by E G Manetti
“Now, Lilian. Rise to me now,” milord demands.
With a sob of relief, Lilian thrusts her hips to meet the erotic invasion of milord’s sex.
The crisp, cold wine holds a trace of emerald in its depths. It leaves a hint of spiced pears on Lilian’s tongue. Settled against milord’s chest, Lilian savors the wine as she considers the weave of the fine linen sheet that rests in her lap. Milord is once again gazing into the void.
“You scored well but not too well,” milord offers with light tickle to Lilian’s ribs. “I am pleased you controlled your pace.”
“First, twentieth-first and thirty-fifth,” Lilian murmurs in response. It had not been easy to compensate for her early achievement without appearing laggard.
“Lilian?” Milord captures her chin and raises her face to his.
Blinking in surprise, Lilian replies, “The strictures milord. Milord’s will in all matters. The full of one’s ability. Maintain a decorous pace.”
For a moment Lucius is mystified and then the odd discourse takes meaning. Lilian’s numeric references were to the strictures of the Apprentice Protocol. Compressing his lips to contain rising mirth, Lucius strokes Lilian’s bottom lip. “The thirty-fifth is a prohibition against racing in the halls.”
“Yes milord,” Lilian nods. “It does not specify racing. I thought it apt. Did I err?”
At Lilian’s serious expression, Lucius can no longer contain his mirth. In response to his laughter, wariness enters Lilian’s expression, the shutters begin to close. Demon shit.
Pulling Lilian’s glass from her hand, Lucius sets it aside as he turns her on her back. Swallowing his humor he says, “Peace. You have done well.”
Milord’s kiss is more intoxicating than the wine. Twining her arms around milord’s neck, Lilian is swept away.
Chapter 8: Intrigue
A thousand years ago, society was on the brink of collapse. Three centuries of violent anarchy had left the Three Systems in ruins. The technological, societal and artistic achievements of a great culture were laid to waste. History and law were reduced to a handful of customs and taboos. A great spiritual awakening devolved into small shrines and temples that were more likely to house superstition than faith.
Another few decades of destruction, maybe as few as ten years, and the Three Systems would have ceased to exist. There would be nothing left but nine worlds regressed to the primitive time before stellar transport. The last flicker of enlightenment was on the verge of being extinguished. In that dire epoch, five warlords united to stabilize the warring planets and systems. ~excerpt from The Origins of the Five Warriors, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 4, Day 2
“It is a cadet branch of the Iron Gauntlet Cartouche. Why they are defrauding the Blooded Dagger is a mystery. This branch of Iron Gauntlet does very well,” Trevelyan reports.
The spy is seated with Lucius at the conference table. Lilian, as is customary, is standing behind milord’s left shoulder. The chamber is bright with the mid-morning sun. The Garden Center and the cityscape sparkle with light. The lingering benefits of the recent green season remain evident in the lush green foliage and the clarity of the cloudless blue sky.
“As for Simmons, we have reason to believe he transited to the Twelfth System under an assumed name. He has kin in the Port Authority on Desperation who could have found him an anonymous berth. There are not many techs of his level willing to transit to the verge. I have agents in place to watch for him when the transport arrives planet,” Trevelyan completes.
The spymaster’s attention is on milord. Lilian is certain Trevelyan has not missed a single tap of her slate.
“Good. I would know what this man has to offer,” milord says. “Lilian is correct. This cannot be about the income from the fraudulent contract. The risk is not worth the benefit.”
Compressing his lips in frustration, milord continues, “I am reluctant to move against these Servants of Anarchy without knowing what is behind all this. Lilian, have you aught?”
“No milord,” Lilian shares milord’s frustration although she is careful to keep her response dispassionate. “There is naught but data that will not come to order. The criminals have spent a great deal of effort to mask the core of their purpose. I have yet to discover where the pattern lies.”
“Trevelyan, what say you?” Milord demands of his investigator.
“I do not believe it wise to wait for the information Mr. Simmons may provide. Every operation has its weaknesses. With your permission, I will exit planet for a time.” Trevelyan’s matter of fact manner does not disguise the potential illegality of his intent.
“Lilian, leave us,” Lucius orders.
Both men are silent as Lilian exits through the scarlet door.
As the door seals Trevelyan observes, “There is a remarkably sharp mind in that one. An amazement in a twenty-six year old.”
“Twenty-four,” Lucius absently corrects the other man, his mind elsewhere.
“What say you, monsignor? Lilian completed her advanced studies in six years?” Trevelyan is impressed and it is not a common occurrence.
Considering his trusted retainer, Lucius smiles slightly, “Fewer than six in truth. She spent the balance achieving mastery.”
“That girl completed a ten year course of study in six years?” From his tone, Trevelyan could be evaluating a claim that Lilian can fly.
“More like thirteen in nine,” is Lucius’ response. It is not often he is able to confound his spymaster. “She started at the university during her fifteenth year.”
At this information, Trevelyan shakes his head and whistles, “A bit more than clever. I knew you wanted her talents. I was not aware she is a prodigy. I am surprised you ever considered allowing Monsignor Sebastian to be her mentor.”
“He had the right of kinship. To assert preeminence at the outset would have evidenced too much interest. I know Sebastian. Sooner or later the opportunity to attach her would have presented itself,” Lucius’ voice holds distinct smugness. He has what he wants.
Sharpening his tone, Lucius adds, “I would prefer you not voice ‘prodigy’ again. Dean Joseph went to considerable effort to mask the true level of Lilian’s ability. As events have unfolded, it is well.”
“The same events that dropped Lilian into your lap,” Trevelyan returns dryly. “Truly monsignor, you have the Luck of the First Warrior. So, shall we discuss my voyage of discovery?”
For the next few sevendays, almost all of the spymaster’s actions will be illegal.
»◊«
Second bell after midday Lilian eases back in her chair and regards the Archives reviewer with disfavor. After a period of research and analysis, the financial muddle of the fraud scheme remains a muddle. Each avenue of exploration terminates in more confusion rather than less. There is a pattern. She should be able to discover it. This is why milord acquired her and she is failing. Unhappily, Lilian reconciles to the fact that Master Trevelyan’s investigation is more likely to solve the riddle than her analytics.
As Lilian regards the reviewer, the complex numbers fade under a forming image. Breacher assault. No system is impregnable. With sufficient time, talent, and resources a breacher will penetrate any system.
The Serengeti systems are as close to impregnable as possible. It would require a massive amount of wealth and resources to penetrate from without. Periodically, there are assaults from within.
Some are orchestrated by the Cartel Security-Privilege forces under the direction of Seigneur Damocles. Some are the result of a bored or disgruntled retainer. Occasionally, they result from someone duped by a breacher into bringing an agent into the Cartel via slate. The Cartel defenses are formidable. It will be a matter of moments before this assault is terminated.
Following protocol, Lilian disables her slate until the assault is repelled. She watches, intrigued, as the assault takes form. Lilian witnessed several breacher assaults while attending Mulan’s Temple. This is her first encounter with
one within the Cartel.
The image that forms is, without question, the result of a prankster. The vulgar visual shows a nude, hooded woman engaged in carnal activity with several men. As is common with such entertainments, the woman is extraordinarily endowed as are the men.
As Lilian observes, one of the men pulls the hood from the woman. The face on the reviewer does not belong with the woman’s body. Among other discrepancies it is quite a few shades lighter. The high cheek bones, gray eyes and long tail of dark hair are all unmistakable. Lilian’s face looking out from the reviewer is expressionless. Although Lilian cannot view it, the face in the visual mirrors her current demeanor.
This day. There is only this day.
“Our Mistress Lilian is quite athletic,” sneers a man behind Lilian. Chortles accompany the comment which gives rise to other sounds of amusement.
I am the sum of my ancestors.
“Creative too,” comes a competing witticism to be greeted by more laughter.
I am the foundation of my family.
“Not very discriminating,” a woman comments and brings on another round of hilarity.
Lilian does not turn. She does not recognize all the voices. Master Martin’s is unmistakable. The visual suddenly disappears. The Cartel defenses have engaged. The loss is greeted by catcalls and jeers that continue for several moments until cutoff sharply, as if with a blade.
“Mistress Lilian,” the voice of Archive Master Liger demands her attention.
Standing and turning, Lilian faces the Archive Master. Through no fault of her own she is on the wrong side the Archive Master’s will. It is a location Lilian would have avoided.
I will not fail.
Master Liger is a burly man of average height with an unlikely mop of lightly silvered, sable brown curls. The heavily jowled features, brooding brown eyes and bushy brows put Lilian in mind of thoughtful mastiff. Lilian knows him to be a brilliant archivist. Master Liger could hold the Master Scholar post at any number of universities. He prefers the lucrative nature of cartel service over the esteem of a university post.
“I wish to commend your recommendation that we consider the inventory control algorithms of Mulan’s Master Scholar. It is now the Serengeti standard. You have done well.” The approbation of Master Liger’s words is completely unexpected.
Done well. The words echo in Lilian as if dropped into a deep and dry well. Their passage sends minor shocks through Lilian’s marshaled defenses. I am not at fault. I have served Cartouche and Cartel. Lilian expected no more than a brief alert accepting her suggestion. Public acknowledgment is beyond all imagination.
The Archives are silent. The gathered associates are as stunned as Lilian. Summoning her wits, Lilian is able to respond correctly, “It is an honor to serve Serengeti.”
“You may return to your duties,” Liger dismisses Lilian from attention.
“My thanks, Master Liger,” Lilian replies.
At the dismissal she is free to settle back into the chair. Gaze directed at, but not focused on the reviewer, Lilian considers her course of action. She will not retreat from the Archives for at least a period. Her interrogatives are complete. Mindful of milord’s instructions, she will not submit them until Sixth Day.
There is the Vistrite. With the fraud investigation, Lilian has access to almost all aspects of the mining and refining of the precious substance. Information locked tight inside the security-privilege of Blooded Dagger.
»◊«
Fifth bell chimes as Lilian darts from the riser carriage into the Lobby. Milord’s summons allowed her but ten minutes to apply a freshening packet and make it to the lobby. Hastening to the exit, Lilian can see milord’s transport waiting. Is she late? Is she delaying milord?
No, Mr. George gives a small shake of his head from his accustomed position. She is not late. Slowing her pace, Lilian begins to greet the driver when he halts her with a gesture. Turning, Lilian waits with George.
The tall man striding across the Serengeti lobby is enraged. His tangible wrath scatters the milling crowd from his path.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Milord was pleased enough when she left him at midday. I am the foundation of my family. Her day did not proceed pleasantly. There is naught in the Archives incident to give rise to such a storm. Mind scrambling, Lilian can surface no notion of what she has done to raise such ire. A cold knot forms behind Lilian’s navel.
Honor is my blade and shield.
Following milord into the waiting transport, Lilian settles into the seat. Milord does not speak. Milord’s discipline will be painful. Milord’s expression holds impatience and heat along with the anger. Honor endures.
Unable to meet the harsh regard, Lilian carefully unbinds her hair, calling on her discipline to keep her fingers from trembling. She does not succeed. The chill of fear in her middle refuses containment.
Naught. I have done naught ill. Why does he not speak? Using the excuse of her task, Lilian keeps her eyes lowered as she attempts to gather her control. Honor knows not fear. Stowing her nap ties and brush in the slate bag, Lilian examines the weave of her linen skirt. The quality is no more pleasing than when she acquired it.
“Lilian,” at the sound of milord’s voice, Lilian raises her eyes.
She is dragged into milord’s embrace. Milord’s mouth is hot on hers as he molds her against him. Senses swimming, Lilian meets the kiss, confusion mixing with her fear.
Dazed, Lilian follows milord into the riser carriage. The numbing fear is no longer spreading from her diaphragm to her extremities. Milord roughly pushes Lilian to the riser wall. He ravages her mouth with his, pinning her with his hips, his erection a hard ridge inside his trousers. Urgent hands pull free her jacket and blouse.
The riser doors have barely recessed before milord drags Lilian through the penthouse. Her jacket, blouse, and slate bag are heedlessly discarded. They proceed no further than the dining table.
Without a word, milord lifts to Lilian to sit on the table. Dazed by her fear and her reaction to milord’s erotic assault, Lilian grips the edge of the table. Her sex aches from milord’s onslaught. Her fear remains a cold knot in her middle.
Lilian’s skirt is pushed above her hips allowing milord to step between her legs. His demanding hands lower her to the table surface and bare her breasts. Eyes closed, Lilian arches towards the heat of milord’s hands on her breasts. The anger is unseen. There is only what has become the familiar and insistent passion of milord’s pleasure. Lilian’s fear retreats.
Pebbled by excitement, Lilian’s nipples elongate under milord’s determined attention. Opening her eyes, Lilian finds milord’s eyes hazed with desire behind which the storm roils. One of milord’s hands strokes Lilian from knee to thigh. It hesitates and then teases the juncture of her thighs and the small swatch of silk that covers her core. Her breath catching, Lilian shudders under the sensual exploration.
This is milord. This is milord’s pleasure. Please milord.
Milord’s insistent fingers push past the fragile barrier of Lilian’s lingerie to find, explore and torment her sex. The heavy, wondrous sensation swells. Pressing into milord’s hand, Lilian is unable to contain a small whimper. Her thighs loosen and moisture flows.
Penetration follows quickly. Milord is deep within her. Lilian circles her hips, encouraging and beseeching. Milord increases his pace, plunging fast and hard. It feels wondrous. It is too brief. Milord’s satisfaction is achieved in moments.
Lying on the dining table, milord’s warm weight pressing against her, the retreat of her fear has left Lilian within the comfort of a familiar detachment. She is certain that the crystal light sculpture floating above the dining table is an antique. The design, materials, and intricacy of the crystal patterns indicate Fifth Century, Nine Systems craftsmanship. Its value equals her bond price.
The table surface onto which milord’s weight is pressing her is stone. Gently tracing the surface with three fingers, Lilian evaluates the texture. Cool stone.
Not marble. Slick. Jade? Wrong color.
Before Lilian can consider further, milord rises to his elbows, taking his weight from her torso. Milord’s eyes are heavy-lidded, satiation leavened with a shimmer of residual anger. Bewilderment replaces Lilian's analytics. Why carry me here? For milord’s pleasure the conference table would have been nearer to hand.
Knuckles gently graze her cheek as milord murmurs, “I have only begun.”
Cooling skin rouses Lilian from the pleasant languor that followed milord’s extended attentions. The feel of milord is in her body and the taste of milord in her mouth. Lilian searches the bedchamber with her eyes. She is alone. Forcing lassitude from her limbs, Lilian eases from the bed. Averting her eyes from the windows where full dark holds sway and the abyss calls, Lilian enters the unoccupied freshening closet.
Lilian continues to be mildly awed by the lavish appointments of the cleansing chamber, and the discretely located cabinet for the most personal of needs. The closet could encompass her bedchamber. The elaborate marble shower holds a bench sufficient to lie upon. Almost a third of the space is devoted to a massive tub.
Returning the bedchamber, Lilian collects her skirt and briefs from their abandoned positions on the floor. Folding them neatly, Lilian flinches as she considers the jacket, blouse, and bra abandoned between the riser and dining table. The garments will be beyond wrinkled. She wishes for her slate. Has milord no immediate need of her, there are assignments waiting.
At that thought, milord returns garbed in the scarlet robe, wine and crystal in hand. Milord is well pleased. The rage of the lobby is naught but a memory. Settling the wine on the table, milord climbs onto the bed and hands Lilian a glass. As the wine hits her empty belly it billows out warmth which will soon turn to lightheadedness. Realizing her error, Lilian sets the wine aside.
“You do not care for the vintage?” milord inquires.
“It is lovely, milord,” Lilian regrets she shall not enjoy it. “I have not eaten much this day. I fear it will make me tipsy.”
Chuckling, milord pulls her against him and hands her the glass, “I will not take offense.” After taking a sip, milord adds, “This is not the first occasion you have voiced this. You should try to eat more.”