by E G Manetti
“So she neglects her duty, brings risk to Blooded Dagger, gets you hurt, and she suffers nothing in return!” Rebecca is outraged. “She suffers not at all?”
“Truly, Rebecca, I know not how Monsignor will address this,” Lilian replies slowly. “It is dangerous to keep her within headquarters and a Blooded Dagger department head. If the object of Gil’s passion becomes known, the scandal would be damaging.”
“He can’t get rid of her without scandal, but keeping her risks scandal?” Rebecca grins. “If it were not for the harm to you, this would be fun.”
With a little skip, Rebecca turns at the landing on the thirty-fourth storey.
“Amusing?” Lilian stops as her friend turns to the door. “How so?”
“Monsignor is caught between stricture and custom,” Rebecca grins. “Normally, only apprentices suffer such impossible situations. I guess he will need to ‘discover a means.’ ”
Giggling wildly, Rebecca darts through the door. Repressing her unseemly desire to laugh, Lilian mounts the stairs to the thirty-fifth storey and milord’s suite.
»◊«
Low clouds obscure the distant hills beyond the city as Lilian gracefully moves through milord’s comfortable seating area, unobtrusively renewing tea for milord and Seigneurs Solomon and Marco.
“Jurian is unhappy that I am pulling his most senior technologist to support Laser Sting development,” Solomon comments. “Unless Rachelle can spare Simon for a few months, there is no other solution.”
“Are you still projecting Vistrite consumption to decline at half the rate of the economy?” Lucius queries in return.
“Yes, Monsignor,” Solomon nods. “It is early yet. The decline could be softer or steeper than the last forecasts. We will know better at the next review.”
Milord’s periodic reviews with his two senior advisors and kinsmen commonly occur near Settlement Days, when the Cartel slows in anticipation of the bi-monthly holiday. As trusted as they are, Seigneurs Rachelle and Trevelyan are commerce kin, not blood kin. They are rarely included. It is the first occasion Lilian has attended. Her pride at milord’s trust was enhanced when Solomon and Marco simply nodded politely at her offer of tea, neither warrior indicating any concern at her presence.
“We are discussing the level of decline and not if it will occur?” Marco puts in.
“There is no question that the softening is a true downturn,” Solomon nods. “Its severity will determine the impact to Vistrite.”
As essential as Vistrite is to all technology, when the economy is not growing, new devices are fewer. Short-term drops in demand reduce the pressure on Blooded Dagger and the Cartel to find a means to maximize production as well as revenue.
“Slacking demand means Jurian can manage without his senior technologist for a season,” Lucius decides. “We will use the opportunity to perfect the Laser Sting so that it is ready when the economy rebounds.”
“Monsignor can expect a complaint from Jurian,” Solomon warns.
“Jurian always has a complaint.” Lucius shrugs. “It changes naught.”
Lilian is lightly wonderstruck at the casual discourse. Except for the use of milord’s title, the conversation is as relaxed as mealtime conversation at Katleen’s house.
“We could trade Seigneur Nemilis for Jurian’s technologist,” Marco suggests with a grin. “She needs a place, and we need to be rid of her.”
At the mention of Gil’s seigneur, Lilian does her best to turn to stone. Milord’s kin are moving from commerce to Blooded Dagger politics.
“I would enjoy that,” Solomon laughs.
“Do it,” Lucius says quietly with a hint of silk.
“Monsignor?” Marco questions soberly. “Are you certain you wish her within the Third System? I had thought somewhere distant enough that if the Gil mess ever comes to light, it can be dismissed or hidden. Mayhap the Second or Fifth Systems?”
“To go from Cartouche department head to an obscure post is too great a loss in position. It might call the attention we wish to avoid,” Lucius replies.
“Metricelli Deuce will serve,” Solomon smiles. “Jurian will keep her in line, and with all the shifting around of resources to support Bright Star and Mercium, it will be barely noted. Perhaps she has some family or spiritual duties that require lessened responsibilities?”
“Of course,” Marco grins again. “We will put it about that it is a temporary arrangement. It will be believable due to the proximity of Metricelli Deuce to headquarters.”
Lucius does not grin. His cold expression edges into cruel. “In a year, when it will not cause comment, I want her relegated to the most dismal corner of the Cartouche and swept from the Cartel.”
“Yes, Monsignor,” Solomon nods.
At milord’s gesture Lilian circles with the teapot. Although Lilian has no animosity for Seigneur Nemilis, she cannot help but be pleased that milord holds a warrior and kinswoman to the same strict standard as lesser members of the Cartel.
Sevenday 80, Day 6
Dismal rain shrouds the nearly deserted Shrine of the First Warrior. The day is as sodden and dark as the when Lucius confronted Raphael over the incident with the speeder. Mrs. Hibiscus has been compensated, and arrangements have been made for Raphael to spend the dry season laboring in the Western Continent fisheries. The damage to Raphael’s honor can only be addressed by shrine discipline.
At Lucius’ request, the Shrine postponed the proceedings until after Cesare’s age of consent festival. With the upheaval following Lilian’s wrongful scourging, Lucius postponed it once again. In this, Socraide once again favored Lucius and his family. The delays resulted in this early morning visit on a Settlement Day, when shrine attendance is light. The forbidding weather has further reduced the normally sparse attendance, and there will be few witnesses to Raphael’s shame. With a shiver that denies the warmth of his training garb, Raphael slides from the transport, followed by his father and Cesare. The dagger at Raphael’s belt declares he is a warrior, competent in Socraide’s Discipline, and subject to a warrior’s penalty for his honor transgressions with the speeder.
Eager to find his way back into Lucius’ favor, Keeper Virgil urged his discipline master to overlook Raphael’s transgressions. More concerned for Raphael’s honor than Virgil’s political problems, the discipline master gave Raphael a choice. Ten strikes with Socraide’s Rod or two Settlement Days serving at Mrs. Hibiscus’ Garden Center stall. Raphael had not hesitated. The pain and humiliation of a shrine caning were far preferable to the ridicule of his friends should they find him in such a menial position.
At the base of Socraide’s effigy, the discipline master stands with his arms crossed and a black rod hanging from his belt. As Raphael approaches, the discipline master steps aside, revealing the manacles affixed to a hook at the base of the effigy. At the ominous sight, Raphael gasps sharply, and Cesare shudders.
This is not what Lucius would wish for Raphael, but it must be done. With a hand on each of his sons’ shoulders, Lucius murmurs, “I once earned a dozen. It will hurt. I know Raphael will not falter.”
At the discipline master’s nod, Lucius and Cesare step back. With the discipline master’s aid, Raphael sets aside his tunic. As the manacles snap over his wrists, Raphael straightens his spine. All of Crevasse City knows that his father’s apprentice endured a vicious scourging without outcry. Raphael will not break under shrine correction.
Socraide’s Sword! Sharp pain rips across Raphael’s back as the discipline master strikes without warning. The next strike steals Raphael’s breath and leaves him twitching. Demon shit. He knows he does not bleed and that the blows will not crack bone. By the discipline master’s own words, Raphael’s sins do not warrant it.
Demon shit. Demon shit. Demon shit. By the fifth strike, Raphael has turned the vulgarity into a litany. Halfway. Demon shit… demon… shit… Socraide’s… Sword… demon… shit…
Each strike to Raphael’s exposed back cuts Lucius as a blade. Keeping
his face impassive, Lucius holds Cesare’s shoulders, mentally willing Raphael reassurance he cannot voice.
As soon as the discipline master lays the rod aside, two acolytes rush forward and free Raphael. As Raphael braces against the base of the statue, the shrine healer applies Master Medic Chin’s ointments to the red welts marking his back and ribs. None of the blows crossed, and all are carefully placed to avoid kidneys and liver. Physically, Raphael will be whole by First Day.
Grabbing Raphael’s biceps, Lucius looks into his eldest child’s eyes to find them glassy with pain and unshed tears. “Your silence attests to your honor. It is done.”
Raphael has atoned for his sin against honor with pain and courage. He will spend the dry season at the fisheries to repay the damages to Mrs. Hibiscus. His errors will not be mentioned again.
»◊«
Lilian and Chrys look up from the Mercium lab reviewer to exchange a brief smile. Within a month, the Troy facility will begin Mercium production. It is only the beginning. In two years, when Troy is at capacity, its Mercium quota will equal that of the fourth-largest Vistrite Crevasse.
“A training exercise, Lilian, it was naught but a training exercise,” Chrys murmurs in wonder.
Sharing her friend’s awe, Lilian responds, “I thought it a clever trap laid by Master Nickolas. I would not let it rest.”
In her first sevenday within the Cartel, Lilian was instructed to execute reviews of the small Vistrite holding on Desperation in the distant Sixth System. When her meticulous analysis revealed an anomaly, Lilian thought it a snare laid by milord’s protégé. Nickolas had made a point of his disdain for Lucius’ tainted, cowardly doxy.
Lilian’s diligent search for the source of the anomaly ignited an insight that revealed fraud at Desperation. The investigation of the fraud led to the counterfeiters and then Lilian’s extraordinary insight-driven suggestion that the Cartel could benefit from exploiting a synthetic form of Vistrite. It was a notion Lucius Mercio readily embraced. That remarkable chain of events is about to yield system-altering returns.
“Mistress Lilian, Master Chrys.” Master Simon enters the chamber. “Is it complete? Is it confirmed?”
“Yes, Master Simon,” Chrys and Lilian chorus as they rise, revealing the reviewer and their analysis.
The gangly associate considers the display carefully. Turning to the Ravens, Simon offers a crooked smile and praises, “It is well done. I yield you both a half period of respite in the coming sevenday.”
“My thanks,” Lilian and Chrys chorus once again, thrilled by the extra liberty and the increase in their tally it represents.
Expression turning serious, Simon cautions, “It is well to enjoy success. Do not yield to complacency. You have passed the half-way mark in your bond proof, but fourteen months remain, and it will not get any easier.”
“Easier assignments would be boring and lack opportunity,” Chrys remarks as the door closes behind Simon.
“I do not believe Master Simon refers to our workload.” Lilian rises and slides her slate into her satchel. “The Apprentice Protocol is no less strict this day than it was when we began.”
“As you voice,” Chrys says absently, closing down the lab reviewers. “Douglas had passed twenty months when he was caned.”
From the corner of his eye, Chrys sees Lilian’s satchel swing dangerously toward the floor before she tightens her grip and rights it.
Demon shit. What possessed him to mention caning? Shooting to his feet, Chrys apologizes, “Lilian, I beg pardon. I did not mean to overset you.”
“Peace, Chrys, it is well,” Lilian reassures. “It has been a month. I am recovered.”
“Truly, Lilian?” Chrys asks softly, searching her face for signs of distress.
“Even the evil dreams have ceased,” Lilian says, gripping her satchel determinedly. She is not lying. Her latest training sessions with Maman and Seigneur Trevelyan prove she is returned to strength. Martin and his court are keeping their distance. Milord is pleased. I will not fall. I will not fail. “Come, it is midday. Let us find Rebecca and Vicenza.”
Sevenday 80, Day 7
Standing in sodden race shoes, Lilian frowns at the kitchen herb garden. The southern exposure normally serves to keep the herbs useable until they are replanted or renewed during the green season. The heavy rains and late-arriving green season have soaked the ground. The wilted leaves denote rotted roots, not dehydration.
This day. I am the sum of my ancestors.
Sinking to her knees, Lilian accepts the inevitable and begins to harvest the drooping herbs. Perhaps Katleen can devise a method to prepare them that will keep the herbs useable for another month until the rains recede and local herbs become affordable. Of greater concern is the rising water. The ornamental gardens beyond the kitchen hedge are a swamp. This last precious bit of ground is becoming a puddle. The antiquated drainage system is failing.
Lilian has prayed unceasingly to Adelaide and the Five Warriors for the grace to keep the house’s drainage functioning for one more year. She has not been heard, or her petition has been denied.
Katleen’s house is on the downward slope of a gentle rise that ends four blocks west at the Garden Center. The base is two blocks east and has been flooded for a sevenday. Should the rains cease on the morrow, it is too late. The rising water will continue for another two sevendays before retreating. Nor is there any prediction that the rains will abate. Drain crafters are in high demand. ‘Rapacious’ will not begin to define the charges for attending the notorious household. The Elf King and Queen puppets will not fetch near enough to replace the system. It must be patched.
I am the foundation of my family. A soft chirp accompanies a warm weight as Gloribelle leans into Lilian’s hip. Sympathy? From a rodent? Lilian lightly scratches Gloribelle’s ears before returning to the herbs.
Honor is my blade shield. The Elf King and Queen must be sold.
»◊«
Katleen desperately attempts to contain her sorrow at the sacrifice of the Elf King and Queen. In the end she pleads, “One more story? The ones you devised for me?”
The tale of the Elf Queen and King is a popular children’s fable. Five-year-old Katleen had not cared for the ending, so Lilian had indulged the little girl and invented more desirable outcomes.
“No, Katleen, I cannot,” Lilian refuses as she examines the two antiques laying upon her bed. “You are no longer a child. The story must be enjoyed for what it is. Wishing a different outcome serves naught.”
Anxious to distract her sister, Lilian inquires, “What think you, Katleen? Could Mistress Rebecca be the model for the Elf Queen?”
Nodding, Katleen concurs, “Now that you voice it, I see it is so. Although our Elf King could in no manner be Master Chrys.”
The Elf King’s dark, saturnine features are marked with crystal eyes of brilliant blue. When Lilian selected the puppets, the ancient fable and art form had fallen into obscurity. Interest has resurged in the decade and a half since then. The studio from which the pair emerged is considered the best of the third century. The unusual style of the puppets adds to their uniqueness and value.
“Lilian, must they be sold?” Katleen entreats.
This day. Hardening her resolve, Lilian insists, “I care for it no more than you do. It cannot be altered.”
“Lilian,” Katleen questions timidly, “what do we do next?”
Confused, Lilian shifts her glance from her childhood toys to her sister. “Next, sweetling?”
“The next household disaster,” Katleen explains. “When these are gone, what else will we use? You are but halfway through your bond.”
What indeed? Preparing a mollifying lie, Lilian halts. Katleen has an uncanny ability to detect when Lilian lies. No others are able to do so. It hovers on the tip of Lilian’s tongue to ask what color her voice is when she lies. Shaking her head to clear the distracting thought, Lilian decides that at nearly thirteen, Katleen is old enough to be included in some of Lilian�
��s stratagems. Carefully returning the puppets to their case, Lilian speaks to her sister. “Let us retire to the kitchen. It is time to prepare the evening meal, and there are matters we should discuss.”
»◊«
“Five months, Lilian?” Katleen repeats in awe. Despite all the difficulties, Lilian has amassed five months of reserves, including Katleen’s school fees.
“Almost two sevendays more with yesterday’s settlement,” Lilian assures her sister. “With the sale of the Elf King and Queen, even after the rapacious crafters, we shall have nearly eight months.”
“So if the roof collapses, we can repair it?” Katleen questions.
“If necessary.” Lilian pushes the chopped root vegetables toward Katleen. “Although, if it does not threaten our chambers, I will simply throw a canvas over the debris and set a drain. Your safety and studies are paramount.”
“After eight months? What then?” Dumping the vegetables into a dish, Katleen adds oil and herbs in some strange alchemy that will create well-roasted vegetables good for the rest of the sevenday.
This day. It is time to let Katleen know the core of it. “When I first entered the bond, Dean Joseph promised to carry you and Maman to Mulan’s Sanctuary if I fell.”
“Mulan’s Sanctuary?” Katleen frowns in confusion, vegetables abandoned. “But you refused Master Andreas.”
“It is not ideal,” Lilian agrees, resolutely squeezing juice from a tired lemon over the fish. “Maman would be unhappy separated from the Shrines, and your life would be limited, but it would be better than life as a shrine beggar.”
“Dean Joseph would not foster me and take me into his home as he did you?” Katleen’s lip trembles at the idea the Dean does not find her worthy. Although apprentices often leave home and enter training as soon as they reach the age of consent, few others live on their own before reaching majority at age twenty.