by E G Manetti
“Will you not explain your forbearance with Newton?” Chrys asks. “I would have expected a more vengeful stance in your testimony, not using Adelaide’s Thorn’s status to keep him from complete disgrace.”
This day. She has reasons, and a partial truth will serve. “Full disgrace of Newton would have shamed the Fourth System governor. One never knows when it might be useful to be on good terms with a governor.”
Rebecca shoots her a sharp glance, which she ignores as she reaches for her tea. She must live to capitalize on the governor’s good will, and if she does not, she has lost naught with forbearance. There is only this day.
“Mistress Lilian, how have we offended you that you do not wish to see us prosper?” Fletcher motions the consortium to remain seated while Nickolas frees two adjacent seats with a look.
Lilian understands the source of Fletcher’s lament, but she is confused by it. “Master Fletcher, how have I erred? I sent the alert as soon as Monsignor agreed to the match. Surely there is sufficient time to lay your wagers?”
Fletcher and Nickolas exchange a glance and it is Nickolas who says, “Excitement and interest build as the time approaches. Often the most lucrative wagers are placed in the early minutes of the match and it is scheduled when we cannot attend.”
As that was the intent of the timing, she is at a loss. Her match with the free-trader was designed as another distraction for Horatio Matahorn, milord knew knowing the Matahorn preeminence would have little interest in inspecting the firearms drill. Although militia will accompany the Nightingale, all crew members will need to prove proficient with firearms. There is no means to predict what dangers lurk in the Thirteenth System. The Serengeti IX did not detect the chemical or electronic signatures that denote civilization. The nature of any animal life is unknown.
As hoped, Horatio Margovian finds a match with Lilian in unarmed combat with one of the free-traders irresistible. Trevelyan matched with Raleigh would be equally intriguing but too obvious.
Before Lilian can respond, Douglas interrupts. “Master Simon and I have wagers in play. If you wish, we will lay your wagers. Be warned, Lilian is confident she could defeat Caoimhe were they armed. Unarmed, she will offer neither conviction nor odds.”
Both warriors nod, aware that Lilian is forbidden odds management. It is Nickolas who asks, “Will it prove as exciting as your first match with Mate Hannah?”
It is an excellent question and one Lilian may answer without concern she violates stricture. “Yes, I expect it will.”
At her words the three associates exchange grins while Chrys and Rebecca exchange a glance of disappointment. The two Ravens may no more wager than Lilian.
»◊«
Lilian runs her fingers over the ink-black training trousers, finding the almost imperceptible change in texture where the Dawn Sword concierge repaired the saber slit caused by the Rimon’s Discipline Master. Unless one knows to seek it, the evidence that the trousers were damaged is invisible. Although it is not as fine as the garb Seigneur Trevelyan has commissioned for Katleen, provided by Apollo for her Adelaide’s Thorn duties, the training garb is finer than Lilian has been able to acquire since she entered her bond.
Settling the gold warbelt in place, she leaves the changing chamber for the match. The exhibition chamber has not been this crowded since Seigneur Trevelyan trounced Damocles for the right to hold Rebecca’s bond. Few with the status to command a place wish to forgo an exhibition that holds the interest of both the Matahorn and Serengeti preeminences, including Monsignors Elenora and Hercules, as well as Master Cesare and Seigneur Micah.
This day. Her purpose is to provide a spectacle, an entertainment that will keep Monsignor Horatio distracted. The bout will last a period. A fall or a yield equates to a point. The combatant with the most points at the end of the period is the victor. She and the free-trader are well matched, with similar height and weight. The contest will determine if Caoimhe’s greater experience will overcome Lilian’s speed and stamina.
I will not fall. Taking her corner, she assesses Caoimhe’s odd garb. Unlike Lilian’s loose trousers and snug training tunic, Caoimhe’s violet trousers are the same snug knit as her tunic. Her feet are contained in oddly shaped slippers fastened with laces. Lilian’s practiced eye determines the snug knit will offer her adversary the same freedom of movement that Lilian enjoys. The odd footgear appears lightweight and will not add force to a kick, unlike Lilian’s ankle boots. For what purpose would the woman don footgear that appears to put her at a disadvantage?
At milord’s signal, Seigneur Thorvald starts the match timer. Caoimhe attacks with ruthless efficiency. The hard strike toward Lilian’s head would have broken her nose had it connected. Avoiding it with ease, Lilian flows away, the blow grazing her shoulder without enough force to bruise. Spinning around Caoimhe’s back to strike from a blind spot, Lilian is countered by the other woman’s rapid pivot and counterattack. The odd footgear demonstrates greater agility in movement than her heavier boots.
Lilian cannot resist exploring the potential advantage of her adversary’s footgear. For ten minutes she probes for the limits of the other woman’s agility. Her curiosity costs her when Caoimhe sweeps one off-balance ankle and tumbles Lilian to the mat. The mix of cheers and groans that greet the fall quickly shifts into the unmistakable murmur of rapidly executed wagers.
Lucius meets Horatio’s pleased expression with a bland one of his own. Lilian is holding back. He has yet to view the flowing shadow that defeated Flavia and withstood a saber with a thorn. The woman is playing to the audience and no doubt attempting to increase her friends’ wager wins. He will not be so vulgar as to wager on his apprentice, but Hercules owns no such scruples. To Lucius’ amusement and Hercules’ disappointment, Horatio refuses to be drawn into wagering against Lilian. Horatio is no fool; he has learned the danger of wagering against Lucius’ disgraced apprentice. After Horatio’s taunting at the midday meal, Lucius is certain that his rival knows about his genetic tie to Raleigh and his smuggling. By the time the match is over, Lucius will have what he needs to counter the Margovian, and Horatio will learn not to wager against Blooded Dagger.
Springing to her feet, Lilian’s face is bright with enjoyment. Caoimhe grins and waits for Lilian to close. The Eleventh System champion is cunning and merciless.
Lucius cannot contain a grin as Lilian unleashes her full capabilities. It is though the free-trader battles water. Another half period passes. Neither combatant gains advantage. Both women are sweating and bruised. Lilian’s split lip is complemented by blood caking one of Caoimhe’s nostrils. Rolling away from Lilian’s flying foot, Caoimhe dives at Lilian, attempting to use surprise and momentum for a quick topple. Lilian leaps aside, only to find her legs tangled with her assailant as they tumble to the mat. Both women are down; neither can claim a fall.
Sharp pain lances from Lilian’s left ankle to meet a dull throb in her ribs. The twisted ankle was a misfortune of combat. The bruised ribs were a deliberate strike. Had Lilian been a moment slower, the hard elbow blow would have struck her solar plexus and brought her down. She scrambles to her hands and knees, her breath coming hard. She ignores pain and short breath to pull free and find her feet before Caoimhe can pin her and force her to yield. That the assassin does not wish Lilian dead is the only advantage Lilian holds without her thorn.
Caoimhe pushes her advantage, diving at Lilian to bring her down again. It is a mistake. Lilian flows free of the strike and this time, she finds Caoimhe’s blind spot, having learned to compensate for the woman’s agility. As the free-trader finds her feet, she is pulled to her toes by a steel grip on her wrist that yanks her arm high to her shoulder blades, her back arched. An attempt to shift forward is greeted with a violent tug. Caoimhe may yield or risk a dislocated shoulder. She yields. The women are tied.
Once again, the mixture of cheers and groans fades to the murmur of commerce.
Lilian dances away from her foe, noting that Caoimhe’s movements are slowing. The assassi
n is trained to make short work of her adversaries. The prolonged exhibition has eroded the free-trader’s stamina. In a series of rapid and distracting moves, Lilian closes with Caoimhe and tumbles her to the floor. In a classic Adelaide assault, it would end with Lilian’s thorn in the fallen woman’s throat.
All Lilian need do now is keep to her feet for the final four minutes of the match. The sharp pain in her ankle has transmuted to a dull, insistent throb. It drowns out the discomfort of all her other bruises, including her abused ribs. Her movements are ragged as she compensates for her injuries, but she is not overtaken. The match timer chimes.
Around Lucius wagers are settled. Jurian’s protégé, Prospero, pays out to Fletcher, saying, “She refused to engage in the end. There are no match timers in true combat. It was a meager strategy.”
“She won by the terms of the contest,” Fletcher replies even as Jurian voices agreement with Prospero.
Although he wishes to defend Lilian, Lucius cannot argue with his Vistrite seigneur in front of Horatio. He longs for Solomon and his quiet manner of curtailing Jurian’s conservatism without offense.
“I disagree.” William enters the conversation. “Mistress Lilian is a gifted strategist who exploited the battle parameters for success.”
“Well said,” Horatio agrees. Turning to Lucius, he adds, “It is a pity she cannot bear arms in your presence. I would enjoy viewing her with a thorn.”
“I would, too,” Cesare says. “The visuals from the festival brawl were but a few moments. I had not a full sense of her skill until this match”
“Mrs. Caoimhe is deadly,” Micah says. “I would not wager against Monsignor’s champion, but I did not believe Mistress Lilian would triumph.”
Lucius is well pleased by Lilian’s success and that the match has filled the period. It will be at least another half period before discussion ebbs and the chamber clears. It will be well after sixth bell before Horatio will be able to forward his agenda. By then, Lucius should have what he requires to counter Horatio’s ambition. Lucius is less pleased with the hitch in Lilian’s step. She is injured. Again.
Before Lucius can send for the master medic, Chin steps through the crowd and joins Trevelyan. Together the two men examine and question Lilian.
»◊«
Perched on a therapy table, wrapped in a towel, Lilian flexes her bound ankle under Master Chin’s scrutiny. Once he determined binding would be needed, Lilian pleaded to use the changing chambers’ cleansing facility before he began his work. Agreeing that it was more efficient to use the training facility than relocate to the dispensary, Master Chin insisted Rebecca accompany Lilian into the shower as precaution against the ankle failing. Flexing once more, she says, “There is a pull, but no pain.”
“That is the salve,” the medic says. “It will keep it from swelling as well as control the pain, but it will not last more than four or five periods. You must keep the ankle elevated, or I will confine you to medic’s chair for two days.”
“No firearm training, then,” Tabitha says from the bench where she waits with Rebecca. “You would need to stand for half a period.”
Master Chin reaches into his aid bag. “No training of any type until I have examined you Third Day.”
This day. Protest will serve no purpose. “Yes, Master Chin.”
“I did not intend such an injury.” Caoimhe enters from the showers, a towel wrapped around her waist, her short hair dry and tousled from the blower.
Lilian shrugs. “It is no matter. Injury is always a risk with combat, even one that is exhibition. I enjoyed our bout.”
Chin raises a slender wand, the end glistening with ointment. “Tilt your chin. I will attend to your lip.”
The wand brushes Lilian’s spilt lip, cool relief instantaneous. She knows from experience that within a quarter period the swelling will disappear and the wound will close. By the time she attends milord, there will be naught but a slight sensitivity. One that will not be tested with a kiss as long as she wears the red eargems.
Reaching into a storage cabinet, Caoimhe pulls forth her tunic and trousers. Fine quality and embroidered at collar and cuffs, the garb is casual by cartel commerce standards, but considered appropriate in the free-trader societies.
Chin stows the wand and pulls out a container of thick green cream. “Drop your towel. I need to apply this now if it is to be effective.”
Leaving her garb on a bench, Caoimhe peers at the healing salve, her nose wrinkling at its spicy scent. “What is that?”
“Healing salve,” Chin says, daubing the substance on Lilian’s ribs. “It will reduce both swelling and bruising, adhering to the skin until the healing is complete, and then it will wash away.” Daubing cream on a reddened and swelling area of her thigh, he continues to speak to the free-trader. “Once I am done here, I can tend to your bruises and the swelling in your nose.”
Caoimhe drops onto a bench with a smile. “Thank you.”
A sharp gasp from Rebecca has Lilian scanning the chamber, seeking a threat. There is naught but Caoimhe and Rebecca, Rebecca fixed on the other woman’s abdomen, bared by the draped towel.
Adelaide’s Thorn! The free-trader displays an eight-inch scar below her navel, testimony to a once grievous wound.
Master Chin’s fingers halt on Lilian’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing as they examine the mark. “No sparring match gave you that.”
At their reactions, Caoimhe’s fingers play along the line of white. “It has been ten years, and all who know me are familiar with it. I had forgotten how shocking it appears.”
“We beg your pardon,” Lilian hastens. “We offer no offense. It was but the surprise.”
Caoimhe tugs the towel over the scar. “No offense taken.”
Attempting to cover the awkwardness, Rebecca suggests, “Master Chin could remove it. It could be gone by the time you depart the Third System.”
At the master medic’s gesture, Lilian turns and lies on the table, offering her back.
“If Master Medic Chin is so skilled, why does Lilian bear that mark?” Caoimhe points her chin at the shooting-star-shaped scar on Lilian’s shoulder.
The cool cream hits Lilian’s hip as Master Chin says, “She refused cosmetic intervention.”
Ignoring the knot that forms in her chest at recall of the fallen, Lilian tilts her head to meet Caoimhe’s eyes. “It is from the battle of Serengeti, a mark of Serengeti valor.”
Sorrow enters Caoimhe’s eyes, an echo of Lilian’s grief. “Mine is a reminder of defeated evil. It is the mark of Sadico.”
Sadico. Lilian’s innards clench, her hands fisting at the name of the pirate leader known for his viciousness. That the free-trader survived battle with the villain makes her even more formidable than Lilian suspected. “Few survived battles with Sadico.”
Shifting, Caoimhe looks away before her gaze returns to Lilian. “It was not battle. During the pirate actions, my partner and I transported supplies to remote settlements in the Twelfth System. With few willing to risk encountering the pirates, we had little competition. Twice we arrived at settlements to find naught but rotting corpses and burned buildings. Eventually, our luck ran out and we were caught up in a pirate raid.”
The master medic’s fingers still, as shocked as Lilian and her friends.
Mouth grim, Caoimhe continues, “Most of the community were Universalists and would not resist. Of those who did, the fortunate fell in the attack. Those who survived . . .” Her eyes darken. “They suffered.”
Tabitha makes an inarticulate sound. Lilian swallows hard, exchanging a horrified glance with Rebecca; all know the nature of the pirate raids.
“This was before Serengeti joined with the Governing Council,” Caoimhe says. “The pirates had no fear. They were in no hurry, taking their time stealing, torturing, and destroying. Forcing us to serve them while they destroyed us. After two days, Sadico arrived. Even his own forces feared him, averting their gaze when he turned that death’s head mask in their direct
ion.”
The mask. It was infamous, and why Sadico’s features were unknown.
Lost in the past, Caoimhe twists the towel in her fingers. “I survived ten days before I was deemed useless and gutted as casually as you might tread on an insect. I was left in the dirt, dying, regarding my own entrails spilled on the ground.”
Joining Caoimhe on the bench, Tabitha asks, “What happened? How did you survive?”
“The deacon followed the distress signal from my transport. He and Bran found me in time to save me. Their forces drove off the pirates, but I was the only survivor of the settlement.”
The battle of Serengeti and the hunt for the Despoilers left Lilian ill in mind and spirit to such an extent that four months later she is only beginning to feel recovered. What must it have taken to recover from the horror of Sadico’s brutality?
As if sensing Lilian’s thoughts, Caoimhe straightens and resolve replaces darkness in her eyes. “When I recovered, I joined Raleigh’s militia. I was there when Sadico’s fortress fell in the final battle.”
With a bitter smile, Tabitha says, “I take my revenge with fantasy on the firearm range. It would be so much better to see him burn.”
Caoimhe’s nostrils flare and she gazes around the Serengeti. Lilian and Rebecca nod confirmation of Tabitha’s statement. Master Chin steps back from the table. “Lilian, you are done. Yield your place to Mistress Caoimhe.”
Rising, Caoimhe offers the medic a slight bow in recognition of his use of the warrior honorific. “I thank you for your salve.” Levering herself onto the table in Lilian’s place, she adds, “But I will retain the scar. A mark of Damaris Collective resolve.”
»◊«
Lucius regards the binding on Lilian’s ankle with the same disfavor he views the rubies sparkling in her ears. Chin’s skills have closed her split lip and reduced the swelling to a slight rosiness. The scents of sharp spice and pungent cleanser indicate extensive application of Chin’s potions to bruises and strains.
Master desire. As much as it would please him to pull Lilian into his lap, he has no wish to test his control. He leads her to the comfortable chairs, and forcing aside frustration, he focuses on the matter at hand. Within half a period, Horatio and Trevelyan will join them. Before then, he will satisfy his curiosity. “You did well unarmed. How would you have fared armed?”