by E G Manetti
Sevenday 42, Day 5
The Warriors’ Respite maître d’ is mentally spending his bonus from what is certain to prove both a lucrative evening and one that will draw attention and further custom for months. Not only has the Matahorn Alliance reserved a private reception salon, but the charismatic and generous Fletcher Detrenti, a Serengeti protégé and a Bright Star member, has booked a table by the exterior windows.
Fletcher’s club is in the modern fashion—rejecting leather, brass, and mahogany in favor of chrome, glass, and brocade. Private reception chambers are separated from the club chambers by frosted-glass partitions.
The Warriors’ Respite prides itself on hosting the leading edge of the commerce elite. Any patronage from Bright Star members is guaranteed to generate notices for sevendays to come. The Matahorn warriors have begun to pour in; it will be but moments before Serengeti arrives. The queue for entry is already a quarter of a block. The owners will be well pleased and the maître d’s bonus is assured.
Sinead’s Spite! How dare he? For a moment, the Maître d’s perfect smile slips. Fletcher and another expensively groomed scion of the warrior elite are politely ushering into the club a trim young woman in severe black, her hair bound in a warrior’s queue. The only discernible color in her ensemble is the scarlet conservator’s seal at her waist. It is Lucius Mercio’s notorious apprentice and conservator, Lilian. The disgraced apprentice would not be welcome in such hallowed portals. Escorted by the impeccable Nickolas and Fletcher, Lucius Mercio’s vessel may not be refused.
The Maître d’ is about to apologize, so sorry that Fletcher’s prominent table is unavailable, when three things occur almost simultaneously. Monsignor Horatio Margovian’s heir, Siegneur William, enters and nods politely to the trio, the noisy crowd at the bar grows hushed and then loud with excitement, and Fletcher Detrenti smiles. It is not his ready, charismatic smile; it is a challenge. A challenge seconded by Nickolas, who glowers as he fingers his dagger.
Knowing that the owners will not care why he prominently seated the notorious Lilian, the defeated servitor mentally shreds his bonus as he leads the trio to Fletcher’s table. It is conveniently within view of the entrance to the Matahorn reception salon.
Seated, drinks and first course ordered, Lilian executes a perfect social smile for Fletcher and Nickolas. The gentle curl of her lips is so startling that it brings both young men to the realization that they have not seen it before. “So, Master Fletcher, is it in hand?”
“Yes, the monitor tech has been paid. We will have the recording,” Fletcher affirms with lowered brows. Extended contact with Damien has not endeared the shallow warrior to Fletcher. “Should it be requested, so will Seigneur William.”
“Are you certain you wish to wait until after the third course?” Nickolas demands impatiently, determined to redeem his honor through Damien’s destruction.
“Yes, quite certain, Master Nickolas,” Lilian insists. “Mayhap longer. Master Fletcher must have his opportunity.”
Shades take it, they lack wit, Lilian mentally bemoans. “I beg you, smile. We should be seen to enjoy ourselves. Master Fletcher, if I may be permitted to know, is it true that you compete in the Moon Races?”
Lilian turns the conversation into acceptable social avenues she knows both warriors will embrace with animation. Lilian, as with the entire Cartel, is well aware that Fletcher competes in the seasonal event. As it develops, Nickolas is an avid follower. The topic creates a lively conversation, demonstrating to observers an easy relationship among the three Serengeti associates.
The reactions among the Matahorn contingent at Lilian’s carefully crafted display are all she hoped. Recognition, interest, surprise, and curiosity are among the most common. Stronger emotions are felt by a few. Horror on the part of Damien St. Gervais when he discovers that after maligning her for two months, Fletcher is on easy terms with Lilian. For Horatio Margovian, speculation shifts to suspicion when he notes the courtesy the two well-regarded protégés show Lucius’ apprentice. Suspicion rapidly transmutes to certainty when he discovers naught in Lilian’s demeanor to support Damien’s assertion that Lilian’s nature is as corrupt as her genetics.
Horatio was not pleased that his new protégé’s illicit alliance with Lucius’ doxy did not yield its promised advantage. He is now convinced that the advantage was Blooded Dagger’s. William’s operatives have been lax. Horatio will know the extent of Damien’s failure before designing retribution.
“Nickolas, what think you for the second course?” Fletcher reviews the menu. “I favor the carpaccio, but given the source of my funds, mayhap the caviar?”
“Why not both?” Nickolas returns with a laugh, delighted that as part of their play to entrap St. Gervais, they are using the bribes paid to Fletcher for supposedly betraying Serengeti. Even Damien St. Gervais was not so foolish that he would expect information to flow from Fletcher simply out of pique at Blooded Dagger for harboring Lilian. More interesting to Lilian was what tale Damien devised to justify the bribes, since Damien’s supposed liaison with Lilian should have provided the information through blackmail.
It was Nickolas who suggested that Damien justified the bribes to protect himself in case the intrigue was discovered. “After all, if the explanation for the betrayal is bribery, only the recipient of the bribes is found at fault. Violating Monsignor Lucius’ property rights would warrant Blooded Dagger retribution.”
“Mistress Lilian, what say you? Will you share in the extravagance provided by my ill-gotten funds? Carpaccio and caviar?” Fletcher gestures at the menu.
Finishing the last of her first course of delicate pastry and mushrooms, Lilian considers the charming warrior and his open relish at the notion of Damien’s downfall. While carpaccio does not appeal, caviar does and it is not a treat she is likely to enjoy again anytime soon. Nodding, Lilian says, “My thanks, Master Fletcher, caviar would be lovely. Although, with your pardon, I believe your funds are in no manner ill-gotten. Rather, they were well earned in service to Serengeti.”
“Well voiced,” Nickolas applauds, a bit surprised by his enjoyment of Lilian’s company. Delighted to be included in the downfall of Damien St. Gervais, Nickolas had not anticipated his duty could be executed in such a pleasant manner.
As Lilian predicted, Damien cannot control himself. He makes a number of trips through the public area for no particular purpose other than to survey their table. After the third course, Damien approaches the central bar in search of a drink rather than consume what is freely offered at the Matahorn reception.
Recognizing his opportunity, Fletcher excuses himself and joins Damien at the bar. Clapping the other warrior on the back, Fletcher greets Damien as an old friend. When challenged for his easy terms with Lilian, Fletcher flashes his ready smile and says, “She is Monsignor Lucius’ conservator and a member of Bright Star. Why would we not be on easy terms?”
With another clap on the back, Fletcher walks off, leaving a stupefied Damien behind.
As Damien follows Fletcher from the bar, Lilian rises from the table and seeks the freshening closet. Lilian adds a slow count to one hundred to her personal activities before stepping out into the discreet alcove where the closets are housed. Her patience is rewarded.
Damien is waiting for her in the otherwise deserted area, blocking the way and radiating animosity. “What do you here, Lilian?”
Well aware of the monitors and the recording soon to be in the hands of Matahorn, Lilian is careful to establish her position and the true nature of her relationship with Damien. “I am dining. Why do you accost me? Did I not make myself plain at the Bright Star reception? Must I pull my thorn and blood you to convince you that your attentions are unwelcome? I will protect Monsignor Lucius’ interests in all matters, including my person.”
With that, Lilian starts to push past the man.
Damien makes the mistake of grasping Lilian’s left arm to restrain her, only to find the back of that hand scored sharply by the thorn th
at has leapt from nowhere. Damien releases Lilian with a cry of surprise and pain. Lilian quickly slips past the injured warrior, storing the thorn out of sight before encountering any others.
Rejoining her escorts, Lilian discovers them debating dessert choices and declines to indulge. “Green tea will suffice for me. I have already enjoyed my sweet.”
Sevenday 42, Day 6
Lilian’s gold gown bells around her as once again she pirouettes for milord. As she completes her display, Lilian catches a glimpse of heat in milord’s gaze, quickly suppressed. Milord is magnificent in his formal wear. An insistent throb in her nether jewel has Lilian regretting that the morrow is Seventh Day. There will be no midday attendance on milord. The slight curve of milord’s lips suggests milord’s thoughts are similar. Lilian’s jewel pulses. I am the sum of my ancestors. Now is not the time.
It lacks a quarter period to seventh bell as Lilian follows milord into the penthouse riser. The carriage drops three levels and opens to the reception area of Order’s Pinnacle. The most exclusive club in the Third System, it is commonly known as Signet Citadel. To have a residence in milord’s tower or a membership at this club, one must possess a seigneur’s signet. That the tower and the club are Mercio properties is common knowledge.
Lightly scented by the elaborate floral display, the reception area is a broken tableau of golden light and shadow as the descending sun is cut by the towers of the Commerce District. Bright- to dark-cherry furnishings are scattered across the gray crevasse-stone floors accented with tiles of the Five Warrior emblems. The vivid colors of the tiles are echoed on the walls, where the members’ cartouches are displayed.
I am the foundation of my family. Lilian focuses her gaze on milord’s broad shoulders as she resists the compulsion to search the chamber walls for the gap created when Remus Gariten’s Grey Gyre Cartouche was eradicated.
Honor is my blade and shield. Entering the riser in milord’s wake, Lilian calls her discipline to control her anticipation. After last evening’s play at the Warriors’ Respite, there is no way to predict how Damien St. Gervais will behave this evening.
Five breaths later, Lilian follows milord’s immaculate tailoring into the entertainment chambers of Signet Citadel. The level below houses a rejuvenation center, a training facility, a small dispensary, and conference chambers. The golden light, no longer blocked by the commerce towers, fills the massive ceremonial chamber. Lilian’s analytical mind executed the mathematics in her first month with milord. Milord’s penthouse commands but a quarter of the structure’s top storey. This elaborate retreat accounts for all the other area.
The glazed walls of the main chamber display Crevasse City and the Plains of Dominion. The secondary chambers present vistas of the cityscape, the origin point of the Great Crevasse, or the plains and the widening rift of the Great Crevasse. Liveried servants stand at attention by their stations while a severe woman in commerce garb inspects every aspect of the arrangements. The club’s master associate will ensure the Bright Star confirmation reception eclipses the formation reception at the Warriors’ Summit.
Near the windows, a cluster of Blooded Dagger seigneurs and protégés turn to acknowledge milord.
“Solomon, Marco, well met.” Lucius greets his kinsmen as the Vistrite and Bright Star seigneurs break free of the waiting company to attend Lucius.
“Blooded Dagger,” both Marco and Solomon return informally.
“How goes it with Micah?” Lucius smiles at Solomon. Recently past eighteen, Micah has been declared Solomon’s heir. A close friend of Raphael, Micah has his father’s sweet face and promises a similar shrewdness.
Grinning, Solomon responds, “Much as I expected. The promise of a signet has turned his head a bit. He is paying for his foolishness.”
Grinning in return, Lucius acknowledges, “I recall a correction or two for the same cause.”
This day. This day. Lilian flounders as she listens to milord’s banter with his kinsman. The Vistrite seigneur is openly pleased with his heir.
For reasons Lilian has never known, Remus Gariten publicly declared her heir at the exceptionally young age of four. It was but a few months after the Grey Gyre Cartouche was licensed and a month before her dedication ceremony to Adelaide Warleader. As Gariten’s only offspring, the public declaration of Lilian as heir was unnecessary. Certainly Gariten never expressed any pleasure in his choice to Lilian, or to any other.
“Here, sweetling, let me aid you.” Helena crouches before seven-year-old Lilian. At thirty-two, Helena’s features are softer, rounder. She appears barely past her majority as she aids Lilian in attaching a small ornament to her belt.
Garbed in the pale gray tunic and hunter-green trousers of Crossed Sabers Academy, Lilian wears white piping at her collar and cuffs to identify her as a starter, a student at the first level of academic achievement. She is at least four years younger than the others who enter the academy this day.
“There you are, nicely secured.” Helena smiles, releasing the charm to dangle from Lilian’s belt.
The small circle of platinum has the Grey Gyre Cartouche inlaid with sapphires. It is the heir’s seal. Lilian has not displayed it before. Warrior primary schools do not acknowledge rank differences among the students.
Worriedly, Lilian fingers the seal lightly, cautiously tugging to test the fastening. It will not be well if she loses the ornament.
“It is only temporary, girl.” Remus Gariten’s disgusted snarl echoes in Lilian’s head. “As soon as your meager mother produces a proper heir, a male heir, it is gone. You are useless to me. Never forget it.”
May the Second Warrior consume your beating heart! You are dead and I am glad of it! Lilian mentally screams. A rough cough from Seigneur Solomon. Lilian is pulled into the present. Bright Star! Milord?
Milord is three long strides ahead as he moves to greet Monsignor Elenora, Lilian noticeably absent from his left shoulder. Inwardly cringing at the censure in Seigneur Marco’s eyes, Lilian hastens forward. Lackwit. He is dead. You disgrace milord. Springing lightly on her toes, Lilian closes the distance, the swirl of her skirts masking her unseemly pace. She reaches milord one stride before he closes with the other governor.
I am the sum of my ancestors. When milord turns to welcome Elenora, his hard gaze catches Lilian and darkens. Her laggard attention was not unnoticed. Milord is not pleased. I am the foundation of my family.
Lucius is well aware that his apprentice failed to follow him in a timely manner. Turning to greet Elenora, Lucius catches a brief glimpse of Lilian’s shuttered countenance indicating distress. The source of Lilian’s public laxity is unimportant. It cannot be tolerated. It must be publicly addressed.
»◊«
The small dish of seasoned quail eggs is set before milord. Without halting his discussion with Monsignors Horatio and Angus, Lucius spins the small plate. A minuscule fork attached to a long handle randomly spears one of the delicacies. Gracefully, Lilian raises the morsel to her lips and consumes it. Honor is my blade and shield. It is a ridiculous precaution. The finest techno-bio has already confirmed the food fit for consumption. All present know it. Lilian’s attendance is a correction. Lilian is reduced to servitor to humiliate her. Honor knows not fear.
Lilian has no objection to tasting milord’s food or pouring milord’s wine. Other than the desire to discover Damien’s demeanor, Lilian has little interest in the reception. It is but another landscape of snares and trial to be navigated.
For a period, Lilian has not failed to note milord’s slightest motion, the least indication of his will. Her correction is not without advantages. Lilian has not missed a single word of the important discussion among milord and Monsignors Horatio and Angus on the alterations to the stellar transit protocols proposed by the Ayres Alliance, the cartel that controls the beacon network essential to interstellar transit.
As the conversation veers into a discussion of the latest designs in personal transports, Lilian’s gaze wanders to the expanse
beyond the windows. An illusion of the abyss is created when the bright stars of the early green season merge with the lights of the unrelenting mining within the crevasse. It is milord’s favored vista. Lilian finds it shade-freezing.
Honor endures. Lackwit. You are a meager warrior. Your attention belongs to milord. Shamed by her lapse, returning her gaze to milord, Lilian locks her knees against muscle failure threatened by over six bells standing since she rose. She will offer milord no further disgrace. Honor acts as duty commands. It is a mild correction. Milord is not truly angered.
Taking comfort in her thoughts, Lilian sends her fingers along the exterior of the carafe that holds milord’s well-watered wine. Lilian detects an unacceptable rise in temperature. The light snap of her fingers against the throat of the crystal decanter brings a servitor. A fresh decanter is set in the well, a thimble’s full poured. Lilian swallows.
Horatio Margovian is not overly concerned by the Ayres’ attempt to use the beacon network to exploit Bright Star. Second among the cartels, Ayres’ competition for a position in Bright Star forced Horatio into concessions he dislikes and commitments that will be costly to honor. It matters naught. In his mind, Horatio has the Thirteenth System ringed with Matahorn supply depots as tightly as the Eleventh and Twelfth systems. He is not happy that the recent negotiations have not advanced that vision.
Only marginally attending the discussion of personal transports, Horatio’s gaze rests on Lilian as she swallows a small mouthful of wine. Idly, Horatio wonders how ‘Lucius’ Indulgence,’ as Horatio mentally terms the apprentice, has found the wrong side of Lucius’ will. It cannot be Damien; evidence mounts rapidly that there was naught to the protégé’s assertion of a liaison. This night’s correction has its source in a minor transgression. Is Lucius tired of his plaything? Other than bed sport, there can be little purpose in Lucius offering his shadow to the tainted woman. Turning to Sebastian, Horatio dismisses Lilian from his mind. Whatever her fault, William will have the truth of it by night’s end.