by E G Manetti
“I took the liberty of ordering.” Fletcher flashes his bright, charismatic smile as he reaches for a small glass of potent liquor. “I have it on good authority that Master Trevelyan favors this single malt, and he is a well-known authority.”
Taking the nearest glass, Nickolas sips and then nods in approval as the sweet, smoky taste drifts over his tongue. Knowing the dangers of the potent liquid, Nickolas reaches for several of the savory bites.
“Excellent selection, Fletcher,” Jamal compliments, also savoring the whiskey.
“I understand it is favored by Blooded Dagger.” Fletcher raises his glass to the other two. The Eighth System import is well regarded in the First and Fourth Systems. It has only recently become popular on Metricelli Prime, where the Blooded Dagger seigneurs are known to favor it.
With an inward start, Nickolas realizes that Fletcher is trying to impress him. Although they are the same age, Fletcher entered the cartel a year after Nickolas, making the moon racer junior to Nickolas in both cartel rank and experience.
Aware of his rank, Nickolas is not overly enamored of it, and Fletcher is heir to a seigneur’s signet, whereas Nickolas is not. That the other man wishes his approval is a balm to Nickolas’ wounded pride and sense of honor. With a gracious smile and a release of tension he had not fully recognized, Nickolas replies, “It is indeed a favorite, and this is a superb variety.”
Before Fletcher can respond, a bell sounds and the shadows on the raised stage brighten. The quiet buzz in the chamber diminishes to a soft whisper in anticipation of the acclaimed entertainment. Light percussion reminiscent of a gentle surf fills the space as two sleek and glittering forms glide into the lights caressing the stage.
Fletcher slowly tilts his head to one side, then the other as he considers the acrobatic display on the stage. “Remarkable flexibility, it gives rise to all sorts of possibilities.”
The lovely man and woman clad in naught but a few strategically placed spangles mirror each other in the difficult chalice pose, bent backward on elbows, pelvis tilted up in invitation. The soft percussion moves from gentle surf to heated pulse, and Fletcher tilts his head once again to follow the lithe forms. They glide into a supine pose, greeting the couple that appears from the shadows clad in naught but boots, thongs, and glistening oil.
“I do believe they are about to demonstrate the possibilities,” Jamal responds to Fletcher as the two sets of acrobats pair off.
Jamal is not mistaken; the soft percussion increases to a throbbing tempo as the two couples demonstrate remarkable creativity and athleticism in a slowly shifting tableau of eroticism, always remaining a mere hairsbreadth away from physical contact.
Shifting with the pleasant tightening in his groin, Nickolas admits, “There is something about the near contact that is far more pleasing than more explicit entertainments.”
“I would like to try that one,” Jamal returns, nodding to one of the contorting couples.
“The position or the doxy?” Fletcher laughs.
“Both,” Jamal returns with a grin. “Although I understand the doxy fees for these performers rival Serengeti apprentice contracts.”
“I doubt you will find anything close to apprentice intellect with that set,” Fletcher responds.
“More than compensated for by that extraordinary . . . athleticism.” Jamal takes a hard breath in response to the latest acrobatics.
“Some of our apprentices show remarkable athleticism,” Fletcher returns. “One or two make me long for the day I can take one of my own.”
“Only one or two?” Jamal challenges with a smirk. “I thought Serengeti doxies were renowned for comeliness as well as achievement.”
“They are, but nearly half are men and I find no appeal there.” Fletch laughs and then takes a deep breath as a spangled woman presents a suggestive posture he would love to explore. “What say you, Nickolas? Could the lovely Rebecca hold that position? The Cartel has it she is exceedingly . . . creative.”
Recall of the lovely blonde and her training-chamber hostility cools Nickolas’ pleasant arousal with annoyance. “I find her vulgar and ill disciplined.”
“You have known her company?” Fletcher returns with surprise. Naught in Cartel gossip has suggested Monsignor Lucius has favored his protégé with such a gift.
Chagrined, regretting his intemperate words, Nickolas denies, “Not as you mean. Chance encounters.”
“I have heard Master Trevelyan favors her.” Fletcher nods. As with all Serengeti protégés, he is well aware that the obscure master associate is Lucius’ spymaster.
Shrugging, Nickolas sends his gaze to Jamal, who appears riveted on the entertainment. Jamal is Blooded Dagger but not of Serengeti. Some matters may not be voiced.
Nodding his understanding, Fletcher shifts the topic. “I imagine Mistress Lilian is better known to you. I regret I was not in the training chambers when you took down Martin in her defense.”
Demon shit! Nickolas takes a large swallow of single malt to hide his discomfort. Cannot he be free of his mentor’s doxy? In spite of Jamal’s intense focus on the stage, Nickolas knows he is following every word. Fletcher’s admiration reveals that within the Cartel, Nickolas’ intervention is considered appropriate and not laggard, regardless of Lucius’ rebuke. There is no suggestion that Rachelle’s apprentice truly saved Lilian. Jonathan’s Justice! Rachelle’s apprentice! Fletcher intervened when Martin attempted revenge against Chrys.
As the servitor approaches, Nickolas gestures to her with his credit token. At Fletcher’s protest, Nickolas waves him off. “I am reminded I owe you a boon. Your training-chamber defense of Seigneur Rachelle’s Raven is appreciated.”
“It was naught.” Fletcher huffs a small, satisfied laugh. “I only regret that Martin yielded before I was able to break something.”
“It was my duty you executed,” Nickolas returns. “That it pleased you does not eliminate my debt.”
“You would have done the same were you present.” Fletcher empties his glass and passes it to the servitor, who happily replaces it.
“That I would have,” Nickolas affirms, pleased that it is true. Rachelle is a worthy warrior and her Raven deserving of defense. “Nonetheless, it was Blooded Dagger duty. Allow me this.”
With a grin and a shrug, Fletcher agrees. “As you please, although after that match, I believe both Blooded Dagger and Iron Hammer apprentices are safe from Martin’s training-chamber cruelties.”
“Fletcher?” Nickolas returns, bewildered. What says he?
Thinking that Nickolas once again warns of Jamal’s presence, Fletcher huffs a small laugh. “Come, Nickolas, Martin’s perverted enjoyment of tormenting the vulnerable is hardly a Cartel secret. The other protégés of Grey Spear can do naught. We of Iron Hammer and Blooded Dagger cannot be everywhere. We must take our opportunities to control that swamp viper as they come.”
Sipping their drinks, Fletcher and Jamal return their attention to the increasingly evocative entertainment while Nickolas finds the last of his pleasant arousal fading.
Nickolas was so focused on Lilian’s corrupt nature and the need to sweep her from Serengeti he failed to appreciate the threat Martin posed to the Order of Serengeti. Nor did Nickolas recognize that Fletcher’s intervention on behalf of Chrys would also serve to warn Martin away from the Iron Hammer apprentices. Nickolas has allowed his antipathy for Gariten’s tainted offspring to cloud his reasoning. He failed to see the larger significance of Martin’s assault and its potential impact to Blooded Dagger prestige.
After Lucius’ censure and Rebecca’s taunt that Nickolas failed to protect Blooded Dagger honor, Fletcher’s remarks lodge a small, sharp shard of doubt in Nickolas’ previously unshakable sense of righteousness.
Sevenday 28, Day 6
I am the sum of my ancestors. Milord must know Master Chin eased the restrictions. What if milord does not wish it? I am the foundation of my family. Do not. Do not. Milord will do as milord wills.
Lilian h
as longed for the release of milord’s embrace since First Day. Since Third Day, she has longed for milord’s passion. The longing has become increasingly insistent in the past two days. Lilian is not forbidden to pleasure herself, she simply finds it inadequate. Will eighth bell never chime? Lilian clenches her knees against a thrill of anticipation. Since Master Chin eased the restrictions on Lilian’s duty, she has been hard-pressed to control her increasing excitement.
Master Medic Chin hums lightly as he delicately pokes and prods. Other than milord, only the master medic is permitted such intimacy. Lilian does not know milord’s reasons for Master Chin’s exemption from stricture. That it is milord’s will is sufficient.
“. . . mmhmm, flesh is sound,” Master Chin murmurs as he works. A tapping sound alerts Lilian that the medic is probing the bone sealant. “What do you feel?”
“Naught, Master Medic.” Lilian cranes her head, attempting to see what the medic is doing to her shoulder.
“Be still,” Chin commands. “Face forward. What do you feel?”
Obediently, Lilian faces the wall as she waits.
“Lilian?” Chin insists.
“Naught, Master Medic,” Lilian replies. Tingling pressure, it is not unpleasant. “Some tenderness, naught else.”
“Mmhmm. Resilient,” Chin remarks, moving to inspect her ribs. “And now?”
“Tenderness, Master Medic,” Lilian repeats and drops her eyes. The master medic is rapping sharply on the sealant over her ribs. “That should hurt.”
“Yes, it should.” Chin drops his instrument to regard Lilian. “You are responding exceptionally well to the healing stimulants. I am taking another blood sample.”
“Master Medic,” Lilian halts the medic, bewildered, “I thought stimulants disagree with me.”
Early in her bond, Lilian found that the common stimulants used to prolong wakefulness make her ill.
“They do, Lilian,” Chin confirms as he pulls blood into a vial. “I treated the sealant to reduce the elements that trouble you. The result is far beyond my expectations.”
After securing the blood sample, Chin continues, “You have an unusual metabolism. It requires study. My restriction stands, no stimulants unless I provide them.”
“Yes, Master Medic,” Lilian agrees. Truly, she has no wish to faint. She does wish other activities. “About my other restrictions . . .”
“Are you so eager to return to a full commerce day?” Chin teases as he collects her left hand, turning the palm up. “A hint of scarlet. This should be renewed.”
This day. Only this day. Master Chin knows. Lilian knows her longing for milord borders on wayward. She dare not be so transparent.
Rare heat suffuses Lilian’s cheeks as Chin briskly renews the contraceptive tattoo at the base of Lilian’s thumb. Black when administered, it fades to purple as the medication is released and turns scarlet when the dose is within three days of renewal. Should the patch not be renewed, the mark fades completely and fertility returns.
“Peace, Lilian,” Chin hastens, regretting his teasing in light of the young woman’s discomfort. “Your commerce restrictions are lifted as of eighth bell tomorrow. You remain restricted to training that does not include combat until the bone sealant dissolves.”
As Lilian begins to object, Chin barks, “Enough. I have tended the results of Trevelyan’s and the seer’s training often enough. Your bones are not sound. You may not combat until the sealant dissolves.”
A vulgar sound from the very proper Mistress Marieth shocks Lilian as it returns her to the present and the sound of the eighth-bell chimes. Springing to her feet, Lilian sends a grateful glance at the elegant servitor. She receives an eyebrow raised in censure in return. It is deserved. Lilian failed to attend her duty.
“Disrobe,” Milord commands as he has for the preceding five days. This day, milord’s tone and gaze hold a hint of the carnal, which sends a thrill through Lilian and scatters to the cosmos thoughts of Master Chin and Mistress Marieth.
“Very nice.” Milord smiles his appreciation of the scraps of cerulean silk and lace that shield Lilian’s sex and breasts as she adds her blouse to the suit neatly folded on milord’s desk. It is milord’s favorite set. Unconsciously licking her lips, Lilian slips out of her shoes. Trembling slightly under milord’s increasingly heated gaze, Lilian frees her breasts.
Devouring Lilian’s curves with his eyes, milord rises and rounds the desk.
Her skin warming with her rapid pulse, Lilian steps free of her last garment. As she places it with the rest of her garb, milord begins to circle. The predatory movements tighten her center and dampen her cleft. A quick glance at milord before he disappears behind her back confirms milord’s arousal.
Containing his desire, Lucius slowly circles his apprentice. The yellow ointment is gone and the creamy expanse of skin is unmarred. Almost half of the green sealant over her ribs, shoulder, and arm is faded to gray. When it pales to white, it will flake away. Lilian is healing rapidly. Chin has done well.
It is enough. Lucius’ hardened sex presses urgently against trouser fasteners. Lilian is beginning to rouse and he has yet to touch her. Master desire. Lucius calls on his discipline to contain his impatience. The trouser fasteners begin to dig. Master pain. With a gentle tug, Lucius pulls Lilian to him, her back to his chest. Cupping Lilian’s breasts, he delights in the swelling response, the nipples hardening against his palms. Setting his lips to her uninjured shoulder, Lucius explores taste and texture.
Lilian shifts her weight, arching against the warm and welcome pressure of milord’s hands on her breasts, the tingle of milord’s lips along her shoulder. She wishes more. Milord does not disappoint.
One large hand slides from her breasts to seek and fondle her cleft. The demanding touch ignites Lilian. She arches into the fondling hand as she reaches behind her to touch milord. Small sounds of desire pass Lilian’s lips as her fingers find and explore milord’s thighs and hips. She wishes more.
“Lilian,” milord murmurs against her neck as he releases his grasp on her sex and her breast.
Lilian is aroused, her jewel swollen and her sex soaked. Lucius wishes nothing more than to bend her over his desk and release his shaft. Master pleasure. He must be careful of her damaged ribs and back. Settling Lilian on one end of the scarlet couch, Lucius quickly sheds his jacket, tunic, and belt.
Sprawling on the leather expanse, Lucius reaches out a hand to call Lilian. As soon as she places her hand in his, he draws her down to recline atop him. Mastery of body. Lucius will risk no pressure to damaged bone. Collecting her face, Lucius pulls Lilian in for a kiss.
Passion leashed by iron will, Lucius is careful and deliberate. He encourages his apprentice to explore and caress him as he wanders her form, arousing them both to the point of pain. When her elegant hands caress his sex, Lucius bucks violently, causing Lilian to gasp and involuntarily tighten her grasp. It is slightly painful and almost unbearably pleasurable.
Lucius clenches his teeth, fighting for control. Master pain. Master pleasure. Setting his hands to Lilian’s hips, Lucius lifts her as he encourages, “Mount me.”
When Lilian engulfs him, they sigh in unison from the exquisite sensation.
Milord’s hands guide Lilian into movement, setting a languorous pace. The pleasant teasing does not ease Lilian’s need. Milord is too careful. Lilian wishes more. Shifting and writhing, she tightens her channel, enveloping and riding milord. She wishes milord’s mouth on her breasts, long fingers on her sex. She cannot bear it. Tightening around the pleasure of milord within her, Lilian sends a hand toward her jewel.
Her hand is pushed aside as milord growls, “That is mine to do.”
Eyes flying open, Lilian meets milord’s heated regard as he strokes and works the swelling center of her pleasure. It is too much. Writhing and bucking, Lilian entreats, “Please, milord.”
The woman is ready, eager, and edging to desperate. Yielding to his passion, Lucius presses against the sensitive nub as he us
es one hand to guide Lilian to the angle and rhythm he requires. Lilian convulses around him, the incredible sensation shatters Lucius’ control, and his release explodes, filling his vision with white light that dims to deep red. Lucius is distantly aware when Lilian goes slack and settles against his chest.
Lilian aches pleasantly, her sex pulsing slowly in the aftermath of her pleasure. Milord is warm, and she is safe for the moment.
“Is it well with you?” Milord’s voice rumbles beneath Lilian’s ear as one large hand caresses her spine.
Stretching against milord’s recumbent form, Lilian savors the comfort of her release and milord’s embrace for one more moment before she yields to duty. “I am well, milord.”
»◊«
“Does it please you, Mistress Lilian?” Master Trevelyan inquires as Lilian examines the contents of her slate.
“Master Trevelyan, my thanks. This is exceptional,” Lilian returns. The spymaster is remarkably resourceful. The Troy saltmarsh sample will arrive within days. Master Trevelyan acquired a sample and arranged for transportation from the Fifth System within a bell of Lilian’s request.
Riding the tide of confidence engendered by Master Trevelyan’s results, Lilian considers the man she has come to trust as an ally. Carefully, Lilian ventures, “Master Trevelyan, there was an associate, mayhap a senior associate, who aided me in the training chamber.”
“There were many in the chamber, Mistress Lilian. Can you offer more?” Trevelyan returns.
“She is an attractive woman in her forties. She would have offered accurate witness.” Lilian replies cautiously. At a hard glance from Trevelyan, Lilian yields, “She provided a vial of water and aided in the removal of the blade shields. She did not gift Chrys with her name.”
As an apprentice, Chrys could offer his name. He could not ask the name of one senior in rank. When Chin arrived, the woman melted into the crowd.
“I know of the woman,” Trevelyan allows. “What do you wish of her?”
“I owe her a boon,” Lilian admits. “I may never be able to repay it, but I would acknowledge it.”