Bright Star

by E G Manetti

  Lilian’s slate holds a notice of delay. This is ill. Lilian was so lost in thought that she failed to hear the telltale ping that heralds an alert from milord. Praise Adelaide. In this instance, her lapse will go unnoted. She has thirty minutes before she must prepare for milord. How best to spend them? Clearing your mind.

  Full dark comes early at the onset of the green season. Beyond the windows of the softly lighted bedchamber, the night is inverted. Within the Great Crevasse, where Vistrite mining never ceases, twinkling lights rise to meet the overcast night sky, where the dark clouds are broken by an occasional wash of lighter gray from the reflected city lights. It is as though all creation is falling into the abyss.

  Nude, her back to the disquieting nightscape, Lilian gracefully executes the movements of Adelaide’s contemplation. These are not the rapid movements of combat, but the slow gestures of control; control of inner, as well as physical, self. Her internal litany maps to her movements, bringing peace to mind and spirit.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. I am the foundation of my family. Honor is my blade and shield. Honor knows not fear. Honor endures. Honor acts as duty commands. I am the sum of my ancestors . . .

  For thirty minutes, the deliberate ballet plays out against the improbable nightscape. Eventually, skin gleaming with sweat, Lilian completes the final movement, the day’s riot of thought and emotion ordered into serenity.

  »◊«

  When Lucius enters the penthouse almost a period after his apprentice, the windows are filled with broken clouds dappled with moving light. Illusions created when the roiling clouds catch and reflect the lights of the Crevasse below and the city beyond. An interior shadow shifts, the dimmed penthouse lights increase, and the shadow takes substance.

  Hair tumbling down her naked back to frame creamy shoulders and delectable breasts, Lilian emerges from the shadows a yard distant from the windows. A deep aqua-blue wrap is knotted in a sarong around her waist. The light covering is a concession from Lucius, who is concerned about how easily the woman chills. It is Lilian’s choice to knot the sarong at her waist rather than above her breasts.

  Placing her glass on the nearby table, Lilian asks, “Wine, milord?”

  At Lucius’ nod, Lilian pours a glass. Her breasts with their dark rose tips gently sway with her movements. Lucius’ groin tightens pleasantly at the display. The creamy expanse of her torso is unmarred. The last of the bone sealant dissolved the day before.

  Dropping his slate bag on a chair by the entryway, jacket with it, Lucius stalks silently toward his apprentice, one hand deliberately loosening his tunic collar and the first two fasteners. Lilian’s eyes widen and her lips part slightly as he reaches for the wine.

  Sipping wine, Lucius savors the vision of his healed and minimally clad apprentice as her nipples pebble under his gaze. The mild citrusy scent she prefers reaches him, indicating her recent recourse to the shower. Reaching out, Lucius strokes his thumb above Lilian’s left elbow and then along her ribs. The skin where bone was cracked is smooth and unblemished. At his touch, Lilian’s nipples lengthen. Entranced, Lucius drags his thumb across one taut peak and then the other, the buds darkening and rising to his touch. He delights in the small catch in Lilian’s breathing and his sex jerks in response.

  Handing Lilian her glass and collecting the wine bottle, Lucius orders, “Come.”

  Lilian in his wake, Lucius leads the way to the bedchamber. The wine bottle joins Lilian’s neatly folded garments on the console table.

  A brief tension wars within Lucius. The desire to rip the wrap from Lilian’s waist, toss her on his bed, and drive into her struggles against the need to savor every aspect of the moment. In the end, her citrusy scent tips the balance. Shrugging out of his tunic, he states, “I would shower.”

  It requires but a moment for Lilian to ascertain Lucius’ will.

  “Shall I assist, milord?” Lilian inquires softly.

  “Yes.”

  In response to Lilian’s quiet “If milord would sit for a moment?” Lucius settles on the edge of the dais, sipping his wine. Lilian gracefully drops to kneel at his feet. In moments, she removes both his short boots and socks. At the slight scrape of nails across the arch of one foot, it is Lucius’ breath that catches.

  Rising, Lilian reaches for his belt and tugs. She wordlessly urges him back to his feet so she can loosen the belt and peel down trousers and silk briefs in one fluid movement. Rising as gracefully as she knelt, Lilian stands aside. As Lucius enters the freshening closet, Lilian places his garb in the servitor’s cabinet for restoration.

  Standing serenely, sipping her wine, Lilian watches as milord activates the shower jets, adjusting the flow and temperature until he is satisfied. Placing her wine on a counter that holds an array of personal cleansing products, Lilian gathers her hair into a loose topknot. She unerringly selects the soap and shampoo milord prefers. It has a sharp, tangy scent that brings to mind the seashore.

  As milord watches, Lilian releases her sarong and follows him into the shower. So tall. Lilian is on tiptoe as she stretches to work the shampoo through milord’s hair, her breasts scraping against his broad back. Massaging milord’s scalp, Lilian works the soap through hair that she only now realizes is every bit as heavy as her own.

  Abandoning the heavy locks, Lilian fills her hands with soap. Reaching up, Lilian runs her soap-filled hands along milord’s collarbones and then shoulders, delighting in the play of muscle under the olive skin.

  The elegant fingers tracing leisurely patterns on Lucius’ shoulders and back cause Lucius to tighten and stiffen. Turning, tipping his head to rinse the shampoo from his hair, Lucius closes his eyes. A tongue flicks his left nipple and then the right. Graceful hands work soap across his abdomen, his waist, up his torso, and under his arms. A teasing tongue once again flicks his nipples and then delves into his navel. The scrape of teeth across a hip bone sends heat stabbing to his loins. The slick feel of Lilian’s soapy hands on his thighs, then calves, and then thighs again evokes an involuntary sound of pleasure.

  Those same questing, soap-covered hands roam across his buttocks, delving between. Lucius knows what is coming. He braces his hands against the shower wall as the teasing, pleasing hands slide between his thighs, gently soaping and caressing his sack, and then take hold of his fully erect shaft and stroke.

  Mesmerized by milord’s response and her pleasure in it, Lilian intently plays with milord’s stiffened sex. Competing desires batter her. Lilian’s desire to take milord into her mouth, to drink him down, struggles with her compulsion to pull milord into her and ride him to completion. It is not Lilian’s choice. Strong, large hands grasp her wrists as a passion-roughened voice commands, “Lilian.”

  The shower wall is wet and slick and warm from the jets. Milord’s hands hold her wrists to the wall above her head as he takes her mouth in a demanding kiss. Milord’s erection is hard against her belly as she tries to rise to meet him. Milord is too tall.

  Milord catches her wrists in one hand as the other pushes between her thighs, searching, probing, testing. Her engorged jewel throbs, desperate for contact, as milord fingers her swollen and damp cleft, her slickness washed away by the shower. Milord’s tongue slides across the roof of Lilian’s mouth as a thumbnail lightly abrades her aroused nub. Lilian’s sex tightens, pulses, and then floods.

  Lilian is suddenly frantic. The serenity of the last period is shattered by milord’s kiss, milord’s touch, and the press of milord’s hardened shaft against her.

  One of Lilian’s wrists is released as the other is pulled down and behind her back, tugging her tight against milord’s hard, wet body. With her free hand, Lilian circles milord’s waist while desperately attempting to twine her legs with his. A sudden coolness eases her need. Milord has deactivated the jets.

  As milord shakes his head to release the excess water, Lilian realizes that the tail hanging from her loose knot is also sodden. She imitates milord’s motion, bringing her breasts hard against milord�
��s chest. With a sob, she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing herself against his length.

  “Not here.” Milord’s voice is a harsh rasp as he pulls her from the shower.

  Tugging towels from the stand, Lucius shoves one at Lilian while making use of the other. “I do not wish a sodden bed.”

  Dragging the heavy towel across her skin and wringing out the soaked ends of her hair, Lilian barely completes before milord collects one wrist and pulls her into the bedchamber. Wrist still within milord’s grasp, Lilian flings herself back on the bed using her weight and momentum to pull him with her.

  Milord’s knees widen her already-opening thighs as milord enters her in one deliberate thrust. Writhing, desperate for more, Lilian clings to milord. Frantic to ease the mounting pressure, Lilian bites at the broad shoulders above her. She whimpers as milord thrusts into her, over and over again until release takes her and demolishes her.

  Lilian smells the sea. It is milord’s scent, emanating from the well-toned stomach pillowing her head. Blinking, Lilian becomes aware that she has lost a few moments. An unfamiliar rasping sound echoes under her ear. Lifting her head and gathering her wits, Lilian identifies the sound as a soft snore. Milord is asleep.

  Lilian has a duty. After a moment, Lilian rises to use the freshening closet. Once within, she combs the tangles from her hair, collects the wet towels for the launderer’s cabinet, and returns soap and shampoo to the counter. The abandoned wine glasses are neatly arranged to await the cleaning staff. Finding her sarong, Lilian wraps it above her breasts and returns to the bedchamber to discover milord propped on pillows and awake.

  Milord frowns at the sight of her sarong. Certain of milord’s true will, Lilian ignores the unvoiced command as she moves toward the console table where her satchel rests. “I beg milord, frown not. Seigneur Rachelle has sent milord something marvelous. Milord will wish to examine it.”

  Opening her hand, Lilian rolls two small crystals across the bed to milord. “The Vistrite is from Desperation, and the amber synthetic is of Crevasse City using the sample from Troy.”

  Picking up the small objects, rolling them between fingers and thumbs, Lucius makes the same observation that Lilian did earlier. “The Troy synthetic is the same as the Western Continent. It is not as smooth as Vistrite. It will not hold the more complex encoding. What is the source of the odd tint?”

  As she returns to bed, Lilian responds, “One of the additional compounds causes the color, milord. Seigneur Rachelle instructed me to inform milord that she will add that compound to other water samples to repeat the effect.”

  “Luck of the First,” Lucius murmurs to himself.

  The effort of many more, like. Do not voice that.

  Eyes narrowing, milord demands, “What was that thought?”

  “Milord?” Lilian equivocates. It is only a silly tale. He cannot read your mind.

  “Lilian.” Milord’s tone holds an edge of warning.

  Tenth stricture, she must answer. Cautiously, Lilian offers, “Milord, it seems to me that the ‘Luck of the First’ is helped along by a good deal of hard work.”

  Milord’s glance is quizzical. Lilian is encouraged to continue. “Master Trevelyan went to considerable effort to collect the chemical profiles of the saltmarshes within the Twelve Systems. Rebecca and I spent many periods sifting that data. I do not believe it mere happenstance that Serengeti has such an able research and development seigneur.”

  Placing the crystals on the bedside table, milord reaches over and pulls Lilian onto her back. Smiling down at her, he says, “And all set in motion because a conscientious apprentice discovered an accounting irregularity that was overlooked for over a year. Luck helped along by hard work, indeed.”

  As he speaks, milord loosens the knot holding the sarong. Playing the ends of the blue silk over Lilian’s breasts, milord murmurs, “As delightful as you are in black, I enjoy this blue.”

  The trailing ends are now tickling Lilian’s abdomen, tightening muscles and raising gooseflesh.

  At milord’s words, Lilian, who had been tracing milord’s arms and shoulders with her fingers, becomes still. “Milord, I had forgotten. Seigneur Ayesha instructs me that commerce wear is not suitable for the reception. I should have a gown?”

  “Yes, you should.” Milord is now nibbling around her navel.

  “A black gown is not a common item, milord. I do not—”

  “Not black.” Another nibble.

  “Scarlet or gold, then, does milord—”

  “Scarlet? With your coloring? Woman, have you no vanity?” milord huffs.

  Lilian’s quiet “I believe vanity is counter to the twentieth stricture and mayhap the thirty-sixth” earns her a sharp nip and a chuckle.

  “I will provide the gown. Attend me here at fifth bell on the day of the reception.”

  11. Milord’s Will

  To be among the five dominant cartels is more than a measure of wealth. It determines the number of the cartel’s Governing Council votes, the size of the militia it may maintain, and the level of influence over the Five Warriors’ sects. All of which, in turn, generate opportunity for increased wealth and influence.

  When Serengeti moves from fourth to third among the cartels, it will be the first major shift among the twelve governing cartels in over a century. Nor will the impact be strictly in commerce. Monsignor Lucius Mercio will replace the Orion preeminence as Socraide’s Lord Patron, gain four additional seats on the governing council, and receive license to increase the size of the Serengeti Militia by nearly a fifth. ~ excerpt from Crevasse City Commerce, an alternative media stream, OFW, 1003, S30-6.

  Sevenday 30, Day 6 – Third Settlement Day

  Her step light, Lilian exits milord’s office. Milord was both amused and pleased by the recent media commentary and its conviction that milord will succeed in his ambitions to advance Serengeti to third among the cartels within the decade. That the commentary originated with one of the few media streams not controlled by the Orion League is no surprise. Orion cannot be expected to laud or support Serengeti’s bid for third among the cartels when Serengeti success will see Orion diminished. The media stream’s projection that it will require a decade for the change is indication that no hint of the synthetics has leaked. Does the venture prove, Serengeti will advance to third position a great deal sooner.

  At the sight of Mistress Marieth’s gleaming white hair, Lilian’s amusement dissolves. It must be done. I am the sum of my ancestors.

  “Mistress Marieth, if you please?” Lilian inquires tentatively.

  After a day of internal debate and extended discussion with Rebecca and Clarice, Lilian has discovered no other means. Released from eighth-bell attendance, Lilian is intensely aware that she is running out of time to address her dilemma. Resisting the urge to stroke the scarlet conservator’s seal, Lilian awaits the executive servitor’s attention.

  “How may I assist you, Mistress Lilian?” Mistress Marieth responds with her customary polite reserve.

  “Does Mistress Marieth please, I require advice regarding attire for the formation reception,” Lilian replies. If Marieth is unwilling or unable to assist, Lilian will be forced to address the issue with milord. Inwardly, Lilian cringes at the notion.

  “Monsignor is providing your attire. What concerns you in this?” The chill tone reflects the elegant woman’s opinion of Lilian’s presumption. The apprentice will appear as Monsignor wills. She should own no interest in the matter other than compliance with Monsignor’s will.

  Lilian does not miss the reprimand implicit in Marieth’s response. Honor endures.

  “Monsignor has so indicated. A gown will be provided,” Lilian acknowledges. And matching lingerie, of that Lilian is certain. The aqua silk lingerie beneath her suit is almost identical in hue to Fourth Day’s sarong. It arrived at her worksite the day before accompanied by milord’s handwritten note: I enjoy this blue. Don these for Sixth Day.

  Honor knows not fear. Lingerie is the least of
Lilian’s concerns.

  Involuntarily stroking the conservator’s seal, Lilian adds, “There are other necessary items for a formal reception.”

  I cannot appear barefoot, and a warrior’s queue will not serve for my hair.

  Without some knowledge of the gown’s style and fabric, Lilian has no method to select correct footwear or determine an acceptable working for her hair. Knowing that the gown will be gold toned is insufficient. Gold is a popular hue in female formal wear and comes in a wide range of styles.

  At Lilian’s words, Marieth releases her censure. Monsignor’s instructions lacked precision. “You need have no concern in this. Monsignor will provide all that is required.”

  It is as Clarice had thought. Milord’s will would be precise in the details, if not in the voicing. Footwear and whatever other accessories are needed will be included with the gown. The worst of her concern alleviated, Lilian’s hands relax at her sides. “My thanks, Mistress Marieth. There is one other matter.”

  At the executive servitor’s gracious nod, Lilian continues, “I am uncertain of milord’s preference in the manner of working my hair.”

  Lilian can no more appear with hair unbound than she can with a warrior’s queue. She does not voice, as it is unnecessary, that the style must be one she can work without assistance. Milord will not be pleased by a request to hold her hair bindings.

  “Naught that is severe,” Marieth suggests after brief consideration.

  Not helpful. Do not voice that! Lilian takes a breath to aid her control. Struggling for another question that will not irritate Marieth, Lilian is startled by the executive servitor’s conspiratorial smile as she leans across the expanse of her cherry worksite. “Simple and off your shoulders will suffice. Beyond that, you must employ your own design.”