . . second nature . . .”
Fletcher gives Nickolas a sharp glance and starts to speak. At a warning gesture from Nickolas, he drops his voice to a whisper. “What does she?”
“Intense thought,” Nickolas whispers back. Her revelations about the Bright Star shares gave Blooded Dagger huge advantage. He will not interrupt her thoughts.
“. . . No time. Battle speed . . . Training bouts. Many, many . . .”
“You have seen this before?” Fletcher wonders.
“Once or twice.” Nickolas nods. “Give her a minute. It will not last long.”
“. . . All weapons and none.” Abruptly, Lilian stops speaking, her eyes bright gray and sparkling with excitement. “Master Nickolas, I believe there is a better method to train you in risk management and complexity analysis. With your permission, I would use the time we have scheduled for your studies to prepare an initial trial.” Referring to her slate, “I will have it ready by the third day on the return transport.”
Nickolas is more than willing to try any alternative that will give him mastery of the challenging subject.
»◊«
“Your media management associate has done well for this simple demonstration of the code’s potential,” Declan begins.
Lilian exchanges a quick glance with Nickolas. They will voice naught, knowing what is coming and wishing it to come from Leonardo or Matahorn.
Declan does not disappoint. “His skills will not serve for the full development. We should have a master scholar of linguistics.”
“I agree.” Mayling shoots an apologetic smile at Fletcher, making it clear that her interest in Fletcher will not sway her from her duty to Matahorn.
“We thought so as well.” Fletcher gives Mayling a reassuring smile. “But we wished Matahorn’s and Leonardo’s assessment.”
“Mastery in linguistics is not common in commerce,” Declan observes. “We may need to seek assistance at the universities.”
Although the Twelve Systems use a common language, remote areas develop local patois among the common orders. Nor has the common language remained unchanged over the centuries. The archaic version of the ancients’ requires special skills to unravel.
“Monsignor Horatio may not approve,” Mayling warns. “The code is sealed to Bright Star security-privilege.”
“It should be possible to find the skills within the Bright Star partners,” Lilian offers. “Linguists are often skilled Archivists.”
Lilian does not voice that at least one of Archive Master Liger’s assistants is a master scholar of linguistics. A woman of advancing years, she has spent a lifetime sifting through the records from Serengeti’s founding, searching for the secrets of lost technology, including the formula for Ancients’ metal. It is likely that Leonardo and Matahorn have similarly skilled retainers. Releasing one to Bright Star will be a matter of intense negotiation.
“We will include the requirement in our report to the governors,” Nickolas states. “It will be their decision how to acquire the skills.”
It nears sixth b
ell, and there is little more they can accomplish this day. As they prepare to return to the guest quarters, the conversation turns to Fletcher’s participation in the upcoming Moon Races. Matahorn also fields a finalist this year. A new rivalry is developing between the two cartels.
Neither Fletcher nor the Matahorn contender is expected to win the trial. There is heated debate and intense wagering on where the two moon racers will place in the field and relative to one another.
“Monsignor Horatio and Seigneur Fenrir have accepted Monsignor Lucius’ invitation.” Mayling smiles happily at Fletcher as she stows her slate. “Seigneur and I have passage on your transport.”
“That is excellent news for the code effort,” Nickolas teases. “We will have endless bells for commerce.”
“Do not listen to him.” Fletcher slings his slate satchel over his shoulder. “We had marvelous entertainment on the transit out, and it will be the same on the return.”
“I regret I cannot join you,” Declan adds. “I have always wished to attend the Moon Races.”
“Mayhap another year,” Fletcher replies as the small group makes its way through the conference area. “Bright Star permitting, I will race for another decade.”
“Is it true that Serengeti bribed the race officials to move the quarter trial?” Declan asks.
“Of course not,” Nickolas interjects. Bribery is commonplace in the Twelve Systems, but it is not legal. “The race officials bowed to public sentiment.”
“Serengeti’s support for my racing has been generous.” Fletcher quickly turns the sensitive topic. “The new flyer is state of the art.”
With that, all three men dive into a discussion of the merits of the new flyer.
“It seems so exciting in the visuals,” Mayling confides to Lilian as they follow the protégés through the building. “I cannot wait to see Fletcher race.”
Unsure of what to respond, Lilian makes a noncommittal noise that she hopes will discourage further confidences.
“I dare not speak it to any other.” Mayling blithely ignores Lilian’s reticence. “You know I must wager on Matahorn, but I secretly hope for Fletcher’s success. You must sit with me in the arena so that you may cheer for me when Fletcher does well. You can even place a wager for me on Fletcher.”
I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian strives for patience. The banking protégé is attempting to be gracious. That her remarks hold more than a hint of command is evidence that to Mayling, Lilian is naught but an apprentice. Certainly, Mayling does not recognize that Lilian’s two years with milord, much of that as conservator, has provided Lilian with responsibilities and experience well beyond Mayling’s.
I am the foundation of my family. Lilian knows that a year gone, she would have been thrilled at one of Mayling’s rank offering such limited courtesy instead of disdain and harshness. Now, it is an annoyance. Nor is it the protégé’s fault that Lilian finds Seigneur Fenrir disquieting and wishes to avoid the seigneur’s attention if at all possible.
Honor is my blade and shield. Schooling her voice to polite neutrality, Lilian rebuffs this latest overture. “Mistress Mayling, you would do well to look to Master Nickolas should you desire an agent in your wagering. Last year, he did quite well out of the Moon Races. Nor need you worry that Master Fletcher will lack for cheers. He is highly regarded on Metricelli Prime. There will be few who cheer for another.”
Unless milord sees some advantage in it, Lilian will not view the Moon Races in the Crevasse City arena. Not only does she wish to view it with her friends, but Lilian is far less likely to be subject to insult in the Associates’ Hall than she would be in an arena filled with the elite and second-level families. It takes all Lilian’s self-control to keep her pace sedate as she follows Nickolas and Fletcher into the waiting Serengeti transport.
»◊«
I am the sum of my ancestors. The late-after-midday sun is warm on Lilian’s balcony, the colors and mineral scent of the bay no longer jarring. She is able to sink easily into Adelaide’s Discipline using the Warriors’ Litany to empty her of distraction, anger, ambition, fear, frustration, and desperation. The thorn in her hand cuts the air, flashing in the fading sun. Two years gone, she marked her twenty-fourth birth festival by sealing her bond to Lucius Mercio. Now, on her twenty-sixth festival, Lilian is within two sevendays of completing the second year of her bond.
I am the foundation of my family. The day she sealed her bond, the odds managers were offering seventy to one against her surviving three years to prove her bond. A year gone—the day before milord forbade her to deal in odds management—the odds of her completing her bond had dropped to twenty to one.
Honor is my blade and shield. Lilian no longer follows the odds. She cannot help but take grim satisfaction in knowing that so many odds managers have taken a loss position.
Finishing her discipline practice, Lilian offers thanks to Adelaide for her continued existence. Sheathing her thorn, Lilian turns to enter the chamber, dark with shadows as the sun descends. In recognition of her mother’s instructions and recent aid, Lilian also sends thanks to both Socraide and Sinead. As is her custom, she adds a brief prayer to the Five Warriors for the well-being of Seigneur Trevelyan and his operatives before finishing with a prayer for milord.
As if conjured by her prayers, milord materializes before her. Adelaide’s Thorn! This is ill. Lilian’s belt holds her thorn. She dares not touch the thorn, and she cannot remove the gold warbelt.
“Peace, woman.” Milord steps close, deftly grasping the thorn and pulling it from her belt. “I startled you. You did not transgress.”
“My thanks, milord,” Lilian sighs. Her relief at milord’s tone and gesture turns to curiosity and then anticipation when she sees that milord is garbed in naught but his scarlet robe.
Milord’s lips soften, and milord’s thumb strokes her bottom lip. “You are lovely in your discipline. Disrobe.”
“Yes, milord.” Lilian eagerly releases the fasteners on her training tunic, draping it on the nearest surface. Milord skims his fingers across her torso, delicately tracing the edges of her areolas. At Lilian’s soft moan of pleasure, milord gently rolls the pebbling tips, tugging lightly. With a sigh of pleasure, Lilian arches into the contact, a pleasant heat pooling in her sex. With a final tug, milord releases her and steps back, arms folded, dark eyes hooded. “Continue.”
Her sex clenching at milord’s dark gaze and command, Lilian pivots to present her lithe silhouette as she bends at the waist to reach for her boots. Milord’s hiss of appreciation has her sex clenching once again, tautening her raised buttocks. Slowly, limbs warm and loose from her exercise, Lilian slides her boots free.
Rising, Lilian glances at milord, noting the increased heat in his gaze and the growing bulge at the front of his robe. Flicking the fasteners on her trousers, Lilian glides her palms along her waist, her passion rising as she imagines milord’s hands in place of hers. Deftly circumventing the warbelt, Lilian tugs the loosened trousers from her hips and lets them drop to the floor. Milord’s eyes roam possessively over her, as palpable as a caress, triggering a dull throb between her legs. Increasingly eager for milord’s touch, Lilian forces herself to maintain the languid tease milord enjoys.
Raising her arms and arching her breasts toward milord, Lilian pulls free the nape ties and tosses them on a chair. Dragging her fingers through her hair, Lilian frees and fluffs the heavy locks, moving sinuously from side to side to send the heavy tresses cascading across her back and over her shoulders.
Milord closes the distance. Weaving his fingers into her hair, he tips her head to his descending mouth. Milord’s lips are warm and firm against hers. His tongue teases against her lips before slipping between them to caress and command. The sensual contact has Lilian reaching her hands to milord’s shoulders as she presses close, the silk robe feathering against her breasts and torso and increasing her arousal.
Milord’s hands move lower, lifting her against the hard ridge of his sex, the promi
se of pleasure. Milord’s mouth moves from her lips to her throat, brushing hotly against her rapidly beating pulse. “So very wanton.” The words ripple along sensitive flesh, the dull throb of arousal becoming an insistent ache.
Milord’s hands corset Lilian’s waist, turning her in his arms. The hard planes of milord’s torso support her back as Lilian’s head lolls against his shoulders, her arms raised to his neck, her legs tangling with scarlet silk and the strong columns of milord’s legs.
Milord bites softly on an earlobe. “Open your eyes.”
The woman in the mirror is the picture of abandon. Her eyes heavy lidded, lips red and swollen, breasts taught and straining, the nipples hard peaks. The bright red curls of her sex glistens above milord’s silk-covered thigh. Behind her, milord is a magnificent figure, his eyes burning with passion, strength visible in the breadth of shoulder and in the large, powerful hands, dark against the creamy skin of her waist.
Milord’s forearm slides around her waist, pinning her close as his other hand disappears into his robe pocket. The dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror sparkle with mischief. What does he?
Milord’s hand appears in front of her, cradling a small gold pouch. In the mirror, the glint of mischief becomes a sparkle as a smile curves milord’s lips. “I have something for you.”
“My thanks, milord.” Lilian accepts the intriguing package, desire subdued by curiosity. Milord’s gifts are always exceptional. On her last birth festival, she gained the warbelt and the ruby representing Damien’s head. On this day, she can think of no special service or commerce success that milord could be rewarding. Pulling open the closure, Lilian finds a nest of gold and brilliants in shades of green. Awed, Lilian pulls forth the delicate length of chain. She is not mistaken, deep green Vistrite with its dark, nearly black center is scattered among Mercium brilliants of the same deep green going to gold in the center. By the time the chain is fully exposed, its length runs from her shoulder to the floor.