by E G Manetti
“Master Raphael wished it,” she replies. She had not realized milord was unaware of his son’s explorations. “Working the line does not require much mental energy and the fisher folk enjoy both converse and complaint. None withheld from milord’s son any information requested.”
“Chief Diana’s reports were favorable,” milord says, the dark eyes hooding. “It is time Raphael accepted some responsibilities in managing the cartouche holdings. Think you he will make an able conservator for the fisheries?”
“Yes, milord.” She turns her gaze to her window, where the high-velocity transitway cuts through verdant fields and pastures. This is naught to do with her service. The fisheries were never aught but a temporary trust to mask her Mercium activities. It was inevitable they would be transferred to another when Mercium became public knowledge. It is an obvious choice for a first holding, given Raphael’s familiarity with the operation and the proximity to Crevasse City. Oversight without intrusion will be a simple matter until Raphael has proven himself. She will not feel hurt by the loss. She will not.
Milord says, “Raphael returns from Mulan’s Temple for the festival and will remain in Crevasse City through the dry season. See to it that he is prepared to act as conservator when he departs for Mulan’s Temple at the end of the third month.”
Turning her attention to her slate, she alerts Chief Diana of the impending change. As she finishes, the transport slows. They are arriving at the stellar transit center.
»◊«
It is as Lilian recalls. Following milord from the transport, Lilian gazes up at the rounded pyramid of silver- and copper-hued alloys. The arrival pavilion is set at a level midway up the structure, where the passenger accommodations begin. The level below contains the operational section of the vessel and the crew quarters. Below that is the cargo hold, and at the bottom, the complex technology that powers and controls the stellar craft.
Two Serengeti Militia guards appear as they exit the transit, one guiding a cart with two trunks. Mr. George releases the storage compartment, and milord’s and Lilian’s travel bags are added to the cart. A deferential steward rushes forward to escort them through the main passenger level and into a private riser. Mr. George and Mr. Stefan follow at their heels with the two militia guards bringing their bags and the trunks. On the last voyage, Mr. George did not accompany them, and her two bags were taken through the servitor levels along with milord’s. Seigneur Trevelyan’s increased security measures ensure that no evil design shall penetrate travel bags and carry disaster into milord’s suite.
At the entrance to milord’s quarters, a Blooded Dagger militia guard stands at attention. It is also as Lilian recalls. The well-appointed and commodious reception salon is divided into three seating areas and a dining section. The sofa is now covered in burgundy watered silk and will be smoother than the green brocade it replaced. It is a welcome change, considering the abrasion caused by a passionate interlude with milord.
A militia guard carries milord’s trunks between the double doors that lead to milord’s bedchamber and adjoining freshening closet. The other guard ducks through the narrow door next to the reviewer, dropping her bags in the servitor’s quarters. As the two guards exit, milord dismisses the escort without a further tour.
Milord moves close. One hand grasps her warrior’s queue, the other presses the small of her back. With an insistent pull, milord resumes the wild embrace of the transport. Milord’s mouth plunders, his large hands molding her to his hard form. Senses swimming, Lilian twines her arms around milord’s neck, arching into the hard wall of milord’s chest as their tongues tangle. The arousal that has simmered since the transport flares into blazing need.
Milord’s mouth softens and releases her. Milord’s dark, hot gaze captures hers. “I would have you unclad and upon my bed.”
At the heated promise, her sex clenches. Turning, she all but races to the double doors.
»◊«
Putting aside his slate, Lucius turns to the woman lying beside him, her face turned away. Although sated but half a period gone, his sex stirs at the sight. The contrast of the dark red locks against the creamy skin of her back is a source of endless fascination. The length of her spine and the too-visible ribs give way to the curve of her waist encircled with the golden river of the warbelt. Below the belt, her hips flare, one ornamented with a raven-wing tattoo. The glorious mounds of her ass sweep down to lovely, muscular legs.
He finds it an amazement that after two and a half years, his passion for his apprentice has not waned. If aught, it has grown. For a moment he considers taking his pleasure once more before planet exit. It will not serve.
That she dropped into deep slumber when their passion was spent pleases his vanity, but it is likely due to exhaustion. If she did not need to regain flesh, he would leave her to slumber. As it is, there is barely sufficient time for a meal. Pushing aside selfish desire, Lucius reaches for her.
Milord’s breath and lips tease along Lilian’s spine, drawing her from her warm haze of pleasure.
“Do you hunger?”
Drawn to awareness by milord’s voice, Lilian struggles for her surroundings. She is on her belly. In milord’s bed. Shimmering Horizon. How? Oh, yes.
Hunger. Milord asked if she hungered. Soft chimes announce midday. Stretching under milord’s lips, unwilling to discourage the delicious caress, Lilian replies, “As milord pleases.”
A chuckle disrupts milord’s lips, followed by a nip to Adelaide’s mark. “I wish a meal. Rise. The phantom servitors will have been in the salon.”
Rolling to the edge of the bed, Lilian twists the warbelt into place.
Milord rises, reaching for his trousers. “Don naught more than lingerie. I will await you without.”
The pale cerulean silk is favored by milord. He has replaced it twice when it was damaged. The newest set has downy lace at the edges that sparkles when it catches the light. Lacking a brush, she runs her fingers through her disordered locks.
In the salon, milord has his slate propped on the table, the strong column of his throat and an enticing expanse of muscled torso revealed by his open tunic. Milord’s eyes lift from his slate and slide over her, darkening with desire, and his lips curve with approval. At his left, Lilian’s slate rests on a chair; an array of hot and cold dishes cover the other end of the table. The full plate at milord’s elbow is an invitation to serve herself.
Having missed her morning meal, Lilian is delighted to find the offerings are appetizing and plentiful. Fresh greens and duck eggs scrambled with mushrooms find her plate. Lifting a cover, she adds roasted root vegetables and finishes with a selection of fruit and cheese. Setting the plate by her seat, Lilian gathers her slate and props it on the table. Does milord wish converse, he will speak.
For a half period, Lilian works her way through commerce as she consumes the meal. Almost as soon as she finishes the last grape, the planet exit warning sounds.
Milord rises. “As much as I would enjoy it were you to remain as you are, I believe you would prefer to be more fully garbed for planet exit, as would I. Retire and correct your disarray.”
»◊«
Returning to the salon, dressed, hair yet in disarray, Lilian notes that the phantom servitors have swept in and removed the remains of the meal in under a quarter period. Were they waiting in the corridor? Shaking off the fancy, she takes her seat to milord’s left in one of the window-facing groupings.
The stellar transport center covers over a hundred acres, including control towers, short-term storage, security and operations facilities, and twelve anti-gravity platforms. Each half-acre platform is separated from the others by an acre on every side. In the distance, the skeletal structures of new construction rise. The dozen locations are soon to be a score, each requiring a warrior’s ransom in Vistrite to operate. Estimating the cartel revenue from the new platforms is an excellent mechanism for avoiding thoughts of the coming rise into the void.
Milord taps her knuckles, wh
ich are white from gripping the chair arm. “What think you? Who will inscribe the Nightingale?”
It is the wager of the moment. The day after the hull launch, there will be a competition among the consortium partners to inscribe Nightingale on the hull. The three flyers will traverse a difficult course among the Fourth System’s four uninhabitable planets. The first to reach the hull will have the honor of burning the inscription into the vessel. Fletcher competes for Serengeti, as does Matahorn’s contender in the last Third System’s moon races. The Leonardo competitor does not compete in the moon races and is an unknown quantity.
Flexing her fingers, Lilian replies, “I know not, milord.”
Milord smiles, attributing her answer to his prohibition against performing odds management. “I wish to know.”
Although she has not calculated the odds, her duty is to milord’s will. “I thought it might be milord’s will to know. I can offer naught until the consortium completes its investigation.”
Milord’s eyebrows flare and his lips tighten. Has she erred? There is a fine line between anticipating milord’s will and effrontery.
“What need you of investigation?” he asks. “For the moon races you required naught but twenty minutes with a powerful reviewer.”
Milord is not angered, but he does not care to be surprised. Milord’s hand rests on her knuckles. Dropping her head, she feathers a kiss on his fingers. It is not much of an act of contrition, but anchored in the chair, there is naught more she can do.
Milord’s fingers feather along her lips. “I am not angered.”
She relaxes back in her chair. “The Leonardo Society contender does not moon race. All that is known for certain is that his skills were developed in the governor’s militia. It is likely he is well familiar with flying the Fourth System, if not the Bright Star race trial route. More research is required to ascertain his skills.”
“What of the odds managers?” milord asks. “The wagering pools are well defined. The odds managers must be offering their ratings on some basis.”
“The odds managers’ ratings are unreliable.” She has cause to know. It is enough to remind milord of what he knows. “Milord recalls the odds offered on Master Fletcher’s first moon race?”
Lilian’s analysis had been counter to the odds managers’ and was proven correct.
“Was that not an anomaly?” milord returns. “This past moon race season you favored Fletcher by naught but a thin margin.”
I am the sum of my ancestors. She would rather not voice it, but milord’s will must be honored. “My continued existence is an anomaly. The number of odds managers who hold ruinous positions on my fate exceeds those who do not. The odds managers are too dependent on their models. They fail to perform the necessary research. The governor’s militia will have held its own competitions. That information is not tracked by the media, but it is available. Tabitha and Clarice will provide what is required before the wagering is locked.”
A low hum is felt more than heard as the vessel begins to rise, the launch platform reversing gravity, pushing the Shimmering Horizon into the air. In moments, the vessel is a thousand feet above the planet’s surface, Crevasse City visible in the distance, the dark shadow of the Great Crevasse cutting through the plains to the hills. The hum is joined by a quiet rumble as the Shimmering Horizon’s launch engines add to the propulsion provided by the stellar transit center. Landmarks disappear, and the Central Continent becomes a patchwork of plains, hills, rivers, and lakes. Above them, the midday sky darkens to twilight. An unseen force presses Lilian into the chair as the Shimmering Horizon pushes through the outer edge of the atmosphere and into the black of the void between stars.
The rumble of the propulsion systems softens as the vessel reaches the maximum velocity allowed for intra-system transit. As the transport passes the second moon, Metricelli Prime is naught but a small green ball.
Milord’s fingers close on hers. “When did you last review the odds managers’ positions on you?”
“Not since milord forbade it. Shortly after the festival brawl.” Almost two years gone, but the pattern has not faded. Not only did most of the Twelve Systems wish her dead, the odds managers were certain her death was imminent.
At eighty to one, the odds reflected the massive difficulty of Lilian’s situation. The burden and humiliation of an apprentice bond was expected to lead to despair and a willingness to accept the Final Draught. The notion that a warrior could never submit to the control of the bond for three years was also a factor. Finally, Remus Gariten’s tainted offspring were loathed. As an apprentice, Lilian was property. There was a high probability that some disgusted warrior would simply kill her and pay the fine. Several attempts were made.
Milord’s thumb strokes her knuckles. “After the battle of Serengeti, the odds moved to three to one in your favor and there was no interest.”
Adelaide’s thorn. The odds managers are hedging their bets. The pattern shimmers and solidifies. “It is too late. I have proven difficult to destroy. They cannot recoup the pools at this late date.”
Milord’s hand lifts to her chin, holding her to capture her gaze. “You understand, do you not? Why for the next four months you are forbidden to be outside the cartel, Katleen’s house, the penthouse, or our travel quarters without a guard. I care not the extremity.”
Lackwit. How could she have missed this pattern? “Milord anticipates assassination.”
Milord’s fingers turn to cup her face. The dark eyes hold naught but a brilliant will. “I anticipate attempts, not success. Seigneur Trevelyan has set our gray and black commerce associates to attend to this.”
Gray and black commerce? Lilian knows milord has dealings with the raiders to protect his empire, but what has it to do with her?
“Assassins perform for reward. A reward is useless when one is dead. It must be an extraordinary reward to run the risk of a death that would horrify a Despoiler. It is not the Governing Council an assassin needs fear in this.”
All in the Twelve Systems know that milord sent Patrick Volsted’s family and that of his two companions into economic exile in retaliation for years of assault against his apprentice. None will doubt that he will be beyond ruthless to those who would slay her. “My thanks, milord.”
But it is not only Lilian at risk. Maman and Katleen. Seigneur Trevelyan is to have the matter. It will be well. Apollo. Apollo may be able to help.
Milord’s fingers tighten on her jaw. “What think you?”
“The seer and Katleen. I must send an alert. They are well guarded, but they need to be cautious.”
Milord’s hands slide from her face along her throat and squeeze her shoulders. “It will not be long until the release chimes. Until then, worry not. As you voice, they are well guarded.”
With naught to do but wait, Lilian reaches into her slate bag for a brush. It is impossible to secure her hair smoothly to her head when it is not damp. The result is more ordered than a loose tail but not as severe as a warrior’s queue. It will need to suffice.
»◊«
Lucius would have preferred Lilian enjoy the voyage ignorant of the odds manager threat, but when she voiced their impending ruin, he knew it would not be long before she realized the danger. Better that she knows he has taken measures than let her fear increase.
The last planet in the Third System turns into a red marble and falls behind as the chimes sound. They have left the Third System and accelerated to the point where the stars are streamers of light as the Shimmering Horizon leaps toward the next beacon. As he reaches for his satchel, Lilian’s slate all but leaps into her hands and flying fingers.
There is naught new in Lucius’ alerts. It takes but a few moments to notify Trevelyan that Lilian knows of the assassin threat, a few more to instruct him to increase the measures around Helena and Katleen. If any wish to get to Lilian, those two are the key. If Trevelyan so requires, he may enlist Thorvald.
When he finishes, Lilian’s fingers are quiet. The
re is no question in his mind that Lilian’s consortium has been alerted. “What of Mistress Pippa? Is she to know of the threat?”
“Yes, milord. My friendship with her has not been secret.” Lilian fingers her conservator’s seal. “Pippa will not voice aught within Leonardo. She is more than able to call upon excellent protection.”
Trevelyan’s investigation of Lilian’s university companion was meticulous. Pippa chose not to follow family custom into the pharmaceutical cartels, but she has not abandoned her family, nor they her. Her mother is beyond formidable and her brother is a lieutenant in the governor’s militia. Lucius wonders if Lilian knows Pippa has outstanding wagers on Lilian proving her bond. As to Leonardo, Lucius has no wish to place Pippa on the wrong side of Angus. The chatterbox has proven an excellent if unwitting source of information on Lilian’s past. “It matters not if Monsignor Angus knows of the threat. There is neither advantage nor disadvantage in it. You need not bind your friend too tightly.”
Lilian’s eyes widen and then cloud. Information is wealth. It is not shared lightly. The gray eyes clear and her expression brightens. “My thanks, milord.”
It nears third bell and much as Lucius would enjoy dragging Lilian back to bed, there is commerce to conduct. “You are at liberty. Return by sixth bell.”
4. Shimmering Horizon
With the ratification of the Code of Engagement, the Five Warriors turned their attention from conquest to stabilizing their realms. As warfare ceased, the populace grew restless. Throughout the Three Systems, massive sections were uninhabitable after the destruction of Anarchy. If order was to be maintained, new sources of food, water, and resources for construction had to be located.
Negotiating with Mulan for technologistics and Jonathan for Vistrite, the First and Second Warriors converted several stellar battle cruisers into stellar exploration vehicles. Rimon Ben Claude was the first to succeed, discovering the Fourth System in the seventeenth year of Order and establishing a settlement at Fort Rimon. ~ excerpt from, The Origins of the Five Warriors, a scholarly treatise.