by E G Manetti
The chamber is twice the size of Lilian’s at home. A half dozen tall, narrow windows march along the southern wall, each with a narrow ledge holding container plantings of herbs and flowers. They send a pleasant fragrance into the chambers, but none of the ledges have the strength to hold the weight of a person. Reaching a far door, Apollo opens it with a flourish. “And it has a cleansing chamber as fine as mine.”
The bathing chamber’s ornamental tile and carvings are as elaborate as those in Katleen’s house, its modern fixtures testament to upgrades that Katleen’s house lacks due to Gariten’s refusal to fund them and which Lilian cannot afford. Eager to fill the bath and soak, knowing she will have the luxury of servitors to refresh it after her use, Lilian misses what Apollo says until he names Chrys and Rebecca.
“I beg pardon, Lord Prelate. What of Chrys and Rebecca?”
With a frown, Apollo replies, “We are within my home. Voice my name or I will aid you not.”
“Prelate Apollo, you would not be so cruel.”
“You game my intent, girl.”
Nodding, Lilian agrees. “It is but half compliance, Prelate Apollo. I will gladly offer true compliance when the day dawns I am at liberty to do so.”
“It is but thirty periods hence.”
This day. “Thirty or three thousand, it matters not.”
Apollo’s expression shadows, and he sighs. “As your friends remain endangered, the shrines have accepted agency for their settlements and will see that what they have purchased is delivered to the Associates’ Quarters, where they remain under guard. I understand that Serengeti will provide a year-turn evening meal, but otherwise, as you, they must forgo celebrations.”
“I do not regret the celebrations,” Lilian says. “Nor do my friends. Last evening’s command crew reception was all we could wish. What of Maman and Katleen?”
“Waiman’s year-turn celebration will be as fine as you could wish,” Apollo says. “As will the one here. I must attend the Vistrite Cotillion, but Adelaide’s Keeper will see you welcome.”
The notion of year-turn celebrations surrounded by those strange to her is not appealing.
Expression gentle, Apollo suggests, “If you prefer, the evening meal can be brought to you.”
“My thanks,” Lilian says with relief. “As you attend the cotillion, it would be well were you to extend extraordinary courtesy to Mistress Elysia this eve. I understand her injury drags on her spirit.”
Sevenday 150, Day 7
The morning’s training was even better than Lilian hoped; Apollo appeared to challenge her thorn to thorn. Even with polymer blade guards, she was pushed to her limits, refusing to mark the Lord Prelate. The thin scratch on her forearm closed before she showered, but Apollo insisted on sealant. “You need no other marks or scars.”
His invitation to join him for a morning meal was more than welcome. The day stretches long before her and left to herself she will spend it as she did the night gone, replaying her last bells with milord.
Swallowing a bite of strawberry, she asks, “Prelate Apollo, how went the Vistrite Cotillion?”
Eyes lighting up, Apollo relays his impressions of the event. For the cotillion, the art museum courtyard and first-storey galleries provided three separate musical ensembles. They were designed to offer the most popular of dance styles. For those with limited desire or ability to dance, the other galleries offered a variety of entertainments.
The Mercios received the elite of the Third System from the central gallery, where Monsignor Lucius and Lady Estella were seated with their daughter, Elysia, her movements restricted by her fractured shin. While Lucius and Estella greeted the elite of the Third System, Cesare, Raphael and Nickolas ensured that Elysia was entertained. They, and their friends, constantly beguiled the young woman with silly banter and compliments. Within a period, it became the honor of the evening to beguile a smile from subdued Elysia in lieu of a dance. It was First Lt. Nickolas who claimed the ultimate victory.
At the height of the event, Nickolas pulled Elysia from her chair, sweeping her into a rapid waltz. As Micah had done at the onset of the cotillions, Nickolas swept Elysia around the central gallery without her feet touching the floor. Within steps, they were joined by Lucius, who offered Estella a similar waltz.
“Lilian, it will increase the dedication of the warrior young to the training chambers,” Apollo chortles. “Next season, any lad who is unable to twirl his partner without her feet touching the floor will be considered lacking.”
The image of milord dancing with his spouse is easy enough to imagine. The visual of milord waltzing Lady Estella at Elysia’s recognition cotillion has replayed in her mind’s eye countless times.
“Marvelous event,” Apollo continues. “I had not visited the art museum until last eve. It is a remarkable structure and the catering from the restaurant was exceptional. Although, with Lady Estella the museum’s governor, I would have expected no less. I understand she has brought the museum to prominence.”
Swallowing tea, Lilian nods. “The old museum in the River Quarter held naught of note but the third- and fourth-century sculptures gifted by Lucius the Elder. There was a great deal of excitement when Lady Estella established the new museum in the Commerce District. I was but ten and recall little of the old River Quarter structure.”
“Those sculptures are in the central gallery,” Apollo notes. “I saw the Blooded Dagger insignia but did not realize it was Lucius the Elder. No wonder Lucius and Estella chose that gallery.”
Lilian pushes aside her plate. “The year the new museum opened, Lady Estella relocated the Vistrite Cotillion from Jonathan’s Museum to the Crevasse City Museum of Art. It was the talk of the season, every warrior in the Third System vying for an invitation.”
Even Remus Gariten. The teacup trembles in her hand, and tea sloshes onto the snowy tablecloth. The dark stain is almost the color of Sinead’s sacred oil.
At twelve, Lilian owns the height to feed the sacred flame without the use of a stool. Pleased to be trusted, she focuses on the task, ignoring the hum of activity from the faithful eager to make their year-turn offerings and consult the seer before the evening festivities. The level indicator is almost at the high mark when her sire storms past her, heading for Maman’s respite chamber.
Setting the oil aside, she finds the nearest acolyte, sending him in search of the keeper. When Remus Gariten frowns, matters go ill for his spouse and daughter. With the silent footfalls of her mother’s martial arts training, Lilian creeps toward her mother’s respite chamber, Gariten’s angry voice muffled by the door. The door opens, and an acolyte comes flying out, chased by Gariten’s curses. Slipping within, Lilian slides behind the gauzed drapes that soften the stone walls.
Through semi sheer fabric, the shadowy figure of her sire menaces her mother with a raised fist. “You will attend the Vistrite Cotillion and you will wear the emeralds!”
“I am weary from the demands of the Shades,” Maman says, her arms wrapped around her middle. She is but an inch or so shorter than Gariten but only half his mass.
“I care not if the Shades try you to exhaustion, I spent a fortune in bribes for this invitation. You will not fail me.”
“If I do not rest, I risk the child.”
Child? Lilian’s eyes go to her mother’s arms wrapped about her middle not in fear, but in protection.
“Then you will conceive another,” Gariten thunders. “Even with the bribes, it is the Faesetili name and your prelate status that gain entrance. I cannot appear without you.”
Keeper Darvyd strides into the chamber. “Then you will not attend. Helena has been much tasked this day, and her child will not be risked for your ambitions.”
Taller than Gariten, and leaner, the man who will become Sinead’s Lord Prelate wears the Shade’s authority as armor. “Leave the seer in peace, or Sinead’s Shrine will see that you are not welcome anywhere.”
“Lilian, what is amiss?” Apollo’s gaze is heavy with concern
, his fingers tapping the table by her cup to get her attention.
She shakes her head to dislodge the memory. “Gariten. I had forgotten he was angered when Maman refused to attend that first Vistrite Cotillion at the art museum.”
“Did he harm her?”
“No. Lord Prelate Darvyd was keeper then and Gariten feared him. It was but another ugly incident. Except,” Lilian dismisses her sire for the happier recall, “that was the day I learned Maman carried another daughter.”
Pouring her fresh tea, Apollo asks, “Why did he care if Lady Helena accompanied him?”
Lilian stirs her tea, wondering if her mother had truly been wearied or but wished to thwart her detested spouse’s ambitions. With a shrug, she decides it matters not. He is gone and in less than a day, they will be safe. “Without her, he would not have an invitation. Once it moved from Jonathan’s Museum, being a patron of Jonathan’s sect and museum no longer guaranteed entry.”
Apollo nods his approval. “I knew Lady Estella made the change because she would never tolerate a museum where Horatio Matahorn was patron as the site of the Vistrite Cotillion. I had no notion the extent to which it reset the warrior hierarchy in the Third System. She is a formidable warrior.”
Swallowing against a surge of painful emotion, Lilian fumbles for her tea. “Yes, she is.”
22. Bond P
roof
On the First Day of the new year, after the new apprentices, associates, and protégés have received indoctrination, the bonded are to assemble in the Associates’ Hall at a half period past tenth bell of the morning. Each bonded must come prepared with their tally and evidence that they have completed the requirements of the bond. Each bondholder must arrive prepared with the bond recognition prize and, if the bondholder chooses, the contract for a position as a cartel retainer. Both the Serengeti associate master and the Serengeti archives master are required to witness and document the bond proof or failure. All other cartel members who have the liberty may choose to witness.
Bond proof will be reviewed in order of bondholder precedence. ~ excerpt from Apprentice Governance, Serengeti Archives.
Sevenday 151, Day 1
Lilian opens her eyes to the morning sun streaming through the narrow windows. It is First Day. In a few bells she will be free. Free in a manner she has not known in over three years. Not since Gariten fell and she was taken for her protocol review.
The stellar transit is designed for transport within the First System, with seating galleries and lounges of varying degrees of luxury as the passengers’ funds permit. For the twelve-period transit from Mulan to Socraide Prime, the Governing Council has provided midgrade passage for its greater security than the crowded lowest grade. Shackled to her chair in a secluded section of the seating gallery, Lilian stares at the passing void without seeing, her mind fixed on the warriors’ litany in a desperate attempt to stave off panic.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Half full at launch, the gallery is all but deserted, the other passengers, along with her guard, finding meal in one of the salons. She will have whatever the militiaman chooses to bring when he returns.
I am the foundation of my family. A plate of food and glass of tea slide onto the console. The wiry woman of sixty years who settles into the militia guard’s chair wears the uniform of a kitchen servitor. It appears the guard sent her meal ahead. All on the plate can be speared with a fork. Whether to avoid giving her a blade or recognition of her shackled wrist, it matters no more than her lack of appetite. She must eat if she is to survive.
The servitor replies to Lilian’s murmured thanks with an excerpt from Socraide’s canon. “To dwell in the past is to lose control of the future.”
At Lilian’s startled gaze, the woman says, “Even commoners may study the canons.”
At a loss for a response, Lilian nods and picks up her fork.
The servitor continues as if Lilian asked a question. “When I was a young woman, I served a two-year sentence in the quarries of Rimon Deuce. Do not dwell on the past, the life before your sentence. It will lead you to despair and madness. Do not consider the future beyond your sentence. It will lead to hope and folly. There is no future. There is no past. There is only the day. Each day rise with the conviction that you live. Your goal is to end the day alive. Keep it ever in your mind—there is only that day and you live.
If you are able to do this, one day you will rise to the glad surprise that you live and your sentence ended the prior day.”
The serene certainty of the woman’s aspect leads Lilian to nod her acceptance. “I thank you for your advice. I hope I may survive to make use of it.” There is a strong possibility she will consume the Final Draught with Remus Gariten.
“You will survive,” the odd woman assures her.
“May the Five Warriors will it so,” Lilian prays. “I do not know your name, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Stoneblossom, I am Mrs. Stoneblossom.” The former convict’s expression holds pain and triumph.
“Mrs. Stoneblossom, I do not understand.” Why would the woman choose a name that reminded her of her ordeal?
“I regret, child. You will.” With those final words, the cook’s assistant departs.
Finishing her meal, Lilian mulls the odd encounter, knowing her shackled wrist was the cause for the woman’s confidences.
The militia guard returns holding a covered dish. “Where did you get that?”
“A kitchen servitor brought it.”
“Do you wish aught else?”
Unable to eat another bite in the presence of the frowning guard, Lilian shakes her head. With a shrug he deposits it with the refuse for the kitchen.
Rolling to her back, she gazes at the vaulted ceiling, marveling that she has succeeded against the overwhelming odds. Pushing back the coverlet, she sends a brief prayer to Adelaide on behalf of Mrs. Stoneblossom and her compassion.
This day I live. Rising from the bed, she reaches for her training trousers.
I am bonded. It is but a few more periods, but it is not ended until it is ended.
There is only this day. Twisting the gold warbelt into place, her fingers linger on the conservator’s seal, her heart lurching at the thought of milord.
I will not fail. She pushes her longing for milord into the vault of her reserve and pulls on her training boots.
I will not fall. The tunic fastened, she binds her hair.
There is only this day. The comforting weight of her thorn settles on her hip.
This day I live.
Entering the alcove quarters training chamber, she finds Apollo with a training short sword and thorn. Tossing the thorn to Lilian, Apollo laughs. “Defend yourself, Lilian girl. I offer no quarter.”
»◊«
Tenth bell before midday, Mr. Stefan closes the door of the transport and joins the driver in front. Handing Apollo her thorn, she takes comfort in the knowledge that if the next periods execute as expected, it will soon be returned to her. In the half period required to transit to the cartel, the Associates’ Hall will empty as the new associates finish receiving instruction. At tenth period plus thirty, the hall will be given over to the presenting of bond proof.
The comfort of the Lord Prelate’s transport and his companionship are far different from her transit that First Day three years gone, her Raven black standing out on the public transport, making her all too visible to those who despised her. Only the inexpensive black suit is the same.
Even the entrance is different, the sleek transport descending to the secure transport bays and allowing Lilian to remain hidden. Mr. George waits for them at the riser to join Mr. Stefan in escorting them to the Associates’ Hall. Over two score fill the hall as they enter, far more than the dozen Lilian expected.
Apollo leaves her to settle in the first row beside Seigneurs Trevelyan, Rachelle, Herman, and Tristan. The hall blurs, shadows of the past rising over the gathered.
A handful of associates arrayed in the finest of commerce couture are seated in
the first of the tiered rows designed to accommodate five hundred. These are the protégés. Two months gone Lilian expected to have an honored place in this elite group. Instead, the elegant crowd greets her with sneers. “Coward. Shadeless twist. Demon shit. Doxy.”
As Lilian reaches the middle rows, twenty or so associates garbed by the better merchants join in the hostility, the murmurs swelling in volume as she passes. Chin high, eyes forward, pace even, Lilian continues on, refusing to acknowledge her tormentors. She should be accustomed to insult and able to ignore it by now. This day.
There is only this day. Lilian sets her foot on the first step and the memory dissolves. In the third row, Master Chin and Master Simon offer encouraging smiles and nods. As she mounts the steps she is greeted not by jeers but murmurs of encouragement. Tabitha and Douglas offer fists raised in triumph as she passes on her way to the last row, where Verity, Clarice, Rebecca, and Chrys wait. There is an empty chair, the place that should have been Vicenza’s. Tears prick, and she swallows against grief.
Taking the end seat, Lilian finds the hall has filled behind her. Seigneurs Marco and Aristides are not entirely unexpected, but Seigneur Thorvald is a surprise, as are Seigneurs Jurian, Hadrian, Gwyneth, and Garwynn. The former cartel financials seigneur has not been much in evidence since Sebastian Mehta was banished. Although he remains Grey Spear financials seigneur, he is not favored by Monsignor Hercules. Along with the seigneurs, another score of associates enters.
Next to her, Rebecca says, “Three years and still you do not comprehend. None who are able to command a seat will miss this entertainment.”
Before Lilian can respond, Monsignors Hercules and Elenora enter, followed by milord, Masters Straus and Liger, Lord Prelate Gideon, and the militia colonel from her protocol review, representing Governor Moira.
Protocol and stricture dictate that once her bond proves, Lilian should present herself at the Halls of Justice to present her trial proof. The governor, the Shrines, and the cartel have decided it is in the best interest of order that Lilian remain within the tight security of Serengeti until all is completed. Crevasse City will not be exposed to the risk of violence such as was experienced in the Garden Center District the prior sevenday.