Nightingale

by E G Manetti

  Socraide’s sword! Triumph floods Lucius. He is on his feet, shouting in exultation, arms raised to the sky and the distant hull. He has done it. Five years in the making and he has done it. All around him, warriors who once forecast his fall are cheering. Fletcher and Nickolas are jumping up and down, pounding each other on the back. Angus and Coyote are laughing and embracing, as are Rachelle and Marco. Lilian and her consortium of apprentices are shouting and clapping. Her gray eyes are bright and filled with awe and admiration when they meet his. It is all he can do to restrain the impulse to pull her into his arms and kiss her, his disgraced prodigy who as much as any has made this day possible.

  “Monsignor,” Rachelle says, calling his attention to the monitors. The day is not quite done.

  Self-master. On the monitors, free of imprisoning gravity, the hull dances in the night sky. Interior and exterior lights bejewel the craft. Horns sound, the music Aristides’ recommendation. The brilliant craft approaches the satellite, where one of the survey craft used on Ruin waits. The crowd falls silent.

  Master fear. The survey craft approaches the SEV1, an exploration arm reaching for a trailing line.

  Master anger. It misses. The crowd groans.

  Master joy. Another attempt and the line is caught and held.

  Mastery of mind. The arm sweeps to the satellite and the line connects, pulling taut. The SEV1 glides closer and slackens.

  Self-master. The survey craft drops below the prow, reaching for the other dangling line. This time, it does not miss.

  The SEV1 is safely nested in the expanse. Ecstatic applause and cheers crest across the plains. It is not the wild exultation of the entry into black. It is a sound filled with delight at the promise of beaconless expanse exploration.

  »◊«

  It has taken a while, but Lucius has come to appreciate the deep greens and blues of the Fortuna sunset. With the soundless footfalls of stealth and martial arts training, he enters the salon, careful not to call Lilian’s attention. Her back to the chamber, she gazes out at the darkening sky, the fading light making her gold frock glow. The slender form has lost the gauntness of the last months, the knobs of her spine no longer prominent in the creamy landscape of her back. A back that is fully exposed. What does she?

  Closer observation reveals that the glow of gold is not from the setting sun but from the nearly transparent gauze that covers her back from shoulders to waist. The gold of a tailored skirt caresses her hips before narrowing until it ends three inches above her knees. Gold shimmers along the elegant length of her legs, more of the thigh-high leg coverings popular in the chilly season, although these are so thin they can be naught but ornamental. The gold warbelt is a deeper, brighter gold against the soft silk, calling to the Vistrite and Mercium brilliants chain entwined with her chignon. It is a stunning image that will draw the eyes of many, but he wonders at the narrow width of the skirt that is completely out of keeping with his apprentice’s normal attire. The woman does not care to have her movement restrained.

  Lilian turns. Did she catch his reflection or did her battle-trained senses register the weight of his gaze? The graceful movement causes the bottom four inches of skirt to shift and resettle. Clever, and intriguing. The skirt’s side seams are slit, openings augmented with the same sheer gauze that veils her back. From the front, a glittering panel rises from the cinched waist, covering all that should be covered before meeting the delicate gauze that reaches down her back. Lucius’ hands itch to explore the strength of that shimmer of gold. He dares not if they are to reach the reception in time.

  Forcing his gaze to Lilian’s face, Lucius surprises a flash of desire from her that smooths into a mask of serenity, although even her exceptional discipline cannot hide gray eyes yet bright with the excitement of the launch.

  Milord holds out a hand. His eyes are intent and curious. The hand clasps her waist as the other rises to trace the line of her breast. As fragile as the bodice appears, the glistening gold panel is not. There is a stiff structure between milord’s wandering fingers and Lilian’s breasts. He smiles, his eyes holding hot promise that her frock may not survive until dawn. It is of little consequence. Milord purchased the frock. It is his to use as he wills.

  »◊«

  Set at the pinnacle of one of Fort Rimon’s hills, the Water Art Garden is astonishing. Enclosed in glass, the multilevel structure is a series of curved and rising walkways and chambers crowded with elaborate sculptures. Intertwined throughout are plants that climb, fall, and trail, their floral perfumes mingling with the mineral scent of the water. Tiny lights scattered among the plants and throughout the facility echo the starry night shining through the glass, reminding Lilian of the magical elven palaces of children’s fables.

  More formal than the Serengeti reception, several of the larger chambers have been arranged with seating for the monsignors and seigneurs. The apprentices, along with associates and protégés, are at liberty to find refreshment at the buffets and open tables scattered throughout the garden. At milord’s entrance, Seigneur William comes forward with Monsignor Angus and an unknown woman. The dagger at her hip proclaims her a warrior but it is not accompanied by a signet. As delicate as Clarice, she has the cinnamon-hued complexion of the Kailanis but her black eyes suggest that if she is of that clan, she is distant kin. Her ice-blue gown is gossamer but for slender panels at the front and back, daring even for a warrior. The heated gaze that accompanies her greeting of milord cannot be mistaken. His gaze and charming smile focused on the woman, milord flicks his fingers. Lilian is dismissed.

  When she finds Pippa, Lilian will learn what she can of the strange woman. Not that she fears milord will accept the woman’s invitation, but it would be useful to know if Matahorn attempts to beguile him as they have her.

  “Lilian!” Clarice hails her from a spiraling water art display, Chrys and Blythe with her. Clarice’s amber gown provides a compelling contrast to the gold of the Blooded Dagger apprentices. The color makes her golden-hue skin glow, her black hair and eyes a dramatic contrast. It is a stunning group, the jewels bedecking the apprentices evidence of their value to their bondholders and that Serengeti and Blooded Dagger are increasingly ascendant in the commercial structures of the Twelve Systems.

  Navigating the complex structure in search of the chamber designated for junior staff, the quartet is careful to yield passage to all those of higher rank, although Lilian notes that while he will step aside, Mr. Stefan never yields line of sight. A bright voice hails them, and Pippa emerges from a knot of associates, her turquoise skirt fluttering as she dances forward. Her short hair is tipped in silver and gold, sparkling as brightly as the intricate chains that adorn her at throat and wrist. Impossibly delicate slippers with four-inch heels lift the hummingbird to Lilian’s shoulders. Rebecca would adore those shoes and Lilian’s toes ache at the viewing.

  With a waggle of fingers, Pippa dismisses her cousin-escort to find his advantage in the gathering. As soon as he departs, Pippa launches into speech and motion. “I am famished. The reception tables for the junior guests are through that arch. Did you note those large yellow flowers adorning the gateway to the monsignors’ reception? They are exceedingly rare sunflowers. They are almost impossible to cultivate. The Ancients prized them for their seeds, which are supposedly medicinal. Fortuna has the only research facility that has brought them to flower.

  “Is this not lovely? This is my favorite chamber. You must visit again in the warm weather when the windows are open. The climbing flora within the water art is even more stunning when the vines blossom. The artist has a gift for meshing crystal and metal.”

  A servitor passes with a tray of wine, and Pippa reaches for a glass. “Do try the red wine and render an opinion. It is of new development. You need not finish it. I prefer the rose. Oh, there is our table.”

  At Pippa’s wave, a handsome man rises, his dark gold hair caught in a warrior’s queue.

  “Chrys, do not neglect the artichokes. They are prepar
ed in the Fortuna manner and quite delightful. Lilian, you have not introduced me to your friend. I—”

  Reaching the table, Lilian holds up a hand. “Pippa, peace. If you will introduce us to your friend, I will introduce mine.”

  There is a brief flurry of activity as introductions are made and the group explores the buffet. Pippa’s admirer turns out to be a Matahorn financials associate. If he is surprised or offended to find the militia guard claiming what had been his seat, he voices it not. He was among the five thousand observers in the Leonardo construction field and is delighted to learn that the three apprentices viewed it from the prime pavilion.

  “Master Chrys, be cautious of the red,” Blythe interjects. At the sudden focus from her companions, she shrugs, attempting to contain a blush. “I sampled it during our visit to inspect the construction. It was well for me that Seigneur chose to be amused and not angered. It is a powerful wine.”

  Chrys sets aside the half-empty glass and turns to water.

  “What is amiss?” Pippa asks. “Do you dislike it, try the rose. It is my favorite. Lilian, I know you prefer green, but you should try it as well.”

  Before Pippa can summon a servitor, Lilian says, “I require no more. A glass is sufficient. More will make me tipsy, and release of inhibition in an apprentice can lead to all manner of disaster.”

  Eyes skipping from Lilian to Blythe to Chrys and his half-empty glass, Pippa bites her lip in chagrin. “Oh, I am so sorry. I did not think. I know it to be potent. It is why I prefer the rose. I speak too freely as it is. I intended no injury, truly—”

  “There is no harm done,” Chrys interrupts. “The wine will not overset me. I simply do not enjoy it sufficiently to warrant the demands it will make on my control.” With the grace of long practice, he turns the topic. “Will you tell us more of the sunflowers? They are unknown to me, although I did wonder at them.”

  With a bright smile, Pippa once again launches into speech. Sunflowers turn to the botanical gardens and then a discussion of Fort Rimon’s many attractions, which ends with the meal. Abandoning the table to explore the garden, they lose Chrys to Master Aidan and a circle of technologist and engineering associates. Blythe finds her media management allies and introduces Clarice, leaving Pippa to lead Lilian and Mr. Stefan through the chambers, seeking more of her acquaintance and stopping to enjoy the variety of entertainments that have followed the meal. Musicians play in some, games of chance are offered in others. As Lilian suspected, the delicate beauty in the ice-blue gossamer is a Matahorn master associate and one of Pippa’s many cousins. “She is a terrible flirt and knowledgeable of construction financing. Maman will be thrilled to learn she was introduced to Monsignor Lucius. I imagine she and her parents will be invited to Maman’s birth festival.”

  Grabbing Lilian’s wrist, Pippa turns, “We must view this. I heard about it but I—”

  Lilian pulls her wrist free and steps back, glancing around the chamber. Adelaide’s grace. All are riveted on the entertainment. Clad in naught but daubs of shimmering cobalt paint, a trio dances through a pool of water flowing from an intricate sculpture.

  Eyes wide, Pippa opens her mouth. Mr. Stefan steps between them. “Mistress Lilian, if you please, the chimes have sounded. Monsignor will have completed his meal.”

  With what she hopes is a reassuring smile for Pippa, Lilian follows the guard. She must find milord and determine his will. Reaching the monsignors’ dining chamber, they find it empty. Searching the adjoining areas, she finds him in a large courtyard engaged with the governor and a Euphrates monsignor. His eyes flicker over her and then away. She is not required. Returning to the dancers, she finds no sign of Pippa. Moving into the next chamber, she is entranced by another water art display. Beyond graceful, it defies gravity, cascading up invisible shelves to the ceiling, sending whispers of motion through the delicate, white, bell-shaped flowers that grace its levels.

  “You must find the gold of your servitude pleasant.” The dark, ugly tones shatter her reverie. “I prefer you in the brown you wore when we last met.”

  Adelaide’s thorn! Lilian’s fingers dance along the warbelt, seeking her absent thorn. I am the sum of my ancestors. Her hand closes over her conservator’s seal as memory floods.

  Socraide Prime’s incarceration garb is dull brown. Utilitarian and antiseptic, it is woven of rough synthetic that abrades where it touches. Next to her skin, a flimsy singlet covers her from breast to crotch with straps not much thicker than a hair at her shoulders. Over it, a loose jumpsuit in a heavier weave rustles against her bindings as she shuffles down the endless corridor, escorted by two indifferent guards.

  The discomfort and humiliation are naught compared to what awaits her at the end of the corridor. Remus Gariten has been exposed. She is guilty of bearing his DNA. If she reveals that his DNA disgusts her more than it disgusts her protocol review board, they will send her to the Final Draught without a trial. Her only hope is confusion and fear.

  The riveted metal of the incarceration halls gives way to the tile and glass of the judgment halls. In a small antechamber, the guards release her bindings and strip her of the jumpsuit, their hands invasive and insulting. A guard’s hand cuffing each bicep, she is pushed into the review chamber, the forceful escort another reminder of her powerlessness and disgrace. Shoved to her knees in a circular indentation on the floor, her ankles are locked in place. Her wrists are bound and secured to tensile copper lines that keep her from raising them above her waist.

  Lilian will kneel, barely clad, bound to the floor while she is interrogated. Five implacable faces stare down at her from the judgment bench. The shrine representative is Jonathan’s Shrine Keeper. Although Lilian appealed for an alcove keeper, she was denied on the basis that Jonathan’s Keeper served on Gariten’s protocol review board and would provide continuity in judgment. The governor has two representatives, his chief aide and a senior militia officer. Next to them are the commerce representatives, a master associate from Matahorn, the primary complainant, and a master associate from the Geneva Group, second among those Gariten defrauded. That none hold a signet is another insult. A sevenday gone, Lilian was heir to the platinum of a cartouche preeminence.

  Turning her head, she scans the rest of the chamber. To her right, behind the waist-high barriers, is the advocate’s table where Dean Joseph sits, his face as impassive as the judges. Although he will present evidence in her defense, his primary purpose is to serve as witness that the review adheres to permitted levels of humiliation and discomfort. Unless they can provide evidence of her involvement with Gariten’s crimes, they cannot conduct physical interrogation.

  On the left is another barrier and seating for witnesses. For the moment, it is empty, although that will change. She stands convicted of Guilt by Blood, her crime the unfortunate choice of parent. The protocol review will take what is left of her wealth. They will do all they can to prove her culpable in Gariten’s vile practices and send her to the Final Draught.

  Looking away from her mentor and foster father, Lilian drops her head and shoulders toward the floor to minimize the strain of the bindings. Warned by Dean Joseph, she has taken no food since the night gone and only enough juice to soothe her dry mouth and throat when roused at dawn. She knows she will be six to eight bells so bound. She expects it to hurt. She will not soil herself if can she avoid it.

  Booted feet emerge from the judges’ table. She does not raise her head, knowing it is the Matahorn master associate who serves as the goad, the only one of the five permitted physical contact with the accused. The booted feet circle her. With sharp pain, her head is yanked backward until her face is to the ceiling, her hair locked in the goad’s fist. He spits full in her face. It is Lilian’s first experience with being spat upon. It will not be the last. Not even the last that day. Nor is it the worst she will experience before day’s end. I am the sum of my ancestors.

  I am the foundation of my family.

  She will never forget his voice or face. Ben
myn Empire. Of average height, the heavy build is soft with overindulgence. In three years the porous skin has jaundiced, the unlovely features bloated, but the small, brown eyes have not altered. Nor has the expression of delighted brutality.

  Honor is my blade and shield. A master associate no longer, he displays a seigneur’s signet at his belt.

  As his eyes run over her, Benmyn takes a large gulp of red wine and licks his lips. “Silk, jewels, entre to the elite circles of cartel leadership. Not precisely what we envisioned at your sentencing, is it?” The nasty smirk broadens to a leer as he circles her. “I enjoyed having you at my feet. Apparently, His Preeminence enjoys it as well. You are well pampered. Do you cower for him as you did for me?”

  Lilian keeps wary eyes on his body and ignores his face. Does he yield to drink and attempt to strike, she will avoid. Mr. Stefan steps in from the right, putting his broad shoulders between her and the goad.

  Benmyn’s ugly smile broadens. “Mistrusted or protected? Neither is to your benefit.”

  Crevasse swallow him. The man is seeking evidence to challenge her trial proof. Honor knows not fear. Even the goad will not dare pursue her into milord’s shadow. “I regret, Seigneur, I am required elsewhere.”

  Turning away, Lilian’s eyes meet Monsignor Horatio’s. He has been watching. What is his play? There is no question the Matahorn governor knows his seigneur was goad at her protocol review. Having failed to beguile her with his protégé, has he turned to intimidation? To what end? Milord must be informed. Swallowing against rising bile, Lilian searches for milord. Relaying this encounter will not be pleasant. Honor endures.

  Milord is where she left him, engaged with the Fourth System governor. Pippa’s cousin has been replaced by a woman in a peacock-blue gown. As she watches, the woman rests her hand on milord’s arm and leans in with a teasing smile, her bodice grazing his chest.

  “There you are,” Pippa says from behind her. “Vitor was asking about the SEV inscription trial. Is it true the course will use our moons? We are going to view it at the arena. You are in the observatory with Monsignor Lucius, are you not? I have determined not to wager—”