by E G Manetti
Serengeti is all but empty as Lilian hurries from the Dispensary to the Associates’ Hall. Milord is already within the Serengeti box on the observatory, along with Monsignors Elenora, Hercules, and Horatio; the most highly ranked warriors of the three cartouches; and the Matahorn visitors. Other than the apprentices and most junior associates, almost all others have taken liberty to enjoy the Moon Races in one of the many holographic centers that offer the race in three-dimensional projections.
To Lilian’s relief, milord found no advantage in her joining the Serengeti and Matahorn protégés in the Crevasse City Arena. Not only does Lilian wish to avoid Mayling’s persistent advances; even within the security of the Serengeti box, there is a risk of drawing unwanted attention in the boisterous crowd.
The Associate’s Hall is filling rapidly when Lilian arrives shortly before the first bell. Rebecca, Chrys, and Clarice are already in the back row, an empty seat directly between them intended for Lilian. Quickly climbing the stairs, Lilian takes her seat as Vicenza, seated next to Tabitha in the next row down, turns. Vicenza was the only member of the skill consortium unable to attend Lilian’s trial. After a commiserating comment on the swollen and bruising cheek, Vicenza asks for the details of the match. Before Lilian can respond, a cheer goes up. The race has started. For fifteen minutes, everyone is riveted while the contenders jockey for position.
Fletcher settles into the sixth position with the Matahorn contender in eighth as they enter a narrow segment of the course where positions will not shift for a quarter period. Lilian quickly recounts the highlight of her trial for Vicenza, completing as the racecourse opens up and contention for position escalates.
The Matahorn contender makes it into the seventh position. Fletcher’s attempt to pull into the fifth position is thwarted and costs him ground. The Matahorn contender takes advantage of the opportunity to edge past Fletcher and claim the sixth position. The course narrows once again with Fletcher in seventh to Matahorn’s sixth as the first half of the race finishes. Groans rumble across the Associates’ Hall at the setback.
Lilian is unconcerned. “Master Fletcher will work the next opening well. He will be in fifth when it closes in again.”
While they wait for the next field opening, Chrys takes the opportunity to reveal what went forward with the observers at Lilian’s trial. Focused on combat, she paid scant attention to the crowd beyond the warrior square. Most citizens of the Twelve Systems have an abiding interest in the martial arts. The two men who had been practicing in the warrior square were the first to follow Lilian’s party into the alcove. Others followed the first two, drawn by curiosity.
The intensity of the match along with the use of true blades indicated a trial, and it did not take long for the observers to recognize Lilian. Those unable to see around or over Lilian’s party climbed the stairs to the gallery to observe. By the time Lilian first scored the discipline master, there were fifteen or twenty additional observers. Unlike public bouts, shrine matches are a religious ritual. Wagering is sacrilege. As such, the crowd was mostly silent, with only the occasional murmur of Mercio’s doxy or Mercio’s Raven. When Lilian scored the discipline master, there were murmurs of approval from Lilian’s friends and some from the crowd. Approval to which others took exception.
Chrys became aware of the trouble when Trevelyan started to move through the crowd toward several observers on the gallery stairs. Their voices were rising and becoming ugly. Before Chrys could join the seigneur, two men were lying on the ground, and the woman with them frozen in place by the threat of Trevelyan. Within a few heartbeats, two alcove attendants arrived and dragged out the felled men. The woman followed, hastened by the gimlet stares of both Adelaide’s Prelate and Socraide’s Shrine Keeper.
“I eavesdropped,” Chrys admits without guilt. “I wandered as near as I could to the Lord Prelate and Keeper Virgil. Apparently, Keeper Virgil knows everybody who is anybody in Crevasse City or at least in the Garden Center District. He recognized the woman. Jonathan’s Prelate will be collecting a heavy shrine offering from those three devoted for their sacrilege.”
“Keeper Virgil defended Lilian?” Rebecca scoffs, as aware as Chrys that Virgil vilified Lilian until reined in by Monsignor Lucius.
“Keeper Virgil defended the sacredness of the ritual,” Lilian corrects. “I have no doubt he wished me knocked from the square.” Turning to Chrys, Lilian questions, “Doxy and Raven? Are you being kind?”
At Chrys’ confirmation of the terms, seconded by Clarice, Lilian gives a pleased nod. “A year gone, it would have been shadeless scum and worse.”
A cheer goes up in the Associates’ Hall.
Fletcher has moved into the sixth position, pushing the Matahorn contender back to seventh. They are in the final twenty minutes of the race. For Fletcher to finish fifth, he must move up in position against a strong and resistant field.
In the back of the field, a contender makes a wide outside sweep in an attempt to leapfrog forward two positions. Corrective and evasive action by the rest of the racers gives Fletcher his opening. He shoots through a gap, and the field closes in for the final five minutes, Fletcher in the fifth position, the Matahorn contender in seventh.
Sevenday 100, Day 3
Lucius thoroughly enjoyed the Moon Race. The Serengeti box overflowed with Serengeti warriors and their guests from Matahorn. The Matahorn box was equally flooded—its Third System warriors eager for the opportunity to mingle with Horatio and Fenrir. Movement between the two areas was as brisk as the wagering between the Cartels.
The Moon Race celebration in the Serengeti box commenced at third bell amidst wild cheering at both Fletcher’s success and the Serengeti victory over Matahorn. Wagers with the odds managers paid out well, but the victorious Serengeti took greater joy from wagers directly with the Matahorn supporters. As with the prior year, the celebration continued well through the night, although not with Lucius’ presence. Once again, he carried Estella home as soon as the celebration was well underway. Lucius has little expectation that any of his ranked elite who appear at the Cartel this day will be fit for their duties.
With Lilian’s aid, Lucius’ wagers paid well, although Tiger Sylvester proved canny enough to avoid a serious increase in his debt to Lucius. Horatio, on the other hand, has fallen neatly into the trap of betting on specific positions. Lucius is smugly delighted to have bested Horatio Margovian once again in even such a small matter. Knowing that Lilian’s race day was uneventful, Lucius contemplates a brief interlude on the scarlet couch in place of the eighth-bell status report.
At the sound of the chimes, Lucius turns to the scarlet door, eager to execute his plans for the morning. Instead of Lilian, Trevelyan strides through the door, features tight with anxiety. “Monsignor, know you Lilian’s location?”
Demon shit. Lucius’ blood runs cold at the implication of Trevelyan’s presence and words. “I expected her where you stand now.”
“According to Katleen, Lilian did not return home yesterday.” Trevelyan taps his slate.
“Why are we—no.” Lucius shakes his head. “Lilian is often late at the Cartel. Her sister might well not notice until the morning.”
“We will have the location of her slate and conservator’s seal in a few moments.” Trevelyan looks up from his slate.
The location of the items, but not necessarily Lilian. Whoever has taken her may well know they can be tracked. Turning to his techno array, Lucius quickly taps out a command, “These are her transport token and penthouse pass. She may have them on a chain around her neck.”
“I will be with Thorvald.” Trevelyan turns for the door without waiting for dismissal.
21. Stolen
Cartouche and Cartel slates and rank seals allow access to highly valuable and security-privileged information on all aspects of Serengeti commerce. Each device constantly emits a locating signal that is accessible by Serengeti Militia Central. In accordance with the Governing Protocols, Serengeti-issued fireburst weapons a
re also tracked. These devices, and the retainers who hold them, are of significant value to the Cartel and represent a serious risk to Serengeti if they are lost or stolen. ~ excerpt from Serengeti Protocols, Serengeti Archives.
Sevenday 100, Day 3—Continued
Lilian’s head thunders, her mouth is dry and foul tasting, and every muscle aches. Martin has been beating her again. No, not Martin. Milord banished him. Where? How? An attempt to open her eyes shoots fire into her pounding head. Breathing deeply, trying to clear her head, Lilian chokes on a sour, stale smell. Pushing past the pain, Lilian attempts to focus. The rushing in her ears solidifies into men’s voices.
“Pity to waste ’er. How’ll the seigneur know? We do it now, while she’s out, and she won’t knowit.” The high-pitched whine has a broken quality common in those who inhale the fumes of spent cutter canisters. A crevasse-wallower. “Ye can go first.”
Swallowing against revulsion, Lilian reaches for her thorn. Adelaide’s Anger! Her hands are bound. Her feet as well. She is lying on a hard lumpy surface. A bed? A cot. Clothes? Yes. No shoes. By Adelaide’s Grace, no gag. The sour smell is becoming overwhelming, nauseating. Parting her lips, Lilian attempts to breathe through her mouth without a sound. They must not know she is awake.
“I’m keeping my balls. The seigneur is a bad man to cross.” The second voice is low and guttural with a hint of a twang. Outer systems?
“It ain’t like she ain’t been well used,” the whining voice returns.
The pounding in her head makes it hard to concentrate. Trying not to alert the quarreling men, Lilian tests her bonds.
“She’s to be handed over as we took her, not a hair or garment out of place. Liked you his rage when she wouldna wake? Touch’er and I’ll kill you.” There is the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a man’s cry.
Lilian’s head swims. The voices fade. I am the sum of my ancestors. Fighting back the darkness, Lilian concentrates on her bonds.
“Ye need me, Jed. We haveta keep ’er till transport time,” the wheedling tone grates.
Bound in front, her arms are stiff, the left one and its fingers unresponsive. She has been lying on it for some time.
“I need to check the locks. She best be well when I get back.” The guttural man is leaving.
Lilian allows her eyes to flutter open. The dirty, scrawny specimen seated on a stool near her feet has the telltale patchy hair, bad skin, and worse teeth of a crevasse-wallower, the scavengers who live within the mines on anything they can find to steal. Their only goal is to forage discarded cutting-tool fuel canisters for the fumes to feed their addiction. His filthy rags, grimy skin, and putrid breath are the source of the foul reek. A large reddening mark on the left side of his face testifies to where Jed’s blow landed.
“Please, do not hurt me,” Lilian whimpers piteously. “Whatever you want, I will give it to you.” With desperate motions, Lilian writhes on the cot while pleading with her captor, “Please let me go.”
“Not lettin’ ye go. Been paid.” The unlovely man shifts from the stool to the foot of the cot. “Might not hurt you.” A clammy hand caresses her calf and knee while Lilian struggles helplessly. “If yer nice to me.”
With a darting glance at the door, he pulls a small blade and severs the bonds at her ankles. His hands move to widen her legs. A moment later, he is slumped across Lilian’s feet, with Adelaide’s Grace, dead from the broken bits of his nose driven into his brain. Diving on the man’s dropped blade, Lilian attempts to slice through her bonds with her one working hand. It is a meager blade, and she cuts herself as well as the ties.
The crevasse-wallower moans. Turning the knife, Lilian stabs him in the throat, slashing clumsily for the carotid artery. The blade, slick with blood, slips in her hands. She grabs frantically, her hand sliding into the gouged throat in pursuit of the blade. With a frantic tug, she pulls the blade free in a rush of blood as the man ceases to breathe.
Lilian’s blood-slicked hands cannot control the blade. Moaning in frustration, Lilian wipes the blade and her hands on the dead man’s clothes. Grasping the knife once again, she works the bonds. In the end, it requires her teeth as well as the blade to free her hands. Struggling from the cot, she prays the master medic will be able to cure whatever foulness she has contracted from the crevasse-wallower’s blood.
»◊«
A quarter bell drags by as Lucius paces his office. Was it Fenrir? Was there someone stalking Lilian as she feared before they left for Fortuna? Another enemy? According to Trevelyan, the Adelaide Discipline Master was humiliated and enraged.
A chime from his techno array has Lucius crossing the office in three strides. Trevelyan’s clipped tones offer no comfort. “Monsignor, we found her slate bag and conservator’s seal in an alley near the transport station. She left Serengeti at sixth bell and was most likely abducted on her way to the transport.”
It is as Lucius feared, Lilian has been missing for nearly fifteen bells and her abductor knew enough to abandon her slate and seal. “Was there aught else in the bag?”
“No, milord. When they took her, she was likely wearing the thorn as well as the Cartel transport token and penthouse key.” Left unspoken is that if they have stripped her, those are gone as well.
“Any witnesses? Anything at all?” Lucius knows as he asks it is pointless. If Trevelyan had a witness, he would have spoken.
“No, Monsignor.” Trevelyan’s voice is tight with frustration. “They chose the time well. The area was deserted due to the Moon Races.
Demon shit. He should have sent her to the arena with Nickolas. It matters not that she finds Mayling a trial and would not have enjoyed the race as she would with her friends. The protégé would have seen her safely home. She would not be lost.
“Is there aught else, Monsignor?” Trevelyan interrupts Lucius’ internal recriminations.
“No.” Lucius disconnects the link. He does not need to command Trevelyan to keep him informed, the spymaster knows his duty. Dropping into his chair, Lucius glares at his techno array. All that can be done is being done. Unlike the slate and seal, the penthouse and transport tokens only emit periodic locator signals to aid recovery if they are lost. Accessing the stored history requires time. Time Lilian may not have.
Fifty frustrating minutes later, Trevelyan’s voice emerges from the techno array, excitement mixed with anxiety. “We have the location of the penthouse key as of a half period gone. Lilian was in the Refinery District.”
“I will meet you in the militia transport bay,” Lucius barks. “Have Chin join us.”
There is no point in remaining within the Cartel. He will accomplish naught. He will join the search and deploy all the available militia from the Crevasse and refinery. He will find Lilian.
»◊«
Adelaide aid me. Lilian pushes to her feet, the dark, filthy little chamber spinning around her. Her stomach riots and the contents cascade onto the cot, splashing the dead man. Bracing one hand against a wall, Lilian waits until her heaving ceases. An acrid taste fills her mouth, but the room is steady. She must find her thorn. The pounding in her head blurs her vision as she searches for her blade. Naked toes stub painfully against her shoes, stiffened by the sheathed blade tucked into one.
Snatching the blade, Lilian attaches the sheath to her belt as she turns for the door. Thorn in hand, straining to see and hear in the dim corridor, Lilian steps out on silent feet, her shoes abandoned in favor of stealth. Which way? At a sound from the right, Lilian turns to the left. It is a waking nightmare. The savage pain in her head hinders her balance and clouds her vision. Her left arm is numb and unresponsive as she races through unknown halls, her bare feet stabbed by unknown objects. The corridor ends in a window so covered in grime that Lilian cannot see out to determine her location or how far above the street. It matters not. She lacks time to discover another exit.
The window will not open. She must break it. Five Warriors take it. She lacks her shoes. Her jacket. Securing the jacket over th
e glass, Lilian braces against the floor and drives her feet at the windows. It is not working. The off-balance blows fail to shatter the glass. Again and again, she hammers her feet against the windows. Rimon condemn it.
The glass refuses to shatter even as the ill-maintained window yields, working loose from the frame. Shades strengthen me. Sobbing in pain and frustration, Lilian slams her feet into the loosened section until it partly separates from the frame. Lilian forces a shoulder through the narrow opening. Adelaide is with her: it opens on a fire retreat.
With a sharp snap, the window breaks free. The sudden loss of resistance has Lilian grabbing for the frame as the window explodes on pavement five storeys below. Terrified that the sound will alert her captors, Lilian catapults through the opening and sets the fire retreat swaying with her impact. The dilapidated structure creaks and groans as she staggers down the stairs, threatening to collapse with every step. The final set of stairs is missing, leaving a six-foot drop to the glass-strewn pavement.
Wadding her jacket, Lilian drops it over the side, praying it will cover enough of the glass. It flutters, unfolds, and lands on the glass. Hanging by her hands, Lilian targets the jacket and drops the remaining distance. Pain sears her feet through the suit jacket and Lilian staggers, biting back a cry of pain. She barely keeps her footing, avoiding a sprawl into the shattered glass.
Picking her way free of the glass, Lilian looks for escape or aid. The decaying and shuttered buildings offer naught. She is in the worst section of the Refinery District. The maze of streets and alleys often double back or dead-end at the Great Crevasse. There are three possible routes—straight ahead, right, and far left.
Fly straight and fast.
With a prayer to Sinead that Maman’s instruction was a true seeing and not madness, Lilian races straight ahead. The Five Warriors are with her—within a half mile, she reaches Stellar Transitway. Turning right, she can see the edge of the Great Crevasse and the tower of milord’s penthouse.