by E G Manetti
Eyes closing with bliss at milord’s drugging kiss, Lilian abandons her pique at milord’s amusement, her concern for her errors. When milord kisses her, all the Twelve Systems ceases to exist. There is only milord and milord’s kiss.
Milord has not kissed her since that horrible morning two days gone. Lilian had begun to wonder if he would ever kiss her again. Now she floats in milord’s kiss, milord’s embrace, the reassurance that milord is pleased.
Milord breaks the kiss. Lilian opens her eyes to find milord’s smiling countenance very near. Her feet are nowhere near the floor. Smile turning to a grin, milord lowers her over the top sofa and lies her on her back. “Grasp the armrest.”
Reaching for the armrest, Lilian stretches across the length of the cushions, knowing from experience what milord wishes. Her eyes do not stray from milord as he tosses his tunic to the side, baring his well-muscled torso. Unconsciously, Lilian licks her lips, and her thighs open in invitation. This once, the lack of lingerie troubles her not at all.
Milord’s grin fades as his eyes grow heavy, desire replacing mirth. By the time milord has rounded the sofa, his belt has followed his tunic. Lowering himself over Lilian, milord once again takes her in a kiss as he loosens his trouser fastenings. Senses swimming, Lilian arches into the welcome heat and weight.
Milord’s hands slowly glide along her torso. His tongue languidly probes her mouth. Milord’s trousers lightly scrape Lilian’s inner thighs as milord shifts, moving them both to the position he requires. The velvet tip of his sex pushes gently at her jewel, setting the delicate nub alight. Milord releases her lips. Lilian’s eyes open to find milord’s intent gaze, the small smile lingering. Slowly, deliberately, milord pulses the tip of his sex against her jewel. Heat rises even as languor steals strength from Lilian’s limbs. She is drowning in the dark pools of milord’s eyes, the drugging sensation of his sex sliding over her most sensitive tissues.
Milord drags his sex slowly down between her legs and presses forward. The long, hard, silky length slides in easily, sweetly. At the exquisite penetration, Lilian sighs. Her torso arches to rub against milord’s chest as her legs wrap around his waist. Her hands convulse on the armrest to control the urge to reach for milord’s back.
Milord pulls back slowly and then glides forward. Again. And then again. The slow, sensuous rhythm soon has Lilian arching and retreating in counterpoint. The deliberate, erotic tango goes on and on, each slide of milord’s sex moving Lilian inexorably toward the peak until, suddenly, she is over it and sliding down the other side. Distantly, she is aware of milord tensing and then pressing deep. The rapid pulse of his shaft signals milord has found his pleasure.
Lilian is sprawled on top of milord, her arms loosely draped around his neck, her legs splayed on either side of one muscular thigh. Milord lightly strokes her ass as he comments, “Lilian, in commerce, anything greater than ninety percent is sufficient certainty for action. Often, we will act on a great deal less.”
“Milord?” Lilian lifts her head. “I thought with the Governing Council, Mercium… it is all more than routine commerce.”
Milord’s lips lift as his hands lightly squeeze her ass. “The stakes are greater, but the same rules apply.”
Oh. Lilian has taken unimaginable risks to survive to this point. A year gone, the Odds Managers offered seventy-to-one against Lilian surviving her trial. Lilian thought them optimistic. It changed naught. A fool’s chance was better than none at all. Milord and Aristides have managed to create odds so favorable, anyone would take that wager. “Yes, milord, I thought only of what could be lost, not what could be gained. Seigneur Aristides has done well. It will be as milord wills.”
“As much as I regret it, my will is that we return to commerce.” Milord pushes Lilian upright as he swings his legs to the floor. “Find the freshening closet, and do not tarry. I also require it.”
“Yes, milord.” Lilian springs from the couch, collecting her abandoned garb on the way to the closet. Inside, she sets her suit and blouse to steam as she makes quick use of one of milord’s freshening packets. The little puffs are not as good as a shower, though they are remarkably effective at removing the evidence of a midday encounter. Tossing the used packet into the recycler, Lilian finds a small launder’s packet with her name. Inside is her lingerie.
4. Moon Race
The Third System’s popular Moon Trials, developed from Jonathan Metricelli’s fighter training, use a serpentine course designed to test the reflexes, strategic analysis, and raw courage of the eighteen contenders. The only distinction between the current sport and the ancient training games is that the race flyers are not equipped with fireburst cannons.
The ever-present threat of accidents and death draws huge crowds, making the event exceptionally profitable for the sponsors. The magnificent victor’s purse draws contenders from throughout the Twelve Systems. Massive sums are wagered on the Moon Races. Many of the most lucrative wager pools are dedicated not to the winner, but to the placement of all the contenders within six sets of three, ranked from the first position to the eighteenth. ~excerpt from Moon Race Wagers, an Odds Management primer.
Sevenday 50, Day 3
“Well met, Lilian.” With a broad smile, Rebecca bounces into the riser carriage at the thirty-third level, her eighth-bell attendance with Seigneur Trevelyan completed.
“Well met, indeed.” Lilian glances at the blonde quizzically. She is all but grinning. Something of note has occurred.
Swallowing her smile, Rebecca gives a small shake of her head. Whatever it is, it will not be discussed in the risers. It is a continuing annoyance to milord, and all of Blooded Dagger, that Seigneur Damocles of Grey Spear exploits his position as Serengeti Security-Privilege Seigneur to illicitly monitor the Blooded Dagger risers. Although Trevelyan and his operatives do what they can to thwart the Grey Spear spy, none of Blooded Dagger can ever be certain that what is spoken in the risers will not find its way to Monsignor Sebastian.
As soon as the riser opens at the twenty-seventh level, Rebecca rushes out, followed by Lilian. Certain that Rebecca is bursting to share whatever has her so pleased, Lilian hastens along beside her. As they pass the Grim Twins, neither looks up or acknowledges the two apprentices.
“It’s done, Lilian. Tabitha!” Rebecca whispers as they reach the back wall.
“Seigneur Trevelyan will have her?” Lilian whispers back. Lilian was certain that Tabitha had passed the tests set by the spymaster to determine if she was worthy of a place among his operatives.
“Yes.” Rebecca nods vigorously.
“First Day will prove interesting,” Lilian responds dryly. Sebastian Mehta will not be pleased when Tabitha’s bond proves and she shifts her service from Grey Spear to Blooded Dagger.
“I wish we dared be present,” Rebecca agrees, referring to the bond-proof ceremony that will occur on the coming First Day, the first day of the new year.
A cough from the male Grim Twin warns that they have been chatting too long. With a nod and a shrug, Lilian settles into her worksite. Much as she would enjoy viewing Monsignor Sebastian’s reaction to losing control of the woman he has tortured for two years, Lilian knows as well as Rebecca they dare not be present. Appalled by Sebastian’s cruelty and impressed by Tabitha’s courage, Lilian, Rebecca, Chrys, and Clarice have actively aided Tabitha in breaking free of Grey Spear. They dare not risk discovery. For an apprentice to be on the wrong side of any warrior’s will is dangerous, to be on the wrong side of a Governing Monsignor even more so. To be on the wrong side of a Governor with Sebastian Mehta’s volatile and violent temper would be a calamity.
That Rebecca would even hint at their intrigue in front of the Grim Twins further confirms Lilian’s conclusion that her watchdogs are Trevelyan’s operatives.
»◊«
“I do not know, Lilian.” Chrys eyes the crowded Archives. “We may do better in the Mercium lab.”
Normally crowded, the Archives are even more packed than usual with as
sociates scrambling to finish assignments so they can take the next day at liberty to enjoy the Moon Race.
“You may be right, Chrys,” Lilian concedes. “Let us take circuit and see. It will shorten our task considerably if we can use the greater capabilities of the Archives.”
Nodding assent, Chrys leads the way. Only a few of his tasks are outside the tight security-privilege that surrounds the fabrication of Mercium. Escape from the lab, even for a period, is not easily abandoned.
“Lilian,” Douglas calls from the long queue of associates waiting for archivist support.
“Well met, Douglas.” Lilian greets the other apprentice, Chrys halting beside her.
“Well met, indeed, I hope.” Douglas smiles. “Have you a few moments? Seigneur Aristides has tasked us with some complex searches on Vistrite demand, and the wait for an archivist is long.”
“Let me see what the seigneur requires,” Lilian agrees. “The inventory of Vistrite search protocols is extensive.”
“And as conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery, I wager you have them memorized,” Chrys teases.
“Not memorized, but organized for ease of use,” Lilian replies seriously to be greeted by chuckles from Douglas and Chrys.
“Of course you have.” Douglas cannot resist joining Chrys in teasing the somber young woman. Turning to the man standing next to him, Douglas adds, “Gil, if you would, send Lilian the requirement.”
The Blooded Dagger Media Management apprentice briefly hesitates before igniting his slate.
“It should arrive any second, Mistress Lilian,” Gil says stiffly, his open discomfort at Lilian’s proximity earning him a sharp glance from Douglas.
“Thank you, Master Gil.” Lilian recognizes the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man, although this is the first time they have spoken. Gil, as with most associates, shuns her.
“Lilian, I’ll search for a spot while you help Douglas and Gil,” Chrys announces. “All we really need is one empty place.”
“One, Lilian?” Douglas asks as Chrys moves off.
“Yes.” Lilian focuses on her slate. “All we need is one.”
Oblivious to Douglas’ confusion, Lilian adds, “Ah, there it is, I thought so. Oh, no, it is not enough... it is only half of what Seigneur Aristides asks.”
“Half is something.” Douglas is disappointed but resigned. “We can get started while we wait for an Archivist.”
Raising her eyes from her slate, Lilian smiles slightly. “You do me an injustice, Douglas. There are other searches that will find the rest.”
At a ping from her slate, Lilian adds, “Chrys has found a spot. You may as well join us. You will not find a place otherwise.”
“We will lose our place in the queue,” Gil protests as Douglas starts to follow Lilian.
Surprised at Gil’s reluctance, Douglas states, “If Lilian says she can aid us, she can.”
Without waiting for the other man, Douglas sets out after Lilian, who is disappearing into a side chamber. Rounding the corner, Douglas sees Lilian take the seat Chrys holds out for her. Almost simultaneously, the two spots to her right and one to her left are vacated by sneering associates. As Chrys settles to Lilian’s left, Douglas quickly captures the second seat to her right, correctly concluding that no one will take the seat next to Lilian until Gil arrives.
“Shift over, Douglas,” Gil says softly as he reaches the trio, a motion of his head indicating the empty seat next to Lilian.
“Mistress Lilian’s help will allow us to complete our task before tomorrow’s Moon Race,” Douglas snaps at Gil, annoyed at the other man’s lack of gratitude and disdain for Lilian.
“And Seigneur Nemilis does not offer the shadow of Seigneur Aristides,” Gil snaps back. “I will not have my seigneur bedeviled by the need to protect me from Martin’s reprisals. I would rather miss the race.”
“Peace, Douglas,” Lilian speaks softly across the empty place. With so many actively hostile, it is a relief to learn that Gil’s distance is pragmatic, not personal. “Master Gil is but three commerce days from proving his bond. He does well to be cautious.”
“As you voice,” Douglas acknowledges and slides over to give Gil his seat.
»◊«
“This new alloy of Monsignor Angus’ requires us to rework the costs for the SEV construction.” Nickolas waves at his reviewer.
Seated across Nickolas’ desk, Lilian nods her understanding as she makes rapid notes on her slate. Monsignor Angus Blackthorn’s Leonardo Society leads the construction of the Bright Star Space Exploration Vehicle commonly known as the SEV. Thoughtfully frowning at her slate, Lilian says, “The new alloy will enable a larger vessel. It will have greater capacity for supplies, armament, and crew.”
“And increased cargo on the return from the Thirteenth System.” Nickolas grins. A tall man with a strong build, Nickolas Cyncad has burnished copper locks held in a queue, green eyes, and a face so handsome it is almost pretty. Why the conservative young warrior released his initial disdain for her is a mystery Lilian may never solve. It is enough that a year gone he would never have permitted her a seat or offered that grin and now he does.
“As you voice, Master Nickolas,” Lilian nods politely in response to Nickolas’ observation. “With the larger hull, it will not require many voyages for the SEV to return the price of the increased investment.”
A light rap on the window that opens into the corridor reveals the grinning face of Fletcher Detrenti, protégé to Iron Hammer’s Seigneur Herman and another member of Bright Star.
At Nickolas’ wave, Fletcher comes bounding into the office. “I beg pardon, can we begin early? I am to depart for the Southern Continent in three bells.”
“Mistress Lilian?” Nickolas turns to her. “Have you what you need?”
“Yes, Master Nickolas.” Lilian rises.
“Will you view the race, Mistress Lilian?” Fletcher drops into her abandoned chair, clearly excited by his first entrance into the popular Moon Races.
“Yes, Master Fletcher.” Lilian nods. “Monsignor has given me liberty to join the others in the Associates’ Hall.”
“You had better place well tomorrow, Fletcher.” Nickolas teases his friend. “Every seigneur in the Cartel has wagered on your success.”
“What think you, Mistress Lilian?” Fletcher flashes a grin, his charismatic smile turning his pleasing features compelling. Dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and dark-haired, the young man is well regarded within the Cartel. “You thought well of my chances in the semi-finals. Will I succeed in placing between the tenth and twelfth positions tomorrow?”
“I hope for your success and know you will fly well,” Lilian responds, attempting to end the conversation. For Fletcher to finish the race in twelfth position or higher will be a great triumph for his first time in the final trial. She dare not say more and risk defying milord by engaging in any conversation that could be construed as Odds Management.
“That is a careful reply.” Nickolas scrutinizes Lilian intently. “You were not so careful when you aided me in relieving Martin of a thousand on the semi-final race.”
Five Warriors take it. Why will he not leave it alone? Apprentices are forbidden to wager; establishing Odds Management is an even greater transgression. “Truly, Master Nickolas, I have naught else to offer.”
“Mistress Lilian, have I offended you?” Fletcher asks, clearly wounded by Lilian’s seeming indifference.
Reluctant to wound the gallant young warrior, Lilian admits, “Monsignor Lucius’ will.”
“What?” Nickolas challenges. “That is ridiculous. Monsignor is as eager for Fletcher’s success as any in the Cartel.”
“It is naught of Fletcher,” Lilian says, attempting to reassure the protégés.
“Martin,” Fletcher spits.
“Martin?” Nickolas repeats, briefly bewildered, and then his face hardens. “It was that thousand. What did that crevasse-crawler do to you, Mistress Lilian?”
Had me reprimanded by milord
and denied my respite allotment for three days. Do not. “Naught of import, but the monsignor prefers I avoid all discussion of wagering.”
“I am sorry, Mistress Lilian,” Fletcher says, dismayed his success caused her grief.
“I do not regret it, Master Nickolas,” Lilian says firmly. “I was pleased by your success and Master Nickolas’ winnings.”
“Someday, I will discover a means to make that crevasse-crawler pay for his viciousness,” Nickolas vows.
“I will be happy to aid you,” Fletcher affirms grimly.
As much as she would like to applaud Nickolas and Fletcher, supporting their destructive plans for Martin is too close to insulting a warrior for Lilian to risk it. Instead, she politely takes her leave. “If you have naught else, Master Nickolas, I will get started on the new cost projections.”
Well aware that Lilian cannot openly disparage Martin, Nickolas nods his dismissal.
Sevenday 50, Day 4
The Cartel hums with anticipation as tangible as lightning riding a dry-season storm. The frisson of energy pricks Lilian’s skin as she makes her way through the Cartel to milord’s suite. The prior year, shattered by her family’s ruin, Lilian barely noted the popular event. This year, she shares the excitement, eager to view Fletcher contend in the race.
It is also the first time in nearly a decade that Serengeti has an entrant in the race scheduled to launch at first bell past midday. Almost all of the sixty-five headquarters’ seigneurs will crowd into the Serengeti box in the orbiting observatory. Milord’s prescience is endless, Lilian thinks, recalling milord’s rainy-season decision to expand the Serengeti box in anticipation of Fletcher’s success.
Entering milord’s office as eighth bell chimes, Lilian is greeted by a smile and the wicked gleam of milord’s humor. Adelaide preserve me. What now? Lilian resists the urge to finger the clasp lock on her belt. It has been two sevendays since milord locked her into it, and she has only recently been able to slumber undisturbed.