by E G Manetti
Once again Raleigh is confounded. During the brief stroll to Jonathan’s Shrine, the disingenuous teenager reveals that the guards protect Lilian from assassination by odds managers, Flavia is a fallen prelate seeking her redemption, Lilian is an accomplished Adelaide, Monsignor Lucius is beyond vindictive when those under his protection are harmed, and The Warriors’ Expansion is a fabulous entertainment.
Shades’ grace. The bright child will become as formidable as her sister. Her bright chatter has warned him that her sister is under the protection of Adelaide’s Lord Prelate as well as Lucius, her guards are ruthless and determined, and that if he accedes to Lucius’ will, he will likely be rewarded with exclusive license to import the most popular entertainment in the Twelve Systems.
By the time they reach Jonathan’s Shrine, Caoimhe and Bran appear dazed, the first subject to Lilian’s discourse, the second to Rebecca’s. In the unmonitored environs of Jonathan’s Shrine, Raleigh had hoped that unencumbered converse would give them a chance to determine the true goals of their companions. He is doomed to disappointment. Caoimhe and Bran are as confounded as he is. With naught else to discuss, Raleigh yields to curiosity and enters the alcove. For a moment he is overcome by the erotic display in the warrior square. A pale man in the midnight-blue training trousers of Socraide relentlessly pursues a lovely ebony woman, whose black garb mingles almost perfectly with her skin tones. Both Adelaide and Socraide are made expressionless by the masks hiding their features.
Raleigh is naught but a festival devoted. Other than during the Five Warriors’ Festival, it is a rare occurrence for him to enter a ring. After his initial shock at the nature of the Inversion, the free-trader is enraptured. There is naught lewd or vulgar in what he witnesses. It is the elegant and unashamed exploration of the power of passion and creation. It holds a hint of unacknowledged desperation. Passion, the creative power of ambition, and desperation were the elements that formed the Code of Engagement and the Order of the Twelve Systems.
Discovering Lilian and Katleen settled on the stone floor of the gallery surrounded by their chosen companions and Apollo’s friends, the free-traders join them.
“The Eleventh System? Redemption? Adelaide favors us,” Apollo exclaims as he is made known to Raleigh. “I attend the Redemption alcoves after the New Year. You must honor me with your company for a midday meal on the morrow. The intelligence from Redemption and Contrition is biased. I would know the truth.”
To Raleigh’s questioning gaze, both of his retainers return a shrug and then a smile. They thought themselves well prepared to enter this center of warrior power and dominance. This day has proved beyond exceptional and vastly entertaining. Whatever goes forward with the cartel, for now, there is no suggestion of physical danger or duress. Raleigh may please himself until First Day, when serious matters of commerce will engage.
7.
Free-Trader Negotiations
Although most inhabitants of the Eleventh and Twelfth Systems follow the Five Warriors, the significant population of Universalists has influenced the free-trader societies’ customs and strictures. Indenture contracts are invalid in both systems, and while their societies do not embrace the philosophy of nonviolence, the governors’ militias are smaller than would be the case in similarly sized populations in other systems. Not all commerce entities maintain private militia, although more do than before the pirate actions. ~ excerpt from A Social History of the Twelve Systems, an academy text.
Sevenday 141, Day 1
Maman dances at the edge of the Great Crevasse, a glowing green rope in her hands. Milord joins her, and they spin in circles, the rope swirling around them. Lilian wishes to dance but she knows not how . . . Maman spins free and the green rope floats into the Crevasse . . .
Lilian’s eyes open to the soft light of approaching dawn. Was milord spinning Maman in dance a substitute for her hidden desires? When the visual of milord spinning Lady Estella around the ballroom reached the media streams, Lilian was torn between delight in milord’s happiness and longing for what she knows cannot be. The green rope was strange; she has no notion what it might represent. A Crevasse is often enough in her dreams that she suspects it is less her fear of Gariten dragging her into the abyss with him than a manifestation of her duties for milord. With that thought, she shakes off the dream and rises.
»◊«
Milord says naught, fingers steepled, the dark eyes never wandering to her legs, as she recounts the Settlement Day activities. It is but a summary of the detailed report she filed the day gone, and that was but one of four; milord received ones from Malcon, Rebecca, and Stefan as well.
When she finishes milord asks, “Does the deacon’s presence continue to concern you?”
This day. “Yes, milord. The deacon and his companions are not the source of the wrongness, but they are a part of the pattern. I can voice no more. I cannot see it.”
Lilian is beyond frustrated. There is something of import to cartouche and cartel in the advent of Deacon Raleigh, but Lilian cannot fit the complex puzzle into a whole. She is failing in her duty to milord. Honor endures. “I beg pardon, milord. The more I consider the matter, the farther the solution retreats.”
Milord’s expression softens, his hands dropping to the chair arms. “For now, it is enough that we can find no ill intent. Nonetheless, we will err on the side of caution and keep the free-traders separated from the command crew.”
Rising, he reaches for his slate satchel. “It nears ninth bell. I am eager to meet the deacon and his companions.”
»◊«
Lucius lifts the dark tea with its smoky aroma, so different from the crisp scent of green tea. Raleigh and his companions exchange expectant glances as he lifts the cup and takes a small taste. It is almost as harsh as Fortuna kaffee. Next to him, Hercules grimaces, finding the taste no more appealing than Lucius.
Raleigh’s eyebrows rise. “Too strong?”
Directing a frown of admonishment at Raleigh, Bran nudges a small pitcher across the table, condensation smearing the scarlet enamel. “I prefer to add a little cream.”
With deft movements, Lilian buffs up the smear and collects the pitcher, pouring a small stream into his cup. Knowing that cream alleviates the bitterness of kaffee, Lucius takes another trial sip. The beverage is much improved, the cream covering the smoky taste and allowing the complex flavor of the tea to emerge. He doubts he will ever seek out Eleventh System black tea, but given a choice, he prefers it to Fortuna kaffee. “Hercules, try it with cream.”
Trevelyan takes a sip and nods, waving away the cream. Not a surprise, since he enjoys the smoky flavor of single malt. Malcon takes a polite sip and sets aside his cup while the free-traders turn to their cups, Bran splashing cream into his.
With the greeting ritual complete, Lucius prepares for the coming discussions. As interesting as it is to discover the deacon is kin, his cartouche kin ties number in the thousands. Wedlock alliances add half again to his kinship ties. The Mercios themselves are three hundred and growing. Reliable commerce allies, however, are rare. Lucius has not come to this chamber or this alliance without considerable analysis. Lilian’s confirmation that the wrongness that has her on edge has no foundation in Raleigh or his agenda has him tense with excitement. Does the next period adhere to his design, he will be one step closer to elevating Serengeti to second among the cartels.
Hercules’ neutral expression hides anticipation nearly as great as Lucius’, while Trevelyan eyes Caoimhe, assessing the assassin’s demeanor. From behind Trevelyan, Rebecca offers Raleigh a smile that is barely within the strictures of decorum. He cannot see Lilian from her place at his back, but he is certain her expression, like Malcon’s, reveals naught. Raleigh is relaxed in his chair, hands resting on the arms, in contrast to Bran, whose back is ramrod straight.
Master desire. For two centuries Matahorn has controlled the imports and exports of the Eleventh and Twelfth Systems. Lucrative for the Matahorn Alliance, the arrangement has deprive
d Contrition and Redemption of resources to expand and prosper and kept the rest of the Twelve Systems from accessing the unique technological innovations that the closed society has developed.
To minimize Matahorn fees, suppliers routinely consolidate payloads. The nearest major commerce center to the Eleventh System is the Fifth System, two sevendays’ transport distant. The nearest to the Twelfth is the Seventh System, which requires ten days of transit. The arrangement limits both the quantity and the variety of the goods delivered and collected.
Master ambition. Mercium has created a small fissure in that once-impenetrable arrangement. A new substance, Mercium is independent of all pre-existing protocols. When the final two systems were opened, Vistrite was an important but limited-use commodity required by stellar transit, communications, and archiving technology. Today, Vistrite is the essential element in every technology from weapons to lights.
Master anger. Using the extensive Vistrite logistics network, Mercium transits with Ninth System Mercium as far as Genji. From the agrarian Genji it takes but a sevenday to reach the Eleventh System, where Mercium is collected by Raleigh’s fleet. The new trade route has opened trade between the Ninth and Eleventh Systems that was controlled by gray-market traders for centuries. It has also created an avenue for two centuries of innovation to widen the fissure in Matahorn’s agreement, the goods on that route increasing in value with every season—and attracting black raiders. In the past season, three of eight Mercium shipments to the Eleventh System have been attempted and one stolen.
Mastery of self. There is a traitor within Raleigh’s organization or Lucius’ cartel. Naught else explains the raids. There is a vast amount of beaconed expanse between the Ninth and Eleventh Systems. Without access to Grey Spear navigation charts or Raleigh’s beacon codes, it is not possible for the black raiders to anticipate and attack the transports.
This day. Lilian battles the need to finger her conservator’s seal or raise her slate. Milord’s unmoving silence is an intimidation tactic with which she is well familiar. The deacon’s attempt to mimic milord is excellent, but his tight jaw betrays him. Caoimhe makes no such attempt, scowling at those of Serengeti. Bran offers an image of restrained amusement, but his planted feet signal he is prepared to leap to battle at the slightest provocation.
“Lilian.”
Milord’s quiet command increases the tension. Do they think she will go Wraith?
This day. Face as impassive as she can manage. Lilian steps forward and taps her slate to display three score trajectories on the wall reviewer.
Monsignor Hercules’ high-pitched voice says, “Of thousands between the Ninth and Eleventh Systems, these sixty were the most used in the last century.”
Monsignor Hercules nods and she taps out the next sequence. A dozen routes appear. Six align with Raleigh’s routes. Someone with access to the point of departure and arrival data gave it to the black raiders, sufficient data to guide them to the Mercium transports in one out of four runs.
Rising, Raleigh says, “Matahorn. They wish to end the Mercium trade.”
Milord’s eyes hood. “Why Matahorn? I view naught that indicts them.”
“There!” Raleigh presses a finger on the reviewer. “All the attacked transports were destined for this depot. With the depot known, they had a one in four chance of divining the entry point to the Eleventh System. Matahorn wishes to eliminate the threat of Mercium trade in the Eleventh System.”
I will not fall. Of the three supply depots, Raleigh has fingered the one where Damien labors. Ridiculous. There are five hundred Matahorn on that station and Damien is not at a level to know the information that was sold.
“My people die while you and Horatio Margovian play at master of the universe,” Raleigh snarls.
Adelaide’s thorn. What has she missed? Milord’s eyes hold a tsunami of rage.
There is only this day. She must avert the disaster her inattentiveness has wrought. “If milord pleases.”
The tsunami hesitates. “Speak.”
“The Eleventh System supply depots are controlled by Dark Axe, not Broken Blade.”
Milord’s anger cools; the tsunami retreats.
Confusion warring with anger, the deacon says, “I take not your meaning. Horatio Margovian governs Matahorn. Of what import is the cartouche that controls the depots?”
Ignoring the free-trader, Lilian looks to milord. Due to the actions of the deceased Fenrir of Dark Axe, Matahorn incurred an honor debt to Serengeti. Dark Axe, in turn, owes Horatio a massive amount in repayment of those fees. As Dark Axe preeminence, Omar may have sought a rapid solution to the debt. If Omar’s piracy comes to light, Horatio will deny it. Does it succeed, Omar is free of debt.
“Not worth the Vistrite,” voices Hercules. The tortoise does not raise his eyes from his slate as he speaks. “Risk Bright Star over this slight crack in their control of Gloria’s satellites? I would not. This is Dark Axe desperation. Omar has always been volatile.”
A few more taps of Hercules’ slate, and Lilian’s elegant pattern dissolves. It is replaced by a three-dimensional spider web of pale blue intersecting lines. “Mistress Lilian, what think you?”
Entranced, Lilian steps into the web. For centuries Grey Spear has transited the beaconed expanse, each voyage increasing their knowledge. The value of the Grey Spear logistics and supply function lies not in the number of transports or warehouse capacity, but in the glowing blue spider web that maps those unfathomable distances.
I am the sum of my ancestors. She has known for over a year the true importance of Grey Spear’s logistics and supply function to Mercium. Due to the Grey Spear security-privilege restrictions, Grey Spear privilege, she has not been able to assess the central mystery until now. Should she try to capture it on her slate, she knows she will fail. “Monsignor Hercules, this is wondrous.”
Bran steps into the mesh, his eyes glowing. “Mistress Lilian is a model of warrior reserve and understatement. This is beyond wondrous, it is beyond description.”
Nodding to acknowledge the navigator, Lilian asks, “If Monsignor Hercules pleases?”
The sea turtle nods and she taps her slate, adding her green lines to the model. It is not exact, her calculations crude compared to the elegance of Grey Spear’s maps.
Hercules has spent his life, his wit, and his honor in discovering, shielding, and protecting the Vistrite routes. When Tiberius named Lucius heir over his favored sister, Orpha, he thought only of Grey Spear, hoping the youngster would have the will to contain Sebastian’s cruelty. Had he suspected his kinsman and Damocles were Despoilers, he would have had them assassinated half a decade gone. Shrugging off regret, he watches Lucius’ woman wander in the elaborate web that is his life’s work, turning it to a new and exciting purpose.
There are three Grey Spear warriors that might master his design; the most promising approaches her fortieth year and cannot yet fully comprehend the complex pattern, while Lilian is weaving new threads into it without access to the algorithms. If she were not the offspring of a corrupt sire, commoner notwithstanding, Hercules would wed her with one of his line.
The Eleventh System navigator is following her, marking her notations. When he frowns at his slate and shrugs, Hercules smiles. Bran has discovered he cannot capture the display.
To his right, Lilian traces four green lines. “These bypass the chartered routes and enter the Eleventh System at militia stations.”
Clever. Looking to Raleigh, Hercules asks, “Will the governor cooperate?”
“Aye, he wants the black raiders caught as much as I. There’s no telling when they will decide to expand their activities.”
“Good.” Hercules taps his slate. “We will send your transports by this route.” A golden pathway lights the route from a militia post to the supply depot without intersecting any of Lilian’s green lines.
With a dark smile, Trevelyan says, “We will send a decoy with militia by a common route and hope they take the bait.”
&
nbsp; »◊«
It requires another period before Raleigh and his companions are satisfied with the details of the trap, and the midday chimes are a quarter period gone. Although Rebecca sympathizes with the deacon’s desire to be part of the trap, it is obvious to her that it cannot be done long before Raleigh reaches the conclusion. He cannot make the transit to the Ninth System in time for the transport run, and a delay to wait for him might alert the raiders that something has changed. The best hope for the trap’s success is to proceed as scheduled with all the public displays of increased security and militia support that would be expected. As the free-traders cannot participate in the trap, they will remain on Metricelli Prime with access to the considerable resources of the cartel.
Flexing her toes inside her shoes, she resists the urge to shift her weight. Seigneur Trevelyan dislikes it when she fidgets. She cannot help but smile at Lilian when Monsignor Lucius rises and leads the way from the conference. As she follows with Trevelyan, Monsignor says to Raleigh, “Mistress Marieth will provide all you require for your time within the cartel.”
Passing Marieth’s worksite, she bites her lip against laughter as Monsignor turns, leading Lilian to the scarlet door and leaving a stunned Raleigh to address his back. “Thank you, Monsignor. We could ask no better assistance than that of Mistress Marieth.”
All three free-traders appear a bit astonished and then Caoimhe nudges Bran. “I told you, cartel warriors are self-indulgent.”
Skipping to catch up with Seigneur Trevelyan, she crosses into his office as a giggle escapes.
Shrugging off his jacket, her lord raises his eyebrows at her amusement.
“The free-traders are a bit shocked that midday is for purposes other than a meal.” That all that will occur in Trevelyan’s office is a meal is beside the point. At least once a sevenday, Rebecca joins him at midday unless she is wearing the aquamarine eargems. Appearances must be maintained.
For her first year as the seigneur’s apprentice, the meals were spent in tedious lessons in table manners, diction, and decorum. Although she continues to struggle with contractions when stressed, for the most part those lessons are behind her. Most middays, they work their slates in silence as the meal is consumed.