by E G Manetti
Lucius’ raised eyebrows are a command Trevelyan cannot disregard. Demon shit. It might have been better to hold his tongue. His glass is empty. Demon shit twice. Lucius cannot be ignored. “I cannot reveal my source.”
With a nod, Lucius refills Trevelyan’s small glass and then his own. “As you hold to your oath, keep your secrets.”
Trevelyan’s service with Lucius began with the agreement that the spymaster would serve loyally but without compromising his beliefs or his honor. Taking up his glass, Trevelyan acknowledges their shared history. “Monsignor, I yield.”
Sipping spice, Lucius waits. This will prove interesting.
“Some of what I know is fact, and though some is supposition, I am certain of my conclusions,” Trevelyan begins . . .
Damocles. Rebecca double-checks her cosmetics. What a humorless stick. Well, at least he’s readily pleased. Striding quickly, she enters the riser bank. Suckle him hard, scrape his tender ring, and I’ll be done in less than a quarter period. Rebecca steps into the riser. It’s not as if he favors me. If I weren’t the cartel favorite, I doubt he would call me. It’s exercising his rank that excites him. Rebecca regrets the pleasant junior seigneur denied her company in deference to Damocles. Patting her chignon and swinging her hips, Rebecca steps from the riser. No matter, I’m the Cartel favorite and will remain so.
Crossing Damocles’ threshold, Rebecca shrugs her jacket into one hand with a well-practiced movement. Damocles is sprawled behind his desk. He is a well enough built man in his fifties, nearing Trevelyan in height, although he is sinew to Trevelyan’s mass. That he is unlovely in feature is of no matter. It is the contempt with which he motions Rebecca to disrobe that repels her.
Skirt and blouse join her jacket. Her petal-pink shelf bra presents her breasts and bared nipples the same pale pink as her bra. Her sex is nude of lingerie and curls.
“Leave it,” Damocles sneers as she reaches for her bra. “And retain the shoes.”
“Yes, Seigneur,” Rebecca replies in a deliberately soft, husky voice, peeping at the warrior through her lashes in a manner she knows to be beguiling. In a moment, Damocles will have her kneeling between his legs.
“Bend and grab the desk,” Damocles barks. “You are being honored this day.”
Provocatively licking her lips, Rebecca complies. This is new. How to make him finish quickly? Oh no. Girl thing, you must be wet. Ugly, scarred face. Cruel blue eyes with extraordinarily long lashes. Thorvald. Liquid flows as Rebecca imagines her trainer commanding her.
“Open your legs.” Damocles roughly forces her thighs apart, causing Rebecca to totter on her heels before finding her balance. Fingers probe her intimately, a whine breaks her concentration. “Wet. So wet. Yes.”
Do. It. Now! Rebecca mentally screams as she holds Thorvald in her head.
It is but moments. Rebecca rotates her hips, working the long, thin, shaft. Reaching back, she finds Damocles’ thighs and climbs her fingers. There. She has found the spot. Manipulating and drumming the tender space, she is rewarded by Damocles’ sharp cry and convulsive jerks.
Rebecca deliberately tightens her chamber, jerks her hips and quivers her legs. “Oh. Ohh. Ohhh!”
Damocles drops his weight on her and Rebecca sinks facedown on the desk. Thirteen minutes.
“Liked it, did you?” Damocles demands, wriggling his rapidly softening shaft as he crushes Rebecca into the desk.
“Yes, Seigneur,” Rebecca voices to the enamel surface.
Wriggling again, Damocles begins to withdraw and then stumbles. A loosened trouser leg was ensnared by Rebecca’s high heel when he widened her stance. Grabbing Rebecca for balance, Damocles’ greater weight pulls her free of the desk she no longer grasps. Gravity tumbles them into a clumsy arrangement of limbs. Judging from Damocles’ howl, Rebecca’s buttocks have been cushioned by the warrior’s most tender parts.
As Damocles attempts to push Rebecca from him, she tries to roll free, unfortunately moving in the opposite direction of Damocles’ shove. Insult is added to injury as Rebecca’s elbow impacts Damocles’ solar plexus. Wisely kicking free of her shoes, Rebecca frees herself from the tangle. Damocles is curled inward, cursing. His loosened trousers have dropped below his knees, hobbling him. Rebecca’s footwear dangles by his shins like strange extra appendages.
Attempting to gag herself with one hand, Rebecca is unable to completely smother a giggle.
At the sound, Damocles uncurls sufficiently to pin her with a baleful gaze.
Rimon’s Mercy, I’m in for it now.
“He tumbled from his own desk?” Lucius cannot help but chuckle at the ludicrous image.
“Rebecca accepted Straus’ correction without a whimper,” Trevelyan concludes.
Once again, laughter shakes Lucius. “Marieth is correct. He is a meager warrior to be unable to bend a woman over his desk without mishap.”
At Trevelyan’s frown, Lucius shakes his head. “Do not become Universalist with me. It is naught you have not executed!” With a twitch of his lips, Lucius adds, “Except for the tumbling, I am certain.”
“Damocles’ ineptitude is hardly sufficient cause to beat a young woman,” Trevelyan snaps.
“She should not have laughed,” Lucius insists. “Self-mastery is central to apprentice training.”
“Would you have belted her for it?” Trevelyan challenges.
“I would never be so inept,” Lucius denies.
At Trevelyan’s raised eyebrow, Lucius yields. “Were I so, no I would not. It is laughable.”
14. Traps and Triumphs
For two centuries, Sinead’s World was a secondary target in the anarchy that ravaged the Three Systems. Without Vistrite, the predominantly agrarian planet was not deemed worth the resources necessary to overthrow the notoriously ferocious Standingbear dynasty. As the Anarchy entered its third century, widespread famine coupled with Vistrite shortages turned the Standingbear holdings into a significant prize. To survive the escalating assaults, the dynasty employed a combination of trade, guile, force of arms, and treachery.
In holding her territory, Sinead Standingbear, the Fifth Warrior, was aided by a distant kinswoman, Adelaide Thornbearer, who rose to be captain of Sinead’s personal guard. Knowing that the survival of Sinead’s World depended upon Jonathan Metricelli maintaining his control of the Vistrite planets, Sinead sent Adelaide to forge an alliance with the Warrior renowned for honor and martial ability.
The Fourth Warrior accepted the gift of Adelaide and entered into an alliance with Sinead. Within a decade, Jonathan and Sinead’s control of the Third System was absolute. It was almost immediately threatened by the growing ambitions of Socraide Omsted in the First System and Rimon Ben Claude in the Second System. ~ excerpt from The Origins of the Five Warriors, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 32, Day 4
Lilian is pleased. After six months, Lucius is certain. The signs are unmistakable. There is the lightening in her countenance, the grace in her step, the loose swing of the normally so-squared shoulders. Containing his smile, Lucius gives his usual terse command. “What have you?”
“The means for milord to acquire the Troy saltmarshes, courtesy of Damien St. Gervais,” Lilian replies.
For a moment, Lucius evaluates his apprentice. The brightening of her countenance is coupled with an intensity of purpose. Lilian is fiercely gratified. Has she commenced her retribution?
Leaning back in his chair, Lucius clears his mind and waits. He has come to learn that when his apprentice crosses the scarlet threshold with that tightly repressed level of excitement, what will come next will be both surprising and very useful.
“I am listening,” Lucius encourages as he settles in to enjoy Lilian’s lovely length of leg and what will be a carefully structured discourse.
“Damien St. Gervais is not involved in a Matahorn conspiracy directed at milord or his interests,” Lilian states with certainty. At milord’s encouraging nod, Lilian continues, “I cannot attest that there is no su
ch conspiracy, only that Damien’s actions are not the result of such. Damien’s nasty little game has everything to do with his ambition and only his ambition.”
Milord’s lips curl slightly. Milord is intrigued. Gathering momentum, Lilian reports, “Since completing advanced studies, Damien’s career has been lackluster. As in the Andes Consortium, his assignments were routine. After five years, he held conservatorship of only the most unremarkable of properties.
“Three sevendays gone, Damien’s protégé contract was transferred to Monsignor Horatio. At that time, the Serengeti Bright Star team was developing and reviewing the profiles of the consortium members.”
As Lilian speaks, she notes that milord’s fingers are steepled. It is likely Serengeti’s preeminence is well ahead of her discourse. “At that time, Matahorn would have been developing similar profiles for Serengeti. As milord’s conservator and a member of the formation team, one of those profiles would have been mine.”
Lilian’s conclusion holds a wealth of implications. None are favorable to Damien St. Gervais.
“He lied to his mentor.” The flat, clipped words transmit milord’s disgust.
“Yes, milord, I believe he did,” Lilian acknowledges. “Whether Damien approached Monsignor Horatio or Monsignor Horatio approached Damien, I cannot say. There is no doubt in my mind that Damien St. Gervais was added to the Matahorn team in the belief that he has an intimate relationship with me that would gain a conduit to milord’s plans.”
Lilian’s bright gray eyes harden to cold metal as she presents the core of her analysis. “Damien’s crude approach at the Bright Star reception was an attempt to attach me to him in the only manner he could envision. Damien would have known that the attempt was unlikely to succeed. His nasty little intrigue was intended to remove me from Bright Star before his falsehood was exposed.
“Damien had at least two sevendays to plan his course of action should I refuse his liaison, not fourteen bells. The possibility that I could have been killed did not trouble him.”
Lucius is not deceived by Lilian’s careful dispassion. Briefly, he wonders how long Lilian practiced her delivery to present such an even demeanor. It matters naught. Adelaide’s consecrated wishes retribution. “Explain what this does to acquire the saltmarshes.”
Lilian’s eyes glow with anticipation as she lightly fingers her conservator’s seal. “Milord, Damien has erred. He wished to eliminate me so that he could not be held accountable when his conduit failed to produce. The conduit he claims to control remains in place.”
Lucius does not require further discourse. He releases his fascination with Lilian’s legs to evaluate how to exploit the Matahorn vulnerability. “St. Gervais requires another conduit. One he can claim is you. From what we know of him, he will not be over careful in embracing whatever may miraculously appear.”
“Yes, milord.” Lilian nods brightly. “Has milord a conduit milord wishes to offer the parasite?”
Carefully, Lucius turns over the possibilities. There are a number of possibilities. The simplest will turn St. Gervais’ disdain for Lilian against the man. It will give Lucius a lot of pleasure. “One evening quite soon, Master Fletcher will express—under the influence of drink—how distasteful he finds it to take subordinate place to a tainted doxy regardless of her conservator status.”
There. A slight tightening around Lilian’s eyes confirms Lucius’ assessment. His apprentice is not as dispassionate as she would have him believe. Or is it herself she wishes to convince? It is a thought for another day. This day, there is a parasite to crush.
“Fletcher shall express these reprehensible views to my protégé, Nickolas. Nickolas, while sharing Fletcher’s distaste, will insist that reverence and loyalty to my will must supersede personal inclination. This will leave Fletcher with no one but a sympathetic Damien with whom to commiserate.”
Brilliant. The devious man is absolutely brilliant. Lilian ignores milord’s disparaging characterization of her status. It is the common view. It is one she herself has expressed. Lilian is beyond impressed by milord’s employment of the protégés. Nickolas’ refusal to play will give it the ring of truth and Fletcher’s charismatic smile could convince a crevasse-crawler that rock is roast. “Damien will swallow it whole, milord.”
“Is there aught else?” Milord is ready to finish the morning’s review.
“If milord pleases?” Lilian entreats. I am the sum of my ancestors. It may not be all Lilian’s hopes. It should be enough. At milord’s nod, she continues, “Damien was seconded to Monsignor Horatio three sevendays past. The information was readily located. This Sixth Day past, the day of the reception, there was naught in the Margovian profiles. Not even his name.”
Milord’s darkening aspect indicates he understands the nature of the omission. His words confirm it. “Had Damien been noted among the Margovians, you would have revealed all at my penthouse the night before the reception.”
“Yes, milord,” Lilian acknowledges. I am the foundation of my family. Milord is following the trail. Seigneur Ayesha and Ann Hunter were responsible for the Margovian profiles. Patience. Milord will act.
“And we would have been prepared for intrigue.” Annoyance enters milord’s voice. Milord was not pleased to be manipulated by Damien’s clumsy ploy. “There will be advantage from this situation. More might have been gained with foreknowledge.”
Milord’s lips tighten as he commands, “Report Grey Spear’s negligence to Seigneur Marco.”
Lilian nods her obedience. Monsignor Sebastian must demonstrate he is not complicit in this massive error. He will protect the warrior Seigneur Ayesha and discard Ann Hunter. Lilian’s delight at the outcome is increased by the realization that milord has a play against Grey Spear and Monsignor Sebastian. As she mentally forms her report to Seigneur Marco, embarrassment tempers Lilian’s delight. “Does it please milord, I will voice naught but university acquaintance. I would prefer to omit the whole of the sordid tale.”
Milord’s eyes narrow, a hint of silk enters his tone. “Grey Spear’s oversight is inexcusable. You must so inform Marco. As for the additional history Marco will require to support our ploy with Damien, I will provide him with what is needed. You will not be required to speak of it.”
“My thanks, milord,” Lilian replies gratefully. It was too much to hope that milord’s kinsman would be left ignorant of her folly. At least she is spared the confession.
“Very well, if that is all.” Milord dismisses Lilian as he moves on to the next matter requiring his attention.
“If milord pleases, could I be allowed to use a recording device in addition to my slate?” Lilian interjects quickly before her continued presence can be construed as defiance. It is daring, but milord seems pleased with her.
“What say you, Lilian?” Milord is distracted and impatient.
“If milord recalls, I was so stunned by Damien’s presence and his position as protégé to Monsignor Horatio, I overlooked the significance of how recently he attained the position. Milord’s recording provided an essential memory aid. A recording device would be useful.” Lilian dislikes that she required prompting to recall the importance of Damien’s short tenure with the Matahorn preeminence.
At milord’s frown, she hastens, “I would not need to keep the recording long. Only a day or so to confirm the notes I log through the slate.”
“Lilian, do you realize that this is a dangerous proposition? Privilege would apply. You would be accountable for any recording that escaped,” milord warns.
“I had not considered the privilege risk, milord.” Lilian is embarrassed by her lapse. She is also intent on her purpose. “Perhaps Master Trevelyan could advise me on this?”
After a moment, milord nods. “Trevelyan, yes. You may have your recording device, but only to the extent that Trevelyan advises.”
“My thanks, milord,” Lilian replies.
Without another word, milord gestures Lilian’s dismissal and turns to his techno grouping. The absen
ce of milord’s customary “Is there aught else?” is clear indication that milord has moved onto other matters. Lilian has pushed as far as she dares. With a deferential nod, Lilian turns and exits.
Sevenday 32, Day 6
Breathing fast, Lilian dances away from the short sword aimed at her midsection. With a hard exhalation, Lilian launches herself at her assailant’s knees. She is rewarded by Helena’s stumbling retreat even as Lilian is compelled to roll across the stone pavement to avoid counterattack.
Springing to her feet, Lilian balances on the balls of her feet, thorn held loosely as she seeks an opening. In response, Helena takes an attack posture, the training short sword held across her body.
Before the combatants can close, a warning chime sounds. The period has ended. Lilian must ready for the Cartel.
Pulling her face mask free, Lilian offers a shallow bow and appreciation. “My thanks for the instruction, Maman.”
Placing the training blade on a convenient stone bench, Helena smiles. “You improve, no more than three bruises this day.”
Rubbing the soreness way from her left shoulder where Maman struck well, Lilian shakes her head. “Maman, your strikes may be fewer, but they seem harder.”
“Your enemies will be no less fierce,” Helena chides even as she smiles. “Your morning repast is by the fountain. Eat and then you must to the Cartel.”
“Maman, a moment,” Lilian asks even as she reaches for the now-tepid tea and cereal.
“What do you need?” Helena inquires, collecting a slice of fruit from Lilian’s tray with a sly smile. Lilian cannot chide Maman for eating with her fingers as she would Katleen.
“Not me, Maman, it is for Katleen,” Lilian explains, preparing to dig into her cereal.
Snatching another slice of fruit, Helena asks, “What of Katleen?”
Lucid. Maman is blessedly lucid. Lilian has been planning this for some days. She does not require Helena’s agreement, but it would be well to have the Seer’s participation. “Katleen is overly confined in the Garden Center District. For her birth festival, I wish to take her to the art museum.”