Nightingale

by E G Manetti

  Sevenday 130, Day 3 – Continued

  The passenger lounge is filling when Lilian arrives, escorted by Mr. Stefan. Chrys leaps to his feet, his eyes flashing to her guard, but he says naught. To her surprise, Blythe manages to maintain a pleased expression, offering no hint that the guard’s presence is unusual. Lilian’s consortium chooses to aid Blythe, but she has not yet shown the discretion that will earn inclusion in the group.

  “Do you wish aught?” Chrys motions to a buffet arrayed on the far wall where passengers are queuing. The semicircular lounge is the primary observation deck, providing a one-hundred-eighty-degree vista of the streaming starlight. A mosaic of seating areas provides comfortable gathering areas while allowing unobstructed views of the windows.

  Glad to turn from the endless void, Lilian follows Chrys to the buffet. “This buffet is always open, but the menu varies with the bell. Between midday and evening, it is fruit, small bites, and sweets. If you wish aught more substantial, the restaurants and cafés will provide it.” Gathering a water vial, she steps aside.

  “Water is sufficient.” Chrys takes a vial.

  Blythe hesitates by the sweets tray but moves on to the water. “I will need to increase my training time. The fare here is far more tempting than in the Serengeti Associates’ Quarters.”

  “The training facility is compact but well equipped.” Lilian turns for the exit. “That will be our final stop. It is the lowest of the recreation levels and there is much to view before then.”

  The archives and commerce complex are the first stop and are but sparsely populated. Pulling her slate, Lilian demonstrates how to reserve the small conference chambers. “On the morrow, the complex will be filled from eighth bell to eighth. If space cannot be found, the passenger lounge is an option, but it is not secure.”

  “Filled?” Blythe pirouettes in the area that is three times the size of the Serengeti governors’ conference chamber. “But it is more than double the size of the one on the transport we used when Seigneur Marco inspected construction during the dry season.”

  “It is the hull launch,” Chrys says. “Not only is the Serengeti contingent more than double what it was for the summit, almost all the passengers are significant commerce partners of the cartel.”

  “Half the Third System seigneurs are scrambling to find stellar transport,” Lilian adds. “Did you not note the construction at the stellar transit center? That is for the traffic that is expected when the SEV1 launches for the Thirteenth System next year.”

  Blythe frowns. “Six launch platforms for one event?”

  “It is but the beginning,” Lilian replies, leading them from the commerce complex. “Transit between the Third and Fourth Systems has doubled with Bright Star, and overall, transit in and out of the Third System is up by twenty percent. It will only grow.”

  Blythe nods. “Bright Star and Mercium. Any who wish to be a part must come to Serengeti.”

  Although he masks it well, Chrys is as awed by the luxury of the Shimmering Horizon as Blythe. With Troy a minor world in a minor system, its most luxurious transport was half this size and much of its interior dedicated to cargo. If the luxury vessel that Chrys used to travel from Genji to Metricelli Prime offered similar accommodations, he has no knowledge of it. His passage fee did not permit him beyond the servitors’ level.

  The entertainment options are extensive, including performances that rival Crevasse City’s finest indulgences, gaming carousels, and the latest in holographic melodramas. There are over a dozen restaurants and cafés, ranging from a basic canteen to facilities that rival the Warriors’ Respite. Their passage tokens access all but those restricted to warriors. Lilian prefers the canteen and a small café decorated with flowering plants. The finer establishments are frequented by warriors and Lilian does not wish to risk offering unintended offense or to invite insult. The boutiques are extensive. The prices are such that the Serengeti boutiques are as flea markets.

  Arriving at the bridge, they wait for Lilian to be acknowledged. Chrys does not expect to wait long; Lucius Mercio’s conservator does not outrank a captain on his transport, but Monsignor Lucius’ vessel will be given all courtesy lest he take offense. The captain in question is a stocky man of average height and some sixty years with a powerful build. Gehrig’s sandy hair recedes from a high forehead, beneath which are deep-set gray-green eyes in a rugged face. With a deep bass voice, he greets Lilian. “Conservator, well met.”

  “Well met indeed, Captain Gehrig. I am beyond pleased to be guest once again on this fabulous transport. May I make my companions known?”

  At the captain’s nod, Chrys steps forward, eager to meet a man who traversed the beaconless expanse. Blythe and Stefan hold the same awe. It matters naught that the captain was but an ensign; he is one of but a score living who have had the experience.

  If the captain wonders about the militia guard, he does not voice it. He turns to Lilian. “I understand that you and Mate Hannah will have another match.”

  Lilian’s eyes sparkle. “We both anticipate the trial. We will learn much from each other as we have before.”

  There is a definite twinkle in the captain’s eyes when he replies, “I will not miss this challenge. The monitor records of the last challenge are poor substitute for the live combat.”

  Demon shit. The man is flirting with her. Chrys steps forward before it deteriorates into a stricture violation. “If you please, Captain, Lilian thought we might tour the navigation and propulsion systems.”

  At his words, Lilian’s eyes lose their sparkle and her face closes into a polite, neutral expression. It sits ill with him to see it, but it is necessary for her safety.

  With a brusque nod, Gehrig gives his permission, motioning a lieutenant forward. To Chrys’ delight, they are guided through the propulsion and engineering sections and then the hydroponic gardens, establishing favorable contacts with the crew Chrys hopes to revisit when he has liberty.

  »◊«

  Dragging the plush towel over his torso, Marco wipes away the sweat from his match with Fletcher. Kemeha’s protégé has a couple of inches on Marco but is slender as a whipcord, and as quick. Marco’s mass makes him a formidable opponent in unarmed combat but landing a blow on the slippery moon racer was a challenge. Materializing next to him, Fletcher holds out a water vial. “My thanks for the match, Seigneur.”

  The water flows down Marco’s throat as he assesses Fletcher. The dark hair is matted with sweat, the dark eyes bright from the exercise. It is difficult to tell with his dark skin, but Marco is almost certain that moon racer’s torso is blotched from a well-landed blow.

  Patting the area with a towel, Fletcher flashes his charismatic smile. “This one will bruise.”

  Clapping the younger man on the shoulder, Marco laughs. “And I will be a quarter period regaining my breath.”

  Across the chamber, Blythe enters, followed by Lilian and Chrys. The royal blue of Rimon’s training garb suits his apprentice, the fitted top and flowing trousers showing her lush figure to advantage.

  Following his gaze, Fletcher frowns and then takes his leave. Watching the moon-racer disappear, he wonders the source of protégé’s sudden distance from Lilian after having shown her marked favor since the festival brawl. It is possible that Blythe has knowledge of the matter. Crossing the distance, he reaches the trio as Chrys turns to Lilian. “Compact, you voiced?”

  Organized to maximize space, the Shimmering Horizon’s training chambers are a fraction of the size of Serengeti’s. A gallery containing auto-racers and other devices rings the central sparring area, which is segmented with moveable temporary half walls, creating ‘chambers’ in a variety of sizes capable of supporting classes or single combat.

  “They do not train a score of associates at once,” Lilian replies. “The gallery is but half full and there are a half dozen squares available for use.”

  Chrys shakes his head with a laugh. “You have a gift for understatement. But it matters not, I will to a
n auto-racer and mayhap I can find someone who will give me a match.”

  “Milord!” Blythe’s eyes widen, and she comes to attention. At her words, Lilian and Chrys cease their banter.

  Gesturing at Lilian and Chrys, Marco releases them. “Go about your training.”

  As the two apprentices depart, Marco turns back to Blythe. “What of your training?”

  A blush rises and Blythe’s eyes shine. “Does it please milord, I match Lilian.”

  What does she? Blythe is agile and strong, but her abilities are naught compared to Adelaide’s Thorn. Lilian is gifted in combat and has trained as a warrior since her tenth year. “It will be an uneven match.”

  The blush increases and Blythe nods. “I will not defeat Lilian, but I will learn much and she wishes to attempt some new technique.”

  Interesting. “I will view the match.”

  Three match areas over, Lilian works through the motions of Adelaide’s Discipline. Forceful attack becomes agile defense and then flows into rapid avoidance. Joining Lilian in the square, Blythe runs through the movements of Rimon’s Discipline. Thorvald’s martial training is famed throughout the Twelve Systems for good cause. His apprentice is faster and more agile than when she entered the cartel six months gone.

  Blythe equals Lilian in height and exceeds her mass, her build similar to Hannah’s. The curves do not mask the well-disciplined muscle. Of an age with Lilian, Blythe owns the quickness and endurance of youth. She has the advantage of a long training sword to Lilian’s chalk thorn. It avails her naught.

  It is as if she attempts to combat flowing water. Within a quarter period, Blythe is flushed and sweating while Lilian is unflagging. At half a period, his apprentice is wearying, but she is valiant and will not yield. The match chime sounds. Blythe drops her sword, bending to rest her hands on her knees. Lilian makes a slow circle around the other woman, tallying the chalk marks. There are six against the two light strikes Blythe landed. What is Lilian playing at? His apprentice should not be so little marked. Has this aught to do with the impending match with Mate Hannah?

  Blythe steps from the match square to return the training sword to its place. She has done well, and Marco is well pleased with her. Once Marco has enjoyed her, he will discover what she knows of Lilian’s purpose. She may even own some knowledge of why Fletcher has changed toward Lilian. Blythe is wondrously forthcoming in the aftermath of passion.

  »◊«

  Trevelyan assesses the exterior of Katleen’s house as the transport glides to a halt. The gray crevasse-stone structure has stood half a millennium, the graceful arches of the first-storey windows obscured by heavy shutters as dark and as impregnable as the day almost three years gone when they were installed. The houses on either side are as ancient and as graceful, without such grim security measures—measures necessitated by the damage and looting the inhabitants of those neighboring houses and others perpetrated on the disgraced family.

  Striding up the steps, his guard at his heels, he knows the interior will be even more forbidding than the exterior. When he entered in the wake of the battle of Serengeti, he was shocked by the twilight created by the opaque courtyard covers. Due to Stefan’s meticulous reports, he knows that the covers will not move until the rains cease and that in evening hours, passage is navigated with Vistrite lanterns. The only chambers with full lights are the kitchen and three bedchambers.

  The front entrance recesses as he reaches it, Katleen’s red-gold curls glowing in the lantern light. “Well come, Seigneur. There is an evening meal in the kitchen, but if you prefer, I will guide you to Maman’s chamber. Your travel bags arrived earlier.”

  Entering behind Katleen, he asks, “Where is your mother?”

  “In her chamber. She is working with the pigments.”

  “Pigments?” He turns for the staircase.

  “She paints her visions on the walls.” Katleen skips ahead with the light. “At the moment they are lovely.”

  The guard coughs. “If the seigneur pleases?”

  Turning back to the man, Trevelyan nods. “Standard patrol pattern. Let me know if there is aught of concern. The seer’s chamber is first on the western corridor.”

  The guard’s lantern flares to life and he disappears into the courtyard.

  Joining Katleen, Trevelyan mounts the stairs, curious about the wall paintings. He has been to Lilian’s chamber, but this is the first time he has entered the house since Helena yielded her favor. He knows where her chamber is, but not its appearance. For all the dark corridors displease him, excitement quickens his pace. Their discreet dalliance, conducted in a chamber at the shrine quarters, has been a light in the dark months of Despoiler pursuit. Those bells have been far less frequent than he would wish, with them both burdened by the demands of duty. Helena’s reluctance to acknowledge their liaison has added a bite of bitterness to the joy of earning her affection. Her invitation to join her in Katleen’s house while Lilian is absent is as wonderful as it is unexpected.

  The upper storey is not as dark, the twilight entering the unshuttered windows. It is far too dim for Trevelyan’s liking. He will be resident for near to two sevendays. On the morrow, this corridor and the courtyard below will be lined with lanterns.

  Katleen’s quiet knock is not acknowledged. Perhaps Helena is in the freshening closet. With a smile and a shrug, Katleen recesses the door. Bright light spills into the corridor, the Vistrite lights set to maximum. A riot of color greets him as Katleen steps aside. His eyes fly first to the opposite wall, where two sets of windowed double doors look out into the dark courtyard. Surrounding the doors is a vibrant orchard populated by a myriad of woodland creatures. A flock of birds catches his eyes and then comes into focus. The central raven gripping a large thorn is Lilian, flanked by Chrys and Rebecca with a hawk that can only be Douglas wheeling above them. An owl preens in one of the trees. Clarice.

  Cosmic dust! That is Rachelle depicted as a coyote and the gnome dangling from her jaws is Magnus. Chuckling, he moves closer. The stork picking its way through a stream is Simon, the crouching mongoose, Tabitha. Chuckles become laughter when he recognizes the salamander dressed as a wizard. Aristides. The seer’s characterizations are remarkable.

  Blessed stellar glitter. The wall around the freshening closet door is painted. The nighttime forest is dark and mysterious. The large dappled cat hunting a pack of evil rats is none other than Lucius Mercio. Laughter turns to chills when he realizes that his own image is imposed on a cat disguised as a rat. His dark days as an infiltrator among the pirates no longer bring night terrors, but it has been a decade and there are few who know of it. My source is erratic and information often incomplete. Lilian’s return to him from that long-ago conversation explaining her awareness of those days.

  Turning, he seeks the artist. “Helena? Dearling?”

  “Here.” Helena steps through a door, drying her hands on a towel.

  He takes Helena’s hands. “How did you know?”

  “The Shades call who they will, touch whom they will, will what they will.” She rises to her toes and feathers a kiss across his lips.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulls Helena to him, relishing the strength of her pliant form and her herbal scent. He should know better than to question her about the visions. She can no more identify the source of her visions than Lilian her insights. If Helena had the words, she would not need the drawings.

  Her hands slide inside his jacket. “Have you urgent need a of meal?”

  Desire flares. “Not so urgent.”

  Her eyes darken, and a sensual smile curls her lips as she pushes the jacket from his shoulders.

  »◊«

  It lacks ten minutes until sixth bell when Lilian enters milord’s quarters. A quick scan of the master bedchamber through the open door confirms milord has not returned. Peeling off her training tunic, Lilian enters the servitor’s chamber. Toeing off the short training boots, she steps free of the sweat-soaked trousers.

  Depositing
her training garb in the small launderer’s closet next to the locked exterior door, she frees her hair. If she were a free servitor, that locked door would be her exit and entrance from milord’s suite. As it is, not only must her coming and going be marked, the sealed door means fewer guards are needed. Except for her training garb in the bag under the bunk, all else is in the closet and drawers. The narrow bunk is comfortable and affixed to the wall. Head height above it, enclosed shelves hold Lilian’s empty travel bags. A small worksite with drawers abuts the narrow closet holding her garments. Opposite the closet, at the foot of the bunk, is the freshening closet. It may be small, and the shower miniscule, but the water pressure is excellent and there is no lack of warmth.

  Stepping into the small shower, she reaches for the shampoo. With Mistress Marieth’s aid, she was able to specify the citrusy products she prefers in a better quality than she can afford. What is not used on the voyage will make its way into her travel bags.

  Veiled in the sea-green wrap, her hair loose down her back, Lilian selects the salon couch that allows her to keep her back to the void and ignites her slate. Desperation is at full productivity and Seigneur Rachelle has the SEV1 Mercium well in hand. Blythe has completed the reworking of the last of the individual trials and will be testing it with Nickolas and Fletcher the following day. Lilian will focus on the group trial. Until they return to Metricelli Prime, Lilian’s duties will be light.

  Milord enters as seventh bell chimes. Sweat sheens his well-muscled torso and glistens on Socraide’s mark, the small crimson sunburst tattoo on his right pectoral. By the time he has reached the couch, she is on her feet at attention. Her fingertips tingle to twine in the dark, sweat-dampened hair. Milord must have entered the training chambers soon after she left. She regrets she did not remain to view him training.

  Lust flares through Lucius as Lilian rises in a cloud of sheer sea-green silk. The delicate fabric clings and drops to midcalf while the tail of fabric covers her breasts, leaving the shape and peaks clearly delineated. For something that covers so much, the sheer silk reveals much. It is not enough. Lucius tugs the band of silk flowing over her shoulder and pulls it free from the warbelt, baring Lilian to the waist.