by E G Manetti
A dour militia guard stands over the concierge who is placing Rebecca’s two battered canvas travel satchels on the cart next to two glossy black leather satchels with Seigneur Trevelyan’s insignia. Perhaps Rebecca’s are a trifle larger than the seigneur’s? Wait, where is her small case? The guard’s sour expression becomes a scowl, and Rebecca relaxes at the sight of her third satchel. The concierge did not misplace her cosmetics.
“Rebecca, is that all you are bringing?” Seigneur Trevelyan asks in concern.
“It is but three days, milord.” Rebecca mentally reviews her packing. “I thought perhaps I should…”
Trevelyan’s lips are twitching madly, and the militia guard is rolling her eyes skyward. He is laughing at me. Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes, Rebecca responds primly, “Yes, milord, that’s all.”
At her tone and expression, Trevelyan’s twitching lips harden to a stern line. Demon bile, he is annoyed. She is to be more deferential in public. Smoothing her features into a politely neutral expression, Rebecca bows her head and continues softly, “If it pleases, milord.”
“Come,” Trevelyan turns on his heel.
Rebecca hastens after him, flanked by the militia guard pushing the cart.
As Trevelyan reaches the transport, the guard abandons the cart and leaps forward to open the door. Rebecca settles into the space behind the driver’s seat, carefully crossing her ankles and resting clasped hands in her lap, the picture of deference and obedience.
“Too late now, lass,” Trevelyan remarks, not unkindly. “What will it be? Diction or decorum?”
She expected the seigneur to set her a tedious lesson in decorum between that skip and her sass. How has she erred in her speech?
“Why diction, M—Seigneur?” Rebecca barely remembers to correct her address. Seigneur Trevelyan dislikes being addressed as ‘milord’ and will not have it in private.
“Contractions, lass,” Trevelyan states. “You must lose the habit. Since you do not seem to recall using one, diction it is.”
Trevelyan makes a few quick taps on his slate, and Rebecca’s chirps in response.
It is worse than she thought. He has assigned two full bells of conversation exercises to be completed by midday tomorrow. So much for her visit to the seashore. With a resigned sigh, Rebecca taps her slate to acknowledge the assignment.
With a soft rumble, the transport glides into motion and out into the busy transitway. Desperately trying to swallow her disappointment, Rebecca gazes blindly at the passing commerce towers. Ridiculous. Half the planet is ocean. There’ll be another time. Rebecca knows she is being childish, but she cannot help it. She so wanted to walk in the sand and wade in the surf.
At Rebecca’s crestfallen expression, Trevelyan hardens his heart against his instinct to reduce the penalty. Universe scatter Rupert! Not for the first time, Trevelyan mentally curses Rebecca’s first bondholder and academic master. Decorum and diction should have been her first lessons, along with academics and martial arts. The self-serving scholar did not train his apprentice beyond bed sport. First to please Rupert, and later, when she grew too old for his taste, how to please others in return for Rupert’s advancement. As it was, Rebecca’s academic achievements were due entirely to her determination and naught else. So it is left to Trevelyan to inflict tedious instruction on his vibrant and brilliant apprentice. That he likes it no more than she matters not. Rebecca relies far too much on her winsome ways to avoid that which she finds tedious or unpleasant.
Knowing it is necessary does not make it easier. Trevelyan’s tone is harsher than he intended when he cautions, “If you are going to pout, I will make it three bells.”
“No, Seigneur.” Rebecca’s chin quivers slightly, distress at Trevelyan’s tone adding to her disappointment over the lost seaside visit. “That is, I’m—I am not pouting. Truly.”
Trevelyan’s fingers capture the quivering chin and turn Rebecca’s face to reveal eyes shining with unshed tears. Astounded, Trevelyan barks, “You are near tears over such a mild correction? What ails you?”
“Naught, it is naught,” Rebecca insists. As disappointments go, this is naught. She is being pitiful, unworthy of the seigneur’s shadow.
“Rebecca,” Trevelyan warns.
Crevasse swallow it! Rebecca knows both the stern expression and the tone. It is bad enough, and now she must confess her childishness. “I had hoped to view the seashore.”
“The seashore?” Confusion replaces the stern expression.
“I have never been.” Rebecca gives her best indifferent shrug. “It’s—it is not important.”
“I fail to see the connection,” Trevelyan begins and then halts. Correction exercises are completed after commerce, during what are normally periods of liberty. The heavily scheduled three-day trip to the Western Continent offers very few bells of liberty. With an understanding nod, Trevelyan releases Rebecca’s chin. “You make too much of this, the seabirds will not care if you converse with your slate while walking among them.”
“Seigneur?” Rebecca’s brow furrows as she struggles to understand. “I… that is… oh!”
With a brilliant smile, Rebecca grasps Trevelyan’s meaning. There is no reason she cannot execute the diction exercises while visiting the seashore. Smile broadening to a grin, Rebecca exclaims, “Seigneur is wonderfully gracious! My thanks.”
With a laugh, Trevelyan flicks her nose with a finger. “Lass, you can thank me by acquiring some sense of public decorum and dropping those contractions.”
Crinkling her nose in response to Trevelyan’s avuncular caress, Rebecca settles back into her seat, once again excited by the journey. Not for the first time, Rebecca wishes to hug her exacting but often indulgent lord. She knows better. Seigneur Trevelyan has made it clear that he will not bed her. He considers that aspect of the apprentice bond duress. Initially stunned by Trevelyan’s reticence, Rebecca has come to value it. She would willingly go to his bed, but it is wondrous to be in the company of a man who seems to like her and is not interested in making use of her lovely face and form.
21. Cartel Discipline
The Serengeti Articles of Conduct, also known as the Cartel Agreement, governs commerce operations, security-privilege, and the roles and responsibilities of each cartouche, department, and retainer, whether servitor or seigneur. All Cartel associate contracts must contain the standard clauses that require diligence to duty, respect for authority, and adherence to Cartel and department strictures. Individual contracts may also incorporate clauses and strictures specific to the Cartouche, department, and individual roles and responsibilities.
Minor contract violations of Cartel strictures by associates are reviewed and disciplined by the Cartel Associate Master. Severe violations of the Cartel strictures are reviewed by a tribunal or judgement panel composed of the Cartel Governing Monsignors or their designated representatives. ~excerpt from The Serengeti Group Articles of Commerce (The Cartel Agreement).
Sevenday 75, Day 4
Lilian slides under the short sword aimed at her head. As she passes, she grabs her adversary at the knee and pulls. Lilian’s momentum tumbles Helena to the pavement. As Helena rolls and rises, Lilian grasps her mother’s wrist in an iron grip, immobilizing the short sword while she touches the point of the thorn to Helena’s throat.
“Sinead yields,” Helena says, relaxing against the stone floor.
“Truly, Maman?” Lilian cannot contain her delight as she releases her mother and rises. She has once or twice battled her mother to a stalemate and improved to the point where Helena wears a protective mask. It is the first occasion Helena has admitted defeat.
“Truly, Daughter.” Helena’s smile is revealed as she pulls the mask from her face. “You did well. Do not be overconfident. You shall not succeed at that play a second time.”
“Then I must discover another.” Lilian sets aside her mask. “Shall we try again? There is almost a quarter period before I must ready for the Cartel.”
“Th
e rain no longer enters.” Helena’s gaze finds the patched courtyard covers as she finds her feet.
Casting a disgruntled gaze at the temporary roof, Lilian remarks, “The covers are nearly as ancient as the house. Had we the means, I would raze the entire structure and begin again.”
“Daughter, you do not mean those words,” Helena chides, horrified.
Although diminished by time and lack of attention, the ancient dwelling retains its fifth-century grace, a period considered the golden age of the Five Warriors’ Order.
“Not truly, Maman,” Lilian assures her mother as she settles onto a bench and regards the dry fountain. “It is only that it requires resources we lack. The maintenance of an ancient house seems such folly.”
“Where else would we dwell?” Helena settles next to Lilian on the stone bench.
There is that. The license fees to hold the house are a fraction of the cost of leasing acceptable quarters. Considering how little the puppets achieved relative to their worth, Lilian knows that even if she could break Katleen’s trust and sell the house, the price would be meager compared to its true worth. It would not cover the price of even a small flat near Sinead’s Shrine in the Garden Center. Helena would not do well in a more distant location.
With a resigned sigh, Lilian nods. “No place you would find pleasing.”
For all its shabbiness and expense, they are well off where they are. Lilian admits, “Your ancestor was wise. We would be in grave difficulty without the house and the trust.”
In response, Helena quotes, “ ‘I am all that my family once was.’ ”
“Maman?” Lilian is bemused by the reference to an archaic version of the Warriors’ Litany.
“Do you recall what comes next?” Helena demands with unnerving intensity.
“Of course, Maman.” Lilian nods and obediently recites, “ ‘I am the stone laid for the future.’ ”
“How does it finish? Do you recall?”
“The archaic version of the litany or the entirety of Adelaide’s quintet?” Lilian asks. The archaic litany is the opening of the quintet. It is regularly omitted at festivals in favor of the modern version. It was Helena’s fascination with historic warrior texts that first sparked Lilian’s interest in the origins of modern society. They have not discussed the topic in years. That Helena is lucid and wishes to pursue the old interest lifts Lilian’s spirits.
“Either, Daughter.” Helena smiles as they settle into the topic.
“Maman, Lilian what do you?” Katleen emerges from the staircase, intent on her morning meal. “The chimes are sounding. Lilian must ready. It will not serve for her to be late to the Cartel.”
»◊«
A sharp hammering jerks Rebecca awake and upright in her cot. Her hand gropes for the light as her sleep-confused brain recognizes the simple but comfortable furnishings of the servitor’s chamber. Western Continent. Fisheries guesthouse. The only guesthouse in the area, it is located north of the fisheries and the Mercium saltmarshes, not far from the sandy shore. In defiance of the chill season, her window is ajar to the sound and smell of the sea.
“Rouse, lass. We race before the morning meal,” Trevelyan calls with a final thump to the door.
With a grin, Rebecca jumps from the bed and pulls her training attire from a satchel squashed between the foot of the cot and a small chest of drawers. Two days prior, she blushed to the roots of her hair when she realized the small chest and tiny closet would not accommodate the contents of one of her satchels, let alone both. The servitor’s chamber of Trevelyan’s small suite is half the size of her chamber at the Serengeti Associates’ Quarters.
Suite? With a derisive sniff, Rebecca fastens her training trousers. Rebecca once frequented the finest guesthouses in Thebes, the second largest city on Rimon Deuce. These rustic accommodations are more of a hostel. Seigneur’s sitting area is barely larger than her worksite. His bedchamber does not equal his office. For herself, Rebecca could not care less. Those fine chambers on Thebes were commerce sites where Dean Rupert traded Rebecca’s body for the favor of those who would advance his career. Rebecca far prefers her current master and this modest chamber by the sea. It is only that her seigneur deserves better.
Dropping onto the bed, Rebecca quickly fastens her race shoes. She must not keep her seigneur waiting. Second Day turned out better than Seigneur Trevelyan had promised. The two-hour transit in the Serengeti High Altitude transport, or HAT, brought them to the Western Continent a bell earlier than when they left. The gift of the extra bells allowed Rebecca time to finish her diction exercises and then join Chrys for an evening stroll on the beach, where they found Seigneurs Trevelyan and Rachelle. Yesterday began as this day with an early morning race on the sand. It is likely to follow the same schedule, with a full commerce day followed by an unarmed training match with Chrys, supervised by Seigneur Trevelyan.
Dressed, Rebecca prances through the door, eager for another visit to the seashore.
Putting aside his slate, Trevelyan greets Rebecca, “All right, lass, try to keep up.”
The distant horizon is pink and gold where it divides the dark blue waters from the brightening sky. With a joyous laugh, Rebecca dashes behind Trevelyan on the damp sand. The tide is fully out and the light chill pleasant against the heat of exertion. She has no hope of catching the man racing a dozen paces ahead. It matters naught. The seigneur will run the allotted twenty minutes and then turn and chase her. Even with the distance between them, Rebecca knows Trevelyan will pass her on the return. If she is able to keep a lead for at least ten minutes of the return, Trevelyan will be pleased.
»◊«
Practicing her stealth tactics, Lilian uses the associates moving about the hallway to camouflage her approach to Master Associate Malcon’s office. It was Malcon who taught Lilian the skills of disguise she and Katleen have been using. Malcon has also tutored them in rudimentary stealth techniques, techniques that almost worked at the Fourth Warrior’s museum. Today her assigned task is to stand in the center of Malcon’s interior window for at least a ten count before he notices her.
Blending with a group passing the window, Lilian stops as the others move on, counting on their continuing movement to mask her arrival from Malcon, who is absorbed in his techno array. Malcon’s office is as small and unimpressive as Seigneur Trevelyan’s once was. Physically, Malcon is very different from the tall, robust spymaster. With her improved understanding of stealth, Lilian knows that Malcon exploits his commonplace features and coloring to be unobtrusive to the point of invisibility. His brown hair and eyes are neither light nor dark, and the medium complexion can be as pale as Douglas or as dark as Mr. George. No taller than Lilian, Malcon’s sinewy frame appears fragile. It is as deceptive as all else about the man. From their first meeting, Lilian has recognized that Master Malcon is dangerous and likely an assassin.
With milord absent the Cartel, Lilian has felt oddly abandoned. She finds the oversight and implied protection of the assassin reassuring, if somewhat casual. Malcon glances up from his techno array, and his eyes briefly narrow at the sight of her before he nods in approval. Entering the office, Lilian waits for instruction.
“Tomorrow, enter before I can rise and halt you.”
“Yes, Master Malcon.”
Turning back to his techno array, Malcon logs Lilian’s timely attendance and waves her away. “Mistress Lilian, you are dismissed.”
A bell later, Lilian is immersed in one of the numerous routine reports she is rapidly completing during the lull created by the absence of milord and so many Blooded Dagger seigneurs. As tedious as the work is, it keeps her busy and sheltered behind the Grim Twins.
An insistent ping from her slate has Lilian huffing annoyance. In another two bells, she will be completely caught up and able to turn her attention to the delayed reviews of Blooded Dagger holdings. Annoyance turns to worry as she reads Associate Master Straus’ demand for her presence in the Associates’ Hall.
Quickly shifting her th
orn from her hip to her satchel, Lilian mentally reviews recent events, finding no cause for Master Straus’ summons. I am the sum of my ancestors. Milord is absent the Cartel. But so is Monsignor Elenora, Lilian reminds herself as she enters the riser. The Iron Hammer Preeminence is on a routine tour of the Metricelli Deuce controller facilities. I am the foundation of my family. Naught of significance can occur with two of the three governors absent the Cartel.
Stepping into the Associates’ Hall, Lilian finds Master Straus at the podium, Master Liger at the techno console, and the judgement panel ominously full with Monsignor Sebastian in the center instead of milord. To Sebastian’s right, Damocles is smiling. It is all too reminiscent of the judgement where Sebastian Mehta accused Lilian of interfering in Tabitha’s bond proof. Only this time, milord is not present to protect her.
This is ill.
Eyes moving quickly along the panel, Lilian identifies Legalistics Seigneur Herman, who represents Iron Hammer in Elenora’s absence. Next to Herman, Seigneur Hadrian, the Blooded Dagger Financials Seigneur, represents the Cartouche and milord. Mayhap it will serve. Herman is honorable and Lilian knows he will not be intimidated by Grey Spear. Seigneur Hadrian can be relied upon to resist Grey Spear intrigue for the sake of Blooded Dagger honor, if not for Lilian’s sake.
Honor is my blade and shield. Lilian glances into the front rows that hold witnesses and observers.
Adelaide’s Grace! Seigneur Damocles is not the worst of it. Martin is seated in the first row, barely containing his excitement. He is accompanied by several members of his court, including the loathsome Roger Macomber.
Honor knows not fear.
A mental review of her allies only increases Lilian’s trepidation. In milord’s absence, Master Chin and Mistress Marieth have both taken liberty days.