by E G Manetti
»◊«
The concierge barely recognizes the filthy, disheveled, barefoot woman as Monsignor Lucius’ apprentice. In her current state, she is far from the caliber of guest welcomed in the exclusive premises. If it were not for the gold entry token hanging from a steel chain around her neck, he would turn her away. As it is, he waits until he receives instruction from Serengeti before he allows her into the riser. Sniffing in disgust, he calls maintenance to remove the muddy, bloody footprints she leaves in her wake.
With a distant sense of horror, Lilian examines the blood- and grime-covered image reflected in the riser carriage mirror. Ripped and stained, her skirt and blouse are ruined. Her once disciplined warrior’s queue is a matted wreck, her features obscured by dirt, blood, and tears. Even the warbelt is filthy, mud and blood dulling its surface. Only her thorn gleams cleanly. It is a miracle that she made it from the Refinery District to the penthouse without attracting the militia.
Staggering across the tile of the penthouse entry, Lilian leaves wet brown footprints in her wake. Unable to move another step, and unwilling to further soil milord’s penthouse, Lilian slides to the floor. Resting her back against the wall, she faces the riser. Milord will be here soon. Drawing her knees to her chest, Lilian lowers her head and closes her eyes, her thorn locked in one hand. The vicious pounding in her head has not subsided. She wishes for naught but sleep.
»◊«
“We have found her, Monsignor,” Trevelyan announces as Lucius strides into the transport bay, Chin hard on his heels. “Or rather, Lilian has found us. She is at your penthouse. The concierge sent an alert.”
“The penthouse?” Lucius echoes, rocked on his heels. “How came this?” Before Trevelyan can reply, Lucius throws off his shock. “It matters not. Let us go.”
George is in the driver’s compartment of the first of three militia vehicles. Lucius surges forward, “Chin, Trevelyan, with me. Thorvald, bring the others, but only you are to enter the penthouse.”
Moments later, a small cavalcade of Serengeti Militia speeds out of the transport bay.
»◊«
“Lilian!” Milord’s sharp cry drags her from the haze of pain.
Milord is here. It will be well. Lilian tries to speak and fails. She tries again, a weak rasp emerges. “Milord, I left a dead man in the Refinery District. West of the boulevard, north of the refinery.”
The effort of speaking has been too much. Lilian lowers her head again, attempting to hide from the pain in the darkness behind her closed eyelids.
“No, Lucius, do not touch her, she is covered in blood.” The master medic’s voice comes from her right.
Turning her head, Lilian forces her eyes open. Master Chin is kneeling on the floor next to her, opening his aid bag. Gathering her waning strength, Lilian croaks, “Not mine. Dead man’s.”
“Lilian, how will we recognize the building?” The urgency in Trevelyan’s voice reaches Lilian as if from a long distance. “We have a location, but it is from over a bell gone. It may not be where you were held.”
Lilian turns her head toward the voice. Trevelyan is squatting in front of her. She cannot quite recall his question.
Trevelyan’s voice is gentle as he prods, “Lilian, how will we know the building?”
Dirty. Dark. Not enough. Window. Forcing the thoughts to sound, Lilian whispers, “Fire retreat. Missing window. Glass. My jacket.”
The pain in her head becomes a blinding, engulfing wave. A cool sensation flows up her arm and the wave of pain retreats. It continues to swirl around her, but she no longer drowns. With the retreat of pain, a thought surfaces. Milord?
Opening her eyes, Lilian discovers milord sitting on the floor next to her. Her thorn is in his hand, his gaze directed toward the risers. “. . . find it?”
Lilian closes her eyes and drops through the swirling pain into welcoming, senseless darkness.
»◊«
Cool, sweet, refreshing fluid is flowing into her mouth, easing sore tissue, pushing back the throbbing pain that has seized Lilian’s head. The liquid ceases and Lilian offers a small sound of protest.
“Peace.” Master Chin’s voice is gentle. “You require no more. It will be better soon.”
Lilian does not wish to open her eyes. She is warm, and the dark is peaceful. Milord’s embrace is comforting. Lilian yields to it with a sigh.
“Remain if you wish, Chin.” Milord’s voice is dismissive.
Lilian is floating. The smell of the sea comforts her as the warm water sluices away the ache of sore muscles. The water massages her scalp and neck. It is wondrous. Murmuring her pleasure, Lilian shifts under the caressing sea.
The sea takes form as the pain retreats. Milord’s thighs surround her. Milord’s torso supports her back. The massaging sea is milord’s hands working her hair and scalp. She is in the shower, seated on the bench between milord’s legs as milord cleanses her hair. There is naught of passion in this touch. Something is wrong, but Lilian cannot quite grasp it.
The towel is lovely. It strokes her skin and pushes the pain further from her. It is working her shoulders and knees simultaneously. Intrigued, Lilian opens her eyes.
Master Chin is rubbing a towel over her legs. Milord’s familiar hands are using another on her torso. She is in the shower, surrounded by milord.
“Milord?” Lilian croaks.
“It is well, Lilian. You are safe,” milord murmurs against her ear.
Safe. And the brutal headache reduced to naught but persistent soreness. The relief is almost dizzying. She wishes to sleep. There is much milord should know. “Milord?”
“Not now, Lilian.” Milord lifts her into his arms. “There will be time, later.”
A small voice in Lilian’s head whispers that it is Lilian’s duty to tend milord, not the other way around. She pays it little heed; it is immensely comforting to be seated on the great bed while milord wraps her in a sarong and knots it over her breasts. Truly, Lilian is not certain she could raise her arms to execute the task. Cupping her face, milord feathers a kiss across her lips with the instruction, “Obey Chin. I will return as soon as I may.”
»◊«
Chin glances up at Lilian, searching for signs of discomfort as he strokes the ointment applicator along the raw flesh of Lilian’s foot. She does not flinch. The numbing spray has done its job, dulling nerves and halting the seeping blood. Chin increases the flow, needing a dense layer before he covers the wounded area. Lilian jerks and makes a sound of protest.
Her eyes are heavy but she is alert. Continuing his labor, Chin explains, “They rendered you senseless with a strong sedative and attempted to rouse you with an equally strong stimulant.” Chin finishes applying ointment. “The combination is the source of your headache.”
He does not say that it is the Luck of the First she woke at all. The fools nearly killed her. The dullness in her eyes indicates that the pain has not fully subsided, but he dares not give her more of his potions just yet. Her torn feet are the last of it, and the worst of her physical wounds. He has already tended to the shallow cuts on her wrists and hands from the crevasse-crawler’s knife and the abrasions on her knees and forearms that testify to several falls on her journey to the penthouse.
“Your feet were torn badly,” Chin continues as he applies healing ointment to the other foot. “The flesh is too ragged for the sealant. Until then, they will need to be carefully bound with healing agents.”
“Milord?” Lilian’s soft voice interrupts Chin’s discourse.
“Not far, he will return soon.” The last thing Chin needs is Lucius hovering about and getting in the way. It took the full authority of Chin’s master medic status to keep Lucius contained while Chin examined Lilian in the entry hall. As soon as Chin determined there was no serious physical damage, Lucius swept Lilian up and carried her to the freshening closet, declaring, “Lilian will wish to be clean. She will not be comfortable with tangled hair and filthy skin.”
Rather than argue, Chin followed Lucius, cleanin
g the lacerated wrists and feet and examining every inch of skin for hidden wounds. Wrapping Lilian’s feet in protective bindings, Chin continues, “You will need to keep your feet elevated for several days, or the deeper wounds will reopen.”
“Is she well enough to speak?” Lucius demands, entering with a tray.
“Well enough.” Chin rises. “Food? Good. She needs an injection, but she requires food first.”
Retreating to the reading chair to monitor his patient, Chin adds, “Allow her to eat something before you begin the interrogation.”
Slashing Chin with a glance, Lucius sets the tray over Lilian’s lap. For all his annoyance, Lucius remains silent, settling on the bed next to Lilian and waiting while she picks at the bland fare.
After several bites, Lilian raises her eyes to Lucius. “Milord, if I may?”
“I am listening.” Eager as he is to find his own answers, Lucius responds to the concern in Lilian’s voice.
“My slate, the recording device, does milord have them?” Lilian raises eyes dark with worry.
“We have the slate, but the recording device is gone,” Lucius replies. Unlike the slate, the recording device does not contain a tracker—an oversight that Trevelyan and Thorvald intend to correct. The device holds up to three calendar days of data before it self-erases. Given time, a well-equipped breacher will succeed in accessing it. “Are you able to recall what the recording device contained?”
Pushing cooked grains around with her fork, Lilian slowly calls up memory. “Nothing from First Day, I cleared it that eve. Nothing from yesterday; before the race I attended only milord.”
Lilian never uses the device when in Lucius’ presence. Abandoning her fork, she admits, “I cannot recall Second Day clearly. Had I my slate, I could answer, milord. My recall is scattered.”
“Eat some more of your meal. It will be well.” Lucius reaches for his slate. Whatever they discover, Lilian must eat. As Lilian dutifully swallows the grain, Lucius accesses her Second Day records. “What do you need to know about Second Day?”
“Assignments,” Lilian replies slowly. “Attendance requirements.”
With a quick tap, Lucius turns the slate for Lilian’s review. Peering at the slate, Lilian shakes her head and rubs her eyes. Recognizing she is having difficulty, Lucius reads the list aloud. The results are a relief. The only recordings are of a routine Vistrite operations meeting and Nickolas’ SEV1 decision trials. Although privileged, a single meeting in either endeavor can do little harm. Relieved, Lucius puts aside his slate and drapes one arm around Lilian. “Tell me what you recall since yesterday.”
As Lucius suspected, after the Moon Race, the Commerce District was nearly deserted. Her attention drawn by odd sounds coming from the alley behind the transport stop, Lilian discovered a woman and two men celebrating the Moon Race with carnal activity. Fascinated by their gymnastics, Lilian failed to note aught of her abductors. She remembers naught else until she woke in the dark, dirty room. Lilian can recall little of her journey from the Refinery District to the penthouse. The violent headache obscured her other senses.
Lilian has ceased eating. At Lucius’ gesture, Chin removes the tray, leaving the water container and glass. Pulling Lilian into a closer embrace, Lucius probes her recall. “You are certain the seigneur’s name was not mentioned?”
“Milord, if it was mentioned, I did not note it,” Lilian replies morosely. “I was confused and focused on escape. I may have missed much.”
The hint of tears in Lilian’s voice is alarming. Lilian’s ordeal has left her weak and traumatized. Lucius will gain naught more from interrogation. At Lucius’ nod, Chin readies his injection kit.
“It will make me silly,” Lilian sighs.
“It will make you sleep,” Chin corrects gently. “When you wake, the headache should be absent. I will check on you then.”
Turning to Lucius, Chin adds, “She will sleep at least six bells, mayhap eight. I should see her when she wakes. Someone should stay with her.”
Lucius nods, well aware of the danger presented by the drugs inflicted on Lilian. The woman resting in the circle of his arm looks frail. There are heavy shadows under eyes dark with distress. Her skin is pale except where it is purpled from the discipline master’s blow. The trial is but a day gone yet it seems as eons. If it is so for Lucius, how must it be for Lilian?
“Milord, Seigneur Trevelyan . . . ?” Lilian trails off weakly.
Gently stroking her uninjured cheek, Lucius replies to the half-formed query, “Seigneur Trevelyan found the building but no dead man.”
At Lilian’s start, Lucius wraps his arm a little tighter. “Peace. It was as you described it—including a great deal of blood. We have your shoes and the jacket. The crevasse-wallower’s blade was within the pocket. It is likely that his missing confederate removed the evidence.”
“Jed,” Lilian announces in a pleased tone, turning her face into his hand and nestling into his embrace.
“Jed?” Lucius represses a smile at her delighted air. Chin’s potion is working quickly.
“The confederate’s name, it is Jed.” Lilian’s head wobbles in a determined attempt at a nod. “I am certain.”
“Very good, Lilian.” Now that he has her safe, Lucius is starting to wonder at the escape. “How knew you the crevasse-wallower could be lured?”
“No self-mastery. It is how they get started and why they cannot cease.” Lilian blinks owlishly. “He was dead before I killed him.”
“How so?” Lilian’s mind is definitely starting to wander.
“He was a weak tool,” Lilian explains. “No reason for a weak tool except that it is disposable.”
Lilian yet retains her wits. Lucius would know. “How knew you to take the straight road?”
According to Trevelyan, the other choices would have taken her to the edge of the Great Crevasse or deeper into the Refinery District.
“This once I heeded Maman. Fly straight and fast.” Lilian smiles up at him. “At the time, I thought it silly instruction for one who lacked wings.”
The seer? Lucius throws off a shiver that such a random utterance saved Lilian.
“I owe Sinead another offering,” Lilian says dazedly.
Random chance or divine intervention, it matters not, Lucius will take no chances. “I will make it.”
“Make what, milord?” Lilian asks dazedly.
“Sinead’s Shrine Offering for your mother’s prophecy,” Lucius patiently explains. Chin’s concoction will have her asleep soon.
“My thanks, milord, I owe one. Did I voice that earlier?” Lilian’s mind is working at odd angles. Lucius might get one more question answered before she is completely lost.
“Why did you not take your shoes?” He understands why stealth demanded she not wear them while escaping from the building. Why not carry them?
“It was the thorn or my shoes. My left arm did not wake when I did.” With a soft sigh, Lilian’s eyes droop, then close.
»◊«
The lights in the Crevasse City nightscape glow against the deepening midnight. Twin moons rise over the Great Crevasse as Lucius works his slate, oblivious to the beauty of the descending night. Lucius spent his day between his penthouse office and his bedchamber, his time divided between controlling his Cartel and overseeing the investigation into Lilian’s abduction and the arrangements for her safety.
The recording device cannot be located. Either the confederate, Jed, has it, or they gave it to the seigneur that Lucius is convinced is Fenrir. Fenrir exited planet shortly after midday on a stellar transport different from the rest of the Matahorn contingent. In a separate transport, it would have been easier to hide Lilian. Mayling’s continued attempts at friendship with Lilian may have served a more sinister purpose than they suspected.
Thorvald spent the day securing Katleen’s house. Whatever the purpose, someone abducted Lucius’ conservator. It is all the justification Lucius needs to set guards on Katleen’s house, and Lilian will no longe
r use the public transport. Katleen was emphatic that should Lilian require it, the household can support the residence of Rebecca. Lucius doubts the household’s slender finances can stretch to a fourth, but there are means to overcome that difficulty. Having the apprentice spy in residence would be useful.
Lilian remains pale and so motionless that Lucius once again leans close to ensure she breathes. After eight bells, Lilian shows no sign of rousing. Returning to his office, Lucius sends for Chin. In the reception salon, Lilian’s phantom servitors have been hard at work. Smiling at Lilian’s fanciful notion, Lucius fills a plate and a mug of tea before returning to his bedchamber. His attention divided between food and slate, the odds sounds take a moment to register. Lilian is dreaming. She is dreaming as she dreamt on Fortuna.
Five Warriors take it.
They had forgotten her thorn. It is on the console table. Abandoning slate and meal, Lucius rushes for the thrashing woman. As he did on Fortuna, Lucius clasps Lilian tightly to him, attempting to calm her wild movement. Chin be damned, she must wake. Urgently, Lucius calls, “Lilian, rouse. You must wake. It is only an evil dream. Lilian, wake.”
Before he can do more, Lilian spasms in his arms, her eyes wide and terrified. “He is dead. They killed him. He moaned, and he is dead.”
Lilian is racing. Her feet are torn and bleeding. Buildings crowd in on her, blocking escape. A door, she rushes through it.
She is in a house, in a room. Her feet are in silver party slippers with pink ribbons at the ankles. The room is small and shadowed, lit by moonlight spilling through the single window.
There is a strong smell of metal, filth, and something sour. There is a man is seated in a chair. He is naked, head lolled back. His face, body, and limbs are bloody and torn.
Dead. Militia Captain Reynald is dead. The dead man’s remaining eye opens. He sees Lilian. He moans. Throat closing in terror, Lilian flees through endless corridors, the moaning dead man behind her. Calling her name . . . Lilian . . .
“Lilian, rouse. You must wake. It is only an evil dream. Lilian, wake.” Milord’s voice slices through the dream, dragging her free of the endless corridors, the horrifying vision.