by E G Manetti
“The haste,” Tabitha spits. “The shadeless scum wished it done early, before the monsignor could intervene.”
“Mistress, mind your tongue when speaking of a governor,” Malcon admonishes even as he agrees. Sebastian Mehta is shadeless scum. Only the lowest of cowards assaults the most vulnerable.
As Tabitha’s shoulders slump in despair, Malcon softens. “Mistress, I cannot halt this travesty. Lilian will not die of this. I have no doubt that Monsignor will see Cartel justice brought to Grey Spear over this.”
Defeated, Tabitha nods morosely.
Eyes narrowing with determination, Malcon continues, “For now, I have a task for you. As we cannot alter events, we will turn them to Blooded Dagger advantage.”
»◊«
“Master Straus will strike lightly,” Vicenza attempts to reassure Tabitha and Clarice.
As much as they wish the counsel of Douglas, they know it is impossible. The Grey Spear apprentice dare not appear to be colluding with Lilian’s allies.
“He must draw blood with each strike,” Tabitha counters. She is familiar with the pain of a scourge and has no desire to witness anyone subjected to it, let alone Lilian.
“Do not underestimate the Associate Master’s skill,” Vicenza chides gently.
“It will be better if Seigneur Trevelyan is able to arrive in time,” Clarice breaks in. She is no more willing to dwell on Lilian’s impending ordeal than Tabitha.
“What can the seigneur do?” Vicenza demands. “A combat challenge to the Grey Spear Preeminence cannot alter Lilian’s sentence.”
“Would that it could,” Tabitha returns. “I would enjoy seeing Grey Spear pounded into the mats.”
“Tabitha!” Clarice interrupts, shocked. Clarice, along with most of the Cartel, is aware that Sebastian Mehta abused his apprentice. It changes naught. Tabitha is but a junior associate. To so misspeak of a governing monsignor could see Tabitha caned or worse.
In response, Tabitha presses her lips together. After emancipation, most apprentices retain a level of loyalty and commitment to their bondholders. Tabitha’s eagerness to abandon Grey Spear for Blooded Dagger was a profound indictment of Grey Spear honor. It does not begin to achieve the retribution her enraged and abused soul desires.
“Clarice, if you would continue?” Vicenza insists. He cannot fathom how Trevelyan’s presence could alter events.
“Seigneur Trevelyan carries Seigneur Rachelle’s proxy. Seigneur Hadrian already has proxies from Seigneurs Solomon and Marco. All the other Blooded Dagger department seigneurs will align with Seigneur Trevelyan. The Iron Hammer department seigneurs will follow Seigneur Herman. All together, they are sufficient to halt the execution for three days.”
Monsignor Elenora’s absence from Serengeti is no more unusual than Lucius’. The need for the governing monsignors to be absent the Cartel to address cartouche interests dates back to the founding of Serengeti. The Cartel’s governing protocols permit significant decisions to be made in the governors’ absence, but only in extreme circumstances. It requires a two-thirds majority of department seigneurs. A majority that is difficult to achieve. With Trevelyan’s advancement to seigneur, Blooded Dagger and Iron Hammer control a two-thirds majority. A similar alliance of Grey Spear and Iron Hammer does not.
Lucius Mercio rarely acts with a single purpose.
Tabitha finds her voice. “Yet the seigneur will not arrive in time.”
»◊«
I am the sum of my ancestors. I will not fail. Lilian moves determinedly through Adelaide’s forms. Her torso, nude but for her bronze silk bra, shines lightly with sweat.
I am the foundation of my family. I will not fall. Honor—
“Prepare.” Master Straus interrupts Lilian’s internal litany and halts her execution of Adelaide’s Discipline.
A morning spent in a cell in Serengeti’s Militia Central set Lilian’s stomach roiling and the cold knot of fear expanding until it encompassed her torso, closed her throat, and numbed her mind. When the militia guard arrived to pull her from the cell, Lilian greeted him with relief. Lilian does not wish to be scourged, but she willingly embraced any reason to exit that cell with its riveted-metal construction and antiseptic smells. She refuses to dwell on her return there to await milord and final judgement.
For the past half period, she has been confined to the small, windowless chamber adjacent to the Associates’ Hall. Carpeted and paneled in the familiar colors and scents of the Cartel, the small space has allowed Lilian to regain some small measure of control. The fear has not retreated, but it has not blossomed into terror.
At Master Straus’ command, Lilian comes to a stand. Wordlessly Lilian adds the bronze silk bra to her neatly folded jacket and blouse lying on the floor on top of her slate satchel.
Briefly Straus considers the half-nude young woman. Her lips are nearly as pale has her breasts. The gray eyes are wide and dark. Her expression is so closed she could be chiseled from crevasse stone.
Over the decades, Straus has occasionally found his duty distasteful. No more so than this day. He is as convinced as Lilian’s friends of her innocence. It matters naught.
“Remove the belt.” Distaste for this duty harshens Straus’ tone.
“I beg pardon, Master Straus,” Lilian offers. “I cannot by Monsignor Lucius’ will.”
Straus reaches for the clasp lock and then halts. He cannot release the lock and belt without some incidental contact with the woman. It will remain. “Yield your wrists.”
Obediently Lilian places her wrists together, out from her body. A strange detachment settles over Lilian as the militia guard binds her extended wrists. It is as if she is observing events from a far distance.
With Straus leading and the militia guard following, Lilian emerges from the small chamber into the brightly lit and crowded Associates’ Hall. Many who are not required to attend are present. The crowded hall is a blur of color and sound, none of it distinguishable. I am the sum of my ancestors. I will not fail. This day. Honor knows not… fear.
Somewhere among the massed associates, in the furthest risers, are Lilian’s few friends.
“…not much flesh… color is delectable… would not mind a bite or two…” They are discussing Lilian’s bared breasts. Even with the aid of her odd detachment, the coarse commentary of Martin and his court cannot be completely ignored.
This day. Do not be ill.
Lilian does not see the dark glance Fletcher Detrenti sends toward Martin and his court, nor does she note their sudden silence.
The heavily carved ebony pillar of the podium looms eight feet high. It casts no shadow in the harsh light. It is Lilian’s first opportunity to inspect the podium so closely. She prays it will be her last. Detailed carvings of the Cartouche and Cartel emblems cover the surface entwined with those of the Five Warriors. Affixed just below the lip of the podium are black metal rings used for binding the condemned.
I am all that my family once was. The words of the archaic litany are incised on the surface.
The length of cord hanging from Lilian’s wrists is laced through the central ring. It is a procedure Lilian has witnessed from the furthest row of the hall. She knows the cord will be pulled until she is stretched to her length, her feet flat on the floor. She will be able to brace against the scourge but not shift away.
I am the stone laid for the future.
“Bind her high.” Monsignor Sebastian’s tone holds spite and arousal.
At the words, Lilian gasps. Her detached perusal of the ancient text shatters and fear morphs to horror as her heels leave the floor. Lilian’s toes barely touch the tile as she dangles, helpless, from the ring, her mind overwhelmed with shock at Monsignor Sebastian’s presence. Correction of any associate, let alone an apprentice, is not worth a seigneur’s time, let alone a monsignor’s. The governor’s presence and interference indicate that Lilian’s is not to be a routine correction.
I will not fail. I will not fall. Facing the podium, Lilian cannot s
ee Sebastian Mehta and whoever may be attending the despotic governor. Lilian’s queued hair is flipped forward over her shoulder, clearing her back for the Cartel scourge. The leather whip has four five-foot leather thongs tipped with forged steel. One for each of the member cartouches, and one for the Cartel. Within the Cartel, the scourge is routinely used to correct the disobedient among the forty-five hundred common servitors. It is rarely used on the higher-ranking associates and apprentices.
“Damocles, full force. She is to bleed.” Now Sebastian Mehta’s sweet tone drips foul anticipation.
A rush of scandalized gasps and exclamations ripple through the hall as Damocles takes over what is considered common labor. Every monitor in the massive edifice of Serengeti Headquarters is crowded with avid witnesses. There is naught the most lurid of media can offer that is more compelling.
Honor is both shield and blade. Closing her eyes against her fear and her rising gorge, Lilian attempts to flee into her faith. She does not hear the evil swish of the scourge.
White fire rips across Lilian’s right shoulder, ignites her back, and finds its home above her left hip. Honor… honor… Lilian’s mind stutters as she clenches her jaw against a scream.
“Five Warriors… protect us,” Clarice gasps.
Damocles is skilled with the scourge. Four three-inch gouges mark Lilian’s shoulder and well with blood. Another foot of rising welts marks her back. Those welts will break and bleed when struck again. They will not require the touch of steel.
As Lilian’s consortium assesses the damage, the scourge strikes again. This time it opens lines across Lilian’s left shoulder to her right hip. Where it crosses the first welts, more blood seeps.
Lilian is finding it difficult to breath. White fire rips her back and shocks the wind from her lungs. Red and black dots are clouding her vision.
“Can he flay her with ten?” Clarice whispers to Vicenza, hoping for denial.
“Yes, does he wish it.” Tabitha’s agonized whisper rises from the row in front of the apprentices. The eight stripes are deep, blood streaking down Lilian’s back.
Damocles’ face holds unholy pleasure as he pauses to survey Lilian’s twitching form, the flowing blood. He is enjoying this, prolonging the time between strikes to maximize Lilian’s torment and blood loss.
Another strike, and Lilian’s form convulses. The existing gouges bleed more freely, and two more three-inch strips appear to the left of the first four. The two other thongs landed between the first four. Damocles is carefully interlacing the strikes. Seven more strikes, and there will be no flesh left on Lilian’s shoulder blades or between them.
“Behold.” Tabitha is the first to notice Hadrian and Herman entering with Malcon in tow.
Damocles has raised his arm for another strike. The fourth blow will lace with the second, leaving Lilian’s back a red ruin from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.
“Hold.” Hadrian’s voice is loud in the hushed chamber. “I claim Blooded Dagger privilege.”
“What say you, Hadrian?” Sebastian threatens in a voice thick with anger and lust.
“The convicted is a Raven. Correction is ours to execute.” Hadrian coolly gestures to Malcon. He loathes Grey Spear and fears Lucius’ reaction if the apprentice is seriously injured this day. If not for Malcon’s insubordinate insistence that something was amiss, Hadrian would not have monitored the scourging. Sebastian Mehta’s presence sent Hadrian scrambling for Herman’s support. They have barely arrived in time.
“Seigneur Hadrian’s claim is valid,” Herman adds tightly. Sebastian’s unseemly involvement and determined savagery have forced Herman into stronger support of Blooded Dagger than he wished. As Legalistics Seigneur, he cannot allow such a public abuse of power.
With a snarl, Damocles flings the scourge at Malcon. “She must bleed with each stroke, or I will reclaim the correction.”
It is not an idle threat. A cartouche may not ease the penalty for one of its own.
Catching the scourge, Malcon says naught. Outside of a scarce few, Malcon is believed a senior geologist dedicated to esoteric rock formations. The cover yields him free passage among the Twelve Systems where the discovery of Vistrite is always welcome. It makes him an unlikely executioner.
“Master Malcon,” Straus cautions, eyeing Lilian’s bleeding form with concern, “for each blow that does not yield blood, two will be due and taken by Grey Spear.”
Testing the scourge, Malcon murmurs, “Have no concern. I come from a disciplined background.”
The white fire tearing along Lilian’s back has been extinguished by a suffocating red well. Lilian’s shoulders scream as she fights for breath. Stone… honor… not fall…
Something sharp bites Lilian’s ribs and retreats. It bites again. The small shocks are barely discernible from within the haze of agony that continues to cloud Lilian’s vision and restrict her breathing. This day… milord…
Malcon works the scourge so quickly it is a blur. Four scarlet dots appear along Lilian’s left ribs, another four. Nearly insensible, Lilian barely twitches in response to this latest assault on her violated flesh. Rapid fire, Malcon strikes four more times, the results obscured by the blood streaking Lilian’s back. The final strike leaves four clear dots along the far right of Lilian’s ribcage. Each dot bleeds. Malcon has struck with the metal tips and only as deeply as needed to break flesh.
As soon as Malcon drops the scourge, Straus motions to the senior medic.
The thirty seconds seem endless before the medic declares, “All strikes called blood.”
In response, Straus proclaims, “This is done.”
I am… I will… this day… do not… Katleen... honor… Maman… fear… milord… not fall… Adelaide…
Lilian knows she is hurt. The white fire has receded, but a heavy weight crushes her lungs. She wishes to breathe. Loosening her clenched jaw, Lilian pulls wind. She does so in quick, rapid, shallow breaths. The white fire could return at any moment. She will not cry out.
»◊«
Lilian’s breathing is rapid and shallow. Her eyes are closed. Under Malcon’s watchful gaze, the medics sever the binding cords from the ring and lower Lilian onto a medics’ sled. Her hands were turned in their bonds to grip the cords holding her to the podium, and Lilian has yet to release them although they have been cut free of her wrists. The sedatives appear to have little effect. The medics are hesitant to provide any more.
secure Malcon calls Tabitha, who is joined by Clarice.
“Lilian, release the cords,” Tabitha murmurs, apparently content to accept the possible penalty for illicit contact as she gently strokes Lilian’s temple.
Accepting Lilian’s slate satchel from Straus, Malcon follows the medics, the small Blooded Dagger contingent, and Herman’s apprentice from the chamber. It is beyond bewildering. The woman should be limp and unconscious.
Not fall… honor… fear… release…
Cool fingers stroke Lilian’s forehead. “Release the cords.”
Maman? Lilian is moving. A medic’s sled.
“Release the cords.”
Cords? Oh. Concentrating on her hands, Lilian wills her fingers open, and the cords drop to the floor. Turning her head, Lilian finds Tabitha. “Thorn.”
“Here,” Clarice’s voice is accompanied by the thorn appearing before Lilian.
Grasping it, Lilian asks, “Is it done?”
“It is done,” Tabitha confirms, stepping away from the illicit contact.
Confused and in pain, fear a close companion, Lilian struggles against the gray cloud replacing the red. The medics’ potions finally working, Lilian whispers, “My thanks.”
22. Cartouche and Cartel
Sinead Standingbear’s guard captain was both a distant kinswoman and Robert Dragon’s consort, Adelaide Thornbearer (later to become Adelaide Warleader). Accounts agree that Adelaide’s shame and rage at Robert Dragon’s betrayal of their consort alliance were dwarfed by her rage over his betrayal of their liege, Sin
ead. The battle to regain the fortress was both brief and vicious. In the course of the battle Adelaide was rescued from almost certain death by Robert Dragon assuring the victory of Adelaide’s forces. Enraged that Robert had turned on him, the marauder chieftain’s last act before escaping was to slay Robert Dragon.
Although many have speculated, it remains unknown why Robert protected Adelaide. The dead marauders were left for the carrion beasts and birds. Partially redeemed by saving Adelaide’s life, Robert Dragon’s remains were given final rites except for his head. His head was shrunk and hung from Adelaide’s warbelt as warning to others. Robert Dragon would be the first fallen foe so honored by Adelaide. He was not to be the last. ~excerpt from The Origins of the Five Warriors, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 75, Day 5
“Lilian is not to be scarred.” Lucius’ voice cuts like a blade.
Without raising his gaze from his careful examination of Lilian’s back, Chin responds, “The medics did all that could be done. It may require cosmetic intervention to completely correct the damage. We will know in a sevenday.”
Two bells, Lucius rages internally. It required only two bells. Sabri, Lucius’ personal servitor, refused to rouse Lucius at an unseemly hour in response to Malcon’s urgent alert. Unlike an alert from an obscure associate, Sabri could not ignore the one that arrived from Seigneur Trevelyan a bell later. It was, as Tabitha and Malcon expected, already too late when a half period later Lucius left the Southern Continent in a Serengeti HAT.
At Chin’s words, Lucius’ lips thin, and his jaw tightens. The woman lying face down on the dispensary cot is nearly as white as the healers’ sealant that covers her shoulder blades and crisscrosses her ribs and waist. Where the flesh is not covered in white, it is striped with the yellow ointment used to prevent bruising and excessive swelling.
Lucius doubts the ointment will be of much benefit. Damocles took his time, drawing out the execution. The welts were well raised when the medics finished with the bleeding wounds.
“Grey Spear goes too far,” Trevelyan echoes Lucius’ sentiments.