by E G Manetti
Moving to the next exhibit, Katleen continues, “These are among the very few original Vistrite fireburst rifles still in existence.”
“They are almost twice the size of the modern fire-rifle,” Rebecca marvels.
“And look at the size of the fireburst packs,” Chrys adds. “They are twice the size of a modern pack.”
“They only held ten charges,” Katleen jumps in. “Not even close to the one hundred of a modern fire-rifle.”
“It is amazing that something so clumsy turned the tide of battle between Order and Anarchy,” Rebecca says.
“It had double the thirty pace range of the ancient rifles,” Chrys inserts. “A powerful advantage.”
“And more reliable,” Lilian comments. “Before the fire-rifle, battles at the end of the Anarchy rapidly degenerated into hand-to-hand combat. The Five Warriors and Adelaide are often depicted with blades out of historic accuracy, not romance.”
“Imagine how they would have reacted to the modern version,” Chrys smiles at thought of turning a modern weapon on the servants of anarchy.
“Katleen, do not forget the enamels,” Lilian gently prompts her sister. “The museum will not be open much longer.”
“The enamels, yes,” Katleen responds enthusiastically. “Master Chrys, Mistress Rebecca, you should view the enamels. They were made but fifty years past the time of the Fourth Warrior and Adelaide, and they depict the first use of the Vistrite fireburst rifles.
“There are ten panels, each is eight feet high and four feet wide,” Katleen lectures. “The chronology begins here. Their depictions of Jonathan Metricelli and Adelaide Warleader are considered reliable since they were created by artists who could have seen them.”
“Really?” Rebecca peers closely at the figures in the first panel, which depicts the Fourth Warrior supervising ancient Vistrite mining. While visual records exist of Socraide, Mulan, Rimon, and Sinead, there are no confirmed visuals of Jonathan or Adelaide.
The exquisitely detailed enamels provide a glimpse into a past that has been romanticized and glorified over the centuries. The clothes, the transports, even the weapons seem oddly alien. They are several panels from the end when the chimes warn that the bells are passing and the museum will soon close.
Tugging Chrys’ hand, Katleen skips forward to the end. “The fire-rifle enamel is here.”
In it, a tall, sandy-haired man dressed in Jonathan’s signature hunter green stands with a dark-haired woman in black whose face is turned away as she aims a primitive fire-rifle. Nearby, a seated gray figure leans back against a bench, the tools of the forge laid out nearby.
“Jonathan and Adelaide with an early fireburst rifle,” Chrys marvels. “It is like looking through a window into the past.”
“Lilian has always favored the enamels,” Katleen agrees. “All ancient things, really.”
“What are these, Katleen?” Rebecca calls from a nearby display case filled with gold ornaments. The museum will soon close to the public for the day. Whatever Rebecca wishes to explore must be done quickly.
“Signets, Mistress Rebecca,” Katleen responds brightly. “Are they not odd in appearance?”
The objects are three times the size of modern signets, heavy and round rather than oval.
Returning to her role as a guide, Katleen says, “It is the same as with the fire-rifles, the technology was primitive. The one in the center is Jonathan’s. It is likely he wore it around his neck and not on his belt.”
“Truly?” Chrys stares transfixed at the gold disk set with emeralds. “It contains the genetic material of the Fourth Warrior?”
“Not that one,” Katleen shakes her head. “That one was before the Code of Engagement. The one containing the Fourth Warrior’s legacy is locked in the base of his statue in the Shrine Ring. It is only displayed on the Fourth Warrior’s festival day.”
“Then three years hence, I will view it,” Chrys says in awe. As an apprentice, he does not get liberty to attend his chosen deity’s festival, which occurs at the end of the month.
“Who was Lady Ferula?” Rebecca points to another disk.
Pulling his gaze from Jonathan’s signet, Chrys asks, “Is that one with the black stones truly the first governor’s signet?”
“I see white and yellow gold, but not platinum,” Rebecca comments.
The sharp sound of cymbals shatters the conversation and is followed by slowly beating drums. Katleen raises a distressed gaze to Lilian’s suddenly shuttered countenance. Wordlessly, her hand hovering near her thorn, Lilian tucks her sister into the recess between two enamels. In her worn black and gray, Lilian blends with the shadows, but she cannot completely block the bright glow of loose red curls or the aqua tunic.
“Lilian, what is it?” Rebecca whispers in confusion.
“It is a cartouche passage,” Lilian says tightly. “If you would aid me, wander among the exhibits and smile. Rebecca, if you please, lower your neckline. I do not believe Seigneur Trevelyan will take offense.”
“As you wish, Lilian.” Rebecca agreeably tugs on the décolletage of her deep lavender frock.
“Lilian, what is amiss?” Chrys demands.
“Please, Chrys,” Lilian whispers, shrinking into the dark recess. “Draw their attention away.”
Neither Raven failed to understand Lilian’s intent. For whatever reason, they are to be alluring. In that, they are both well trained and position themselves with seeming casualness by the brightly lighted signet display.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Since the time of the Five Warriors, protocol and custom demand that the deceased are cremated within eighteen bells of passing. For warriors with a signet, a sample of DNA is collected and archived almost immediately. Often well before the media can report on the passing of such a notable figure.
I am the foundation of my family. Lilian does not know for certain who walks with the Shades of the Five Warriors, only that it must be a direct genetic descendant of Jonathan Metricelli. The use of cymbals indicates a cartouche preeminence. His or her signet has been collected by the heir and will be stored in the museum vault as the ultimate authority against kinship claims.
Honor is my blade and shield. The deceased must be of the Third System, or word of the passing would have reached Crevasse City before the signet arrived at the museum. Before the ruin, Lilian was heir to a platinum signet of Jonathan’s House. All the other Third System platinum signets are known to her, and she to them.
Honor knows not fear. The new preeminence will not be pleased to have Lilian’s tainted presence marring the sacred ritual.
Jonathan’s Prelate, Gilead, leads the entourage with the newly created Monsignor Persia, the preeminence of the Third and Sixth Systems’ commodity exchange. An imposing woman in her eighties, she is conservative, proud, and domineering. She is followed by her son and heir, his wife, their three offspring, and two dozen close kin and important retainers. There was a time when the approaching warrior family welcomed Lilian and Katleen as warmly as kin. Now, if discovered, they will be abused.
Honor endures.
Intent on their duty, neither Gilead nor Persia spares a glance for Chrys or Rebecca. Persia’s son, Seigneur Conrad, and his wife, Lady Tobi, are more readily distracted by the alluring Ravens. Harold, Persia’s favored twenty-seven-year-old grandson, attempting to ignore his parents’ peccadilloes, turns his eyes to the enamels.
Crevasse swallow him. Gaze elsewhere, lackwit. Lilian cannot believe her ill luck.
“Lilian!” Harold startles, his sudden cry echoing in the stone chamber and halting the procession.
With a disdainful glance, Gilead and Persia return to their duty. Persia will have words with the museum curator later. At his mother’s movement, Seigneur Conrad releases his interest in the tall tourist and continues down the corridor.
Lady Tobi turns back to her son. “Harold, what is your interest in Mercio’s doxy? Come away.”
Grabbing her son by the wrist, Tobi pulls him behind her as she
turns to confront Lilian. “As for you, where is your platinum now? Where is your precious cartouche?” Gathering her ire, Lady Tobi spits in Lilian’s face. “Take that for your signet.”
Another gob of spit strikes, hitting Lilian’s neck. “That for your cartouche.”
Turning to sweep away, the irate Lady Tobi calls her younger children. “Bronwyn, Joachim, tarry not. You must bathe twice to remove the taint of their presence.”
The dark-haired girl of sixteen looks past Lilian to Katleen as she spits out, “Shame. How dare you!”
The twelve-year-old boy says nothing, his eyes solemn before turning to follow his elders. The rest of the entourage hurls insults, but not bodily fluids, as they pass Lilian and Katleen.
As soon as the last warrior passes, Chrys surges forward, enraged by Lilian’s rigid posture and shuttered expression, all too-familiar signs of deep distress. He has a cloth within an inch of Lilian’s spittle-streaked cheek when Katleen flies forward and grasps his wrist. “You must not, Chrys. You must not.”
Clenching his jaw, Chrys steps back and yields the cloth to Katleen. As Katleen reaches to wipe her sister’s face, the shuttered expression yields infinitesimally. Lilian’s hand releases its white-knuckled grip on her thorn hilt, briefly caresses her sister’s bright red locks, and then collects the small linen square. After cleansing her face and neck, Lilian tucks the cloth into a pocket to be laundered before returning it to Chrys.
After a brief, searching glance at Lilian, Rebecca announces, “Katleen, it has been a wondrous tour, and I crave some of Mr. Hidaka’s excellent Settlement Day punch.”
The mixture of wine, strong drink, and fruit juice is a popular beverage on Settlement Days. No two establishments offer the same blend.
Casting a glance between her rigid sister and the openly concerned Chrys, Katleen nods. “Considering the distance, we will do as well in a mile-by-miler as the public transport.”
»◊«
“Katleen, you may enjoy watered wine,” Lilian directs her sister.
There are no strictures forbidding strong drink to minors. However, Lilian is of the conviction that strong drink and adolescent unruliness make an ill match. For herself, she orders wine, leaving the Settlement Day punch to her companions.
“Lilian, if any deserve strong drink, it is you,” Chrys remarks. “None here will indict you for tipsiness.”
“I dare not, Chrys.” Lilian knows her emotions are far too tightly leashed for such a risk. Public drunkenness is subject to correction, as is any loss of control exhibited to superiors in rank, particularly one’s bondholder.
“You aren’t wounded, you’re angry,” Rebecca voices in surprise as she realizes the true source of Lilian’s shuttered expression.
“Lilian would have thorn scored them had any raised a hand,” Katleen confirms. “As monsignor’s conservator, it is her duty and her right.”
Before the conversation can proceed, Hidaka arrives with drinks and small bites for the foursome. As soon as Hidaka is beyond hearing, Chrys says, “Lilian, I regret I did not understand. You mentioned spitting. I thought it was in the customary manner.”
Contempt is commonly expressed by spitting at someone’s feet. If the assailant marks shoes or ankles, it is a profound insult that can lead to dueling. The insult offered Lilian could instigate a blood feud if she were a free woman, even a commoner.
“It has been months since Lilian suffered such,” Katleen hastens to reassure Chrys. “Ever since Monsignor lessoned the Volsted, the warriors have settled for shunning us. It is only that Lady Tobi holds a grudge.”
“A grudge?” Chrys demands. “It is certain they knew you, but why particular spite?”
This day. Lilian would prefer never to discuss or even think much about the past. Were it any other than Chrys, Lilian would refuse to answer.
I am the sum of my ancestors. With a swallow of wine, Lilian prepares to answer. She cannot. “Katleen, you may voice it.”
After a moment of confusion, Katleen settles into the tale. For Lilian, it is as if another person is discussed. Someone no more familiar to her than the woman who drove the mile-by-miler that carried them from the museum.
“Three years ago, before the ruin,” Katleen begins, “Harold was enamored of Lilian. Monsignor Persia, Harold’s grand-mere, although she was only Seigneur Persia then, asked for a marriage alliance.”
“Three years?” Rebecca interrupts. “Lilian wouldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Isn’t that young for a warrior?”
“For wedlock, yes,” Katleen nods. “For a contract? It is sometimes done. Not that Gariten would have any part of it.”
“Why not?” Chrys asks. “They are descendants of the Fourth Warrior, and the cartouche controls the Third and Sixth Systems’ Commodities Exchange. Genetics and wealth. Is that not what is required?”
“Gariten thought Lilian could do better,” Katleen replies. “At the time, Monsignor Persia’s brother was heir. According to Maman, Gariten thought their genetics compromised. He thought Monsignor Persia’s brother a meager warrior, given to self-indulgence rather than commerce and more interested in those who flatter him than those from whom he can gain advantage.”
“What has the brother to do with it?” Rebecca looks from Katleen to Lilian in confusion.
“Harold’s father, Seigneur Conrad, is much like his uncle,” Katleen responds. Taking a gulp of wine, Katleen adds, “Maman says that Monsignor Persia wanted Lilian for Harold because she was heir to a platinum signet. None of her great-grandchildren would need to beg for a signet. Once Lilian was preeminence, they would get one because they were Lilian’s heirs. It would also impress the old Monsignor and maybe help Persia win the cartouche preeminence from her brother.”
“Well, that’s all well and good for Monsignor Persia and Master Harold,” Rebecca snorts. “How was that of benefit to Lilian?”
“Oh, Remus Gariten did not care about Lilian,” Katleen shrugs. “But he was offended by what he considered a meager alliance. Lilian tells me he was extremely unpleasant in his rejection of Monsignor Persia’s offer.”
“So Master Harold holds a grudge?” Chrys asks.
“Harold cared little for his grandmother’s machinations. He was enamored of Lilian and remains so,” Katleen concludes the tale. “Lady Tobi was deeply offended that Harold was refused. She dared no insult before. Now she may hide in Monsignor Persia’s shadow.”
“Were Master Harold truly attached to Lilian, he would not have revealed her,” Chrys contradicts. He cannot fathom such carelessness.
“Harold is pleasant enough, but a meager warrior,” Lilian says calmly. Her rage and despair dissipated during Katleen’s tale.
“I never did understand why you accepted his attentions,” Katleen admits, hoping that Lilian will reveal her motives.
“He was pleasant enough,” Lilian twirls her wineglass. “At the time, it suited me to remain on good terms with the Commodities Exchanges.”
“His mother is anything but pleasant,” interjects Rebecca. “If this were the Cartel, you would already be intriguing against her. Is there aught to be done?”
“Naught needs to be done,” Lilian answers. “It is a self-opening box.”
At Lilian’s words, the other Ravens straighten and lean in. It is Chrys who speaks, “How so?”
“Monsignor Persia is a capable warrior,” Lilian states. “For the next few decades, the cartouche will do well enough. It will not last. Neither Monsignor Persia’s heir, Seigneur Conrad, nor his son Harold owns the ability to hold the cartouche, let alone the Exchange.”
“Who will take it?” Rebecca asks. Her astute question is evidence of Trevelyan’s tutelage in warrior intrigue.
“Monsignor Persia’s eldest niece, her brother’s heir, is warrior enough to hold the cartouche and Exchange. She nears thirty. She will spend the next few decades building the alliances she requires to wrest control from her cousin, Conrad, when the time comes.”
With a small,
unfriendly smile, Lilian adds, “She may succeed, she may not. It matters naught. The internal strife will weaken the cartouche. Within half a century, control of the cartouche and Exchange will pass to a cadet branch.”
With a noticeably brighter aspect, Lilian sips her neglected wine, eliciting smiles from Chrys and Rebecca, pleased that the thought of her enemies’ ruin has lightened Lilian’s spirits.
»◊«
Lucius carefully settles Estella into a chair on the terrace to enjoy their meal in the unusually mild night. It will be the last for some time to come. With their sons safely in the keeping of Nickolas and several other young warriors of Blooded Dagger for the evening, and Elysia with her cousin Jenica at Marco’s home, Lucius can relax and savor a quiet evening with Estella.
As the servitor finishes arranging their meal and departs, Estella picks up her wine. “Persia managed to wrest the platinum signet from her brother.”
The invitation to the deceased monsignor’s final rites arrived shortly before the meal, well after the media announcements of the new preeminence.
Taking a sip of wine, Lucius smiles at Estella over his glass. “What think you, my love? Three generations, and then the cartouche falls to a cadet branch?”
“No more,” Estella acknowledges. “Persia’s father would have done better to name his son’s eldest daughter as heir and blood-bonded Persia to warden.”
“Would that viper have honored a blood bond?” Lucius has never liked the conventional and rigid commodities dealer. He and his family will, of course, attend her father’s final rites on the morrow.
“Persia is as conventional as she is ambitious,” Estella replies. “She would have honored the bond while attempting to groom her grandson for successful intrigue once the bond proved.”
“Harold?” Lucius laughs lightly at the thought. “He is not warrior enough to hold a cartouche. Truly, the line has run thin. You were correct when we met, my star. Persia should have allowed her son, Conrad, to take that archivist as a consort two decades ago. She is the only woman he ever desired, and she would have strengthened the line.”