Bond Proof

by E G Manetti

  Although she understands Apollo’s purpose in setting Flavia’s contrition as service to Lilian and her family, it is yet another complication. There is no help for it, and as a former Adelaide’s Discipline Master, Flavia will no doubt make a formidable bodyguard. The thorn at her hip may not be a shrine relic, but it will slay as well as Lilian’s.

  Holding a pistol safe, the keeper turns to Mrs. Zdenka. “Lord Apollo wishes Flavia to have a fireburst pistol and sleep with it under her hand. Has Blooded Dagger any objection?”

  Mrs. Zdenka accepts the box. “Has she qualified?”

  Qualifications to handle fireburst weapons outside a firing range require strict testing and sponsorship by cartouche, shrine, or governor. All are registered. “Recorded the Sixth Day past.”

  Mrs. Zdenka breaks the seal and hands the holstered pistol and belt to Flavia.

  Sevenday 136, Day 3

  The sky in the courtyard opening is blue and cloud-free. The eaves where the courtyard covers are retracted are blessedly bird-free. Rising from the final form of avoidance, her limbs warm and responsive, Lilian reaches for her training garb.

  Today I live. Lilian pulls on her worn training trousers. Whatever Deacon Raleigh’s purpose, there is naught further to be done until he reaches Crevasse City.

  I am bonded. She must not allow her discipline to waver.

  There is only this day. The tunic fastens snug to her breasts.

  I will not fail. Her bond tally is proven but her honor proof is not done until the final moment of the final day.

  I will not fall. She tugs on the ankle boots, noting that the leather has cracked around the toes. They need only last another three months.

  There is only this day. Milord has done all he can to protect her.

  Today I live. She opens her chamber door and stumbles over an obstruction on the floor.

  Adelaide’s thorn! Blade in hand, she faces Flavia, who levitates to her feet, pistol at the ready. “What do you?”

  “I guard your door, as Lord Apollo instructs.”

  Lilian has no trouble recalling the terms of Flavia’s redemption. “You will spend yourself to insure the life and well-being of the Adelaide’s Thorn known as Lilian of Serengeti. You will take up residence in the house of Katleen Faesetili. You will make your bed on the floor of a small chamber. You will allow naught to pass the lips of Lilian of Serengeti or touch her form that you have not sampled.

  “When Mistress Katleen’s house is unoccupied, you will present yourself at the alcove twice each day for devotions and your meals. When the house is occupied, you will serve the family in any manner required. If the woman known as Lilian of Serengeti is alive and well on the first Seventh Day of the coming new year, you will be rededicated to Adelaide.”

  “Lord Apollo commanded you make your bed in a small chamber, not outside my door,” Lilian says. “Were you not assigned the chamber next to Katleen’s?”

  Flavia’s lips tighten as the pistol slides into the holster. “It is too far. I cannot protect you if I am not near.”

  I am the sum of my ancestors. The chamber next to Katleen’s has a cot used by the occasional Sinead’s acolyte and is the only other chamber in the house that is free of dust and grime. It seemed the obvious choice, but she cannot deny the woman her chance at redemption. Turning left, she opens the nearest door. The chamber is as barren as the rest of the house, the air stale from being closed for seasons, the only ornament the turquoise and bronze tiles on the floor and bordering the double door to the empty balcony. “Use this chamber. You can leave the door open does it please you. I regret it has not been opened in almost three years and will require some cleansing.”

  Peering into the chamber, Flavia nods. “It will serve.”

  Knowing her mother is waiting, Lilian turns for the stairs, Flavia at her heels. As it was the night gone, where Lilian goes, Flavia goes. When they reach the courtyard, a thought strikes. “Know you aught of food preparation?”

  “Some,” Flavia admits.

  “Did not the Lord Prelate instruct that you should be certain my meals untainted?”

  “He did.”

  “Please me and arrange a morning meal for us. I am safe with Maman and Mrs. Zdenka guarding the door.”

  After a brief hesitation, Flavia nods and disappears toward the back of the house and the kitchen. By the fountain, Maman holds a short sword and waits.

  I am the foundation of my family.

  »◊«

  Trevelyan nods and Rodolfo hammers on the entrance to Tiger’s River Quarter home. Flanking him, his spouse Joyce has her fire-pistol at the ready. Ever since he learned from Rebecca that Lilian refers to his operatives as the ‘Grim Twins,’ he cannot help but smile when he sees them. Next to him, Malcon misinterprets his expression and answers the smile with a fierce grin. This early morning assault on Tiger was timed to be disruptive and capture the raider off guard and half asleep.

  The door opens, and Rodolfo pushes in, followed by Joyce, then Malcon and Trevelyan. The thickset man who escorts them is well armed but wise enough to leave blade sheathed and pistol holstered. When Rodolfo starts to turn toward the reception chamber, the thug halts him. “Up the stairs, second door on the left.”

  Slowing their pace and moving with increased caution, the four ascend to the upper level. The house is ancient, the staircase only wide enough for one. If Tiger is fool enough to plan a trap, he will have a tactical advantage. A scrawny teenager, her face marred by acne, waits by the chamber door, her chartreuse tunic and trousers at least two sizes too large. If that child is of the age of consent, Trevelyan will swallow his signet. Adding her fate to his agenda, Trevelyan follows Malcon into what turns out to be a small sitting chamber with a balcony overlooking the river and the shrine ring on the far side.

  On the balcony, Tiger is pouring tea, the table laid with a morning meal. Leaving the Grim Twins to guard the door, Trevelyan and Malcon join Tiger at the table.

  Tiger’s loosely knotted robe reveals a barrel chest and coarse black hair that Trevelyan would have been pleased to never view. Sixty something, of average height and build, he has milk-pale skin and receding hair that he keeps closely cropped. The uneven features include a nose that has been broken several times and a ragged scar defining his left jawline that Trevelyan suspects is a souvenir of someone’s failed attempt to sever the black raider’s throat. Tiger’s deep-set black eyes hold intelligence, ruthlessness, and, at the moment, cunning. Raising the teapot, he gestures at the cups before Malcon and Trevelyan. At their refusal he sighs. “If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn’t do it in my home.”

  “This is not a social call,” Trevelyan says.

  “It never is.” Tiger reaches for a roll. “I’ve already said I’ve got the apprentice under my protection. None of the guild in this system will dare attempt her, and everyone in my commerce interests is listening for threats.”

  “What of the Sixth and Fifth Systems?” Malcon asks.

  The roll hesitates on its way to Tiger’s mouth. He finishes the motion and takes a bite, using his full mouth to avoid responding. Not that stalling will buy the black raider aught. Trevelyan stretches his legs under the table, pressing the heel of his boot against Tiger’s bare foot. “We know you have been meeting with Nova. We want him out of the Sixth System, not further entrenched.”

  Tiger swallows and reaches for his tea. After a gulp he says, “Wouldn’t trouble me to have him out of the Sixth System. What’re you offering?”

  “Offering?” Malcon snorts. “You are in no position to ask for aught. Give him what you must of the Tenth System and your other interests outside the Third. We care not.”

  “I don’t care to have illegal-servitude operations in my territory,” Tiger snaps. “In that, I’m better than you warrior lackeys.”

  “What say you?” Trevelyan glances at Malcon and gets naught but a twitch of his lips. The assassin has no more notion of Tiger’s accusation than Trevelyan.

  Face turning red
, Tiger leans across the table. “Two score dead pulled from Lake Oblivion, including two of my doxies stolen from their duties. Cruelly used and discarded. I thought Nova was making another attempt, but he wasn’t. Come to find out, Blooded Dagger and Serengeti Militia were all over it. Covering it up.”

  Universe scatter it. Trevelyan had worried when Tiger showed up to identify a Despoiler victim from the Southern Crevasse. The raider said and did naught in the intervening months, leading Trevelyan to think he had accepted the fictional illegal-servitude operation Aristides invented to hide the Despoiler activity. With the surviving Despoilers executed, as much justice as possible had been extracted for their victims. None of which he can share with Tiger. Nor can Tiger prove aught or he would have used the knowledge before now.

  “You don’t deny it.” Tiger sits back and crosses his arms.

  “None of Blooded Dagger and none currently of Serengeti had aught to do with those crimes,” Trevelyan replies. He does not need Aristides’ skills in media management to provide enough of the truth to placate without revealing the Despoilers. “Those who were involved are dead, executed by Serengeti or the governor. Their crimes were so black, publicity would have done naught for order and much for anarchy.”

  Tiger’s eyes narrow. “Grey Spear’s Damocles was severed from the cartouche and served the chalice around that time.”

  “So he was.”

  Tiger’s fingers drum the table. “Did he have a pleasant last few days?”

  “No.”

  “Best I can expect.” Tiger shrugs. “Never going to see a warrior face commoner disgrace.”

  For all there is some truth to Tiger’s words, Trevelyan is not about let it go unchallenged. “Remus Gariten.”

  “First time in over two decades.” Tiger shrugs. “Probably won’t see it again for another two.”

  “Gregor Matwan.”

  “Child killer, true enough,” Tiger agrees. “Some things even warriors can’t stomach.”

  “Speaking of children, how old is that girl we passed coming in?”

  “Girl?” At Trevelyan’s glower, he says, “Fine. She’s fourteen. What of it? She gets a place to live and enough to eat in return for cleaning and serving meals.”

  “Studies?”

  Tiger snorts. “I’m not a shrine. Briar Rose, one of Damocles’ victims, was paying her way at a shrine school. Now he’s gone and so are the fees. She’s safe, and when she’s legal, if her looks are passable, she can take Briar’s place.”

  “She was kin to one of the victims?” Trevelyan leans in. “Serengeti and the governor are seeing to the education of any left destitute by those crimes.”

  “Are they?” Tiger mimics shock. “Doesn’t matter. No kin ties, she’s just some stray he took in.”

  “He accepted responsibility for her and so do we. Send Malcon the information and someone will be by to take her to the shrines.”

  “Why so generous?” Tiger’s suspicion is not feigned.

  “The funds come from Damocles’ forfeited estate.”

  Tiger barks out a laugh. “Got to admit, Mercio’s got a gift for retribution.” Sobering, he reaches for the teapot. “Nova’s hold in the Sixth System is through construction. If his interests have trouble getting permits, I can keep him out.”

  »◊«

  The morning air cools Lilian’s exertion-heated skin, the blue sky streaked with wispy clouds. Pausing on the walkway, she runs a critical eye over the herb garden. Half has gone to weed, the greens consumed in their meals. The aging plants that remain will need to be nursed through the next two months until seedlings become plentiful and cheap with the abundance of the green season. At the rate the weeds are coming in, by Seventh Day she will need to spend at least two periods in the garden, even with Katleen assisting. It will be another period getting the dirt out from under her nails. Her worn work gloves are proof enough against thorns and stones but are not as effective at blocking the fine soil.

  “Adelaide’s thorn!” Flavia screeches from the kitchen. A blur of red, green, and blue iridescence explodes through the door, Flavia behind it brandishing a serving spoon. Gloribelle veers toward Lilian, circling her feet and chirping.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian lunges, grasping the little creature under its forelegs and clutching it close.

  Stepping into the garden, Flavia scowls at the tree wombat, spoon held at the ready. “That thing was in the kitchen. It attacked while I was preparing the meal.”

  How Flavia managed to miss meeting Katleen’s beast the night gone escapes Lilian, but it matters not. “This is Gloribelle, Katleen’s pet. She is often in the kitchen and will beg shamelessly from anyone present. I cannot imagine she attacked.”

  The size of small terriers, tree wombats have a natural diet of greens, fruit, pine nuts, and the insects that burrow in trees. With the ornamental gardens overgrown and abandoned, it is no surprise that the creatures have taken up residence. Unchecked, they can destroy orchards. As it is, the gardens are so far gone, Gloribelle and her ilk are the only pruning they receive. Rescued as an abandoned pup, Gloribelle can forage in the overgrown ornamental gardens but prefers the kitchen.

  Lowering the spoon, Flavia peers at Gloribelle. “What is it?”

  Hoisting Gloribelle a bit higher, Lilian moves toward the kitchen. “A tree wombat.”

  Following, Flavia says, “I thought they were gray or brown.”

  “She is usually light gray,” Lilian says, shutting the door. “This display of colors means she is in season. We need to find something to use as a leash.”

  “Leash?”

  “We need to keep her confined to the kitchen or the shed until she returns to her regular coat. Otherwise, we will be dealing with pups with the next rainy season.”

  Looking around, Lilian’s eyes land on an apron hanging on a hook. Pulling free the band that secures it at the neck and back, she loops one end and ties a slipknot. Pulling a slice of fruit from the cutting board where Flavia must have been working, she lures Gloribelle from under the table. Before the creature can snatch the treat, the loop is over her neck. With a startled chirp, Gloribelle drops to her haunches, black eyes confused. Handing Gloribelle the fruit, Lilian shakes her head. “I know you do not like it, but you will need it for naught more than two sevendays.”

  Snatching the tidbit, Gloribelle huffs.

  With a sigh, Lilian loops the free end around a table leg. “When no one is in the kitchen, she must be confined to the shed. Katleen will not be pleased, but I see no other path. If she is outdoors where that coat can catch the light, she will draw every male within a mile.”

  Stepping around Gloribelle, Flavia returns to the cutting board. “The garden needs weeding. I can tie the creature to a stake while I work in it. That will give it some time outdoors.”

  Surprised by the offer, Lilian stares at the other woman’s back for a moment before her manners return. “Thank you, both for offering to weed and the notion to have Gloribelle with you.”

  “It is my duty,” Flavia replies without turning.

  »◊«

  Trevelyan leans his head back in the transport, taking stock of the encounter with Tiger. For all the man is a nasty thug, he has some sense of decency if he draws the line at illegal servitude. And when he came for Briar Rose, his anger at what had been done to the courtesan was real enough.

  Mercio’s got a gift for retribution. If Tiger only knew, he would be far more cautious. Lucius Mercio is capable of savage violence on an interstellar scale. For half a year Trevelyan waded through rivers of blood with Lucius, no act too violent if it would bring an end to the pirates.

  Ignoring the protests of the elders, he commandeers the communications hub, six of Mulan’s avatars holding the elders back while he signals for Mercio’s armada. “Lackwits. The pirates are but two periods out. Our signal may already be too late.”

  We are formed from stellar glitter. He cares not that the man who cobbled together an armada of commerce and go
vernor militia is a spoiled warrior. A single militia warbird will send the pirates fleeing.

  The communications hub chimes. The armada is on its way. “They signal they are three periods out. We need only hold the pirates for a bell at most.”

  The stellar is within and without. We are one. For all their refusal to protect themselves or acknowledge kinship with Mulan’s avatars, the elders are not cowards. They insist on being at the forefront when the pirates close on the settlement. The balance masters dancing about them, they are followed by the adults from the settlement. A human shield determined to stand between their children and slaughter.

  We are ephemeral and eternal. The bronze-and-black-armored figure wears a death’s-head mask. Sadico. His long sword flashes and the chief elder’s head flies from his shoulders. With savage cries, the pirates flood into the open area before the stronghold. Leaving their pistols holstered, they use blades to cut through the unresisting Universalists with brutal savagery.

  Of the one hundred who followed him from Mulan, the forty who remain do not hesitate. With their blades and few fire-pistols hidden, they mingle with the human shield, waiting until the pirates have broken ranks in their haste to destroy. The avatars rise, and pirates die.

  We end as we began and begin again. The ground is slick with blood, the pirates decimated but far more in number than his avatars. With a rallying cry, he gathers his surviving avatars as the pirates force the doors. The universe slows and stutters. The roar of the cosmic fills his ears. The forces of Universal Balance guide his hands, dual sabers slashing and stabbing.

  The pirates turn and flee, unwilling to face armed and desperate foes, two wounded stumbling in the rear. Resisting the desire to slay them, he has them disarmed and bound. They will voice all they know before the next sunrise.

  A stellar craft roars overhead. The retreating pirates? Reinforcements? Mercio?

  Cosmic dust. Closing the door, he twists into shadow, pulling his tunic over his nose and mouth to dull the reek of death. Blades loose in his hands, he waits. He hears naught beyond the doors of the stronghold. If all is lost, when the doors are forced, he will face more pirates. Keeping his grip on his blades loose, he strives for Balance.