by E G Manetti
A servitor rushes forward to guide milord and Monsignors Horatio, Angus, and Coyote to the center of the chamber where the governor waits beside his militia commandant, senior aide, and the governing monsignors of Euphrates. The chamber is almost at capacity, a few places left in the area immediately behind milord and governor, where another servitor is guiding Seigneur Marco and the other ranked members of Bright Star. At the very back of the central section, Declan stands and motions them to the last few empty places.
Following Nickolas through the crowd, she ignores the occasional raised eyebrows and startled frowns. This once, it is as much due to her commoner status as her notoriety. Other than the servitors, she is the only commoner privileged to view the race in this chamber. Chrys, Blythe, and Clarice are with Pippa in the Fort Rimon arena, where they will view a holograph of the race. To her relief, Jasper takes the seat on Declan’s left, next to Natalia, leaving Mayling to take the seat to Declan’s right and Nickolas and Lilian on the end. As greetings are exchanged, servitors circle offering a lavish array of beverages and small bites. The repast is more than welcome. Lilian is not alone in having foregone a midday meal in favor of training.
Under the cover of the refreshment service, Nickolas asks once again, “You are certain, Lilian? The Matahorn contender?”
Nickolas and Marco shared milord’s transport to the shuttle and were no more pleased at the results of her analysis than Lilian. They did not discuss the matter on the shuttle, but the wager pools closed while they were in route to the observatory. She is free of the stricture against odds management. “That I care not for the result of the analysis changes it not. Master Fletcher’s mind is in the Thirteenth System, as is yours. The Leonardo contender lacks lunar trial experience. The Matahorn contender is formidable. Last year, when Master Fletcher triumphed in the Third System moon races, she had been two years away from the races for child bearing. She has had a year to regain her skills and naught in her mind but this moment.”
Declan rises to exit to the aisle. “If you please.”
It is naught but courtesy, the way is wide, and Lilian does not even shift her feet. At his departure, Natalia leans across his empty seat. “How fares it with you, Lilian?”
Adelaide’s thorn. What goes forward here? A year gone the woman could barely tolerate her presence. Now it is sought. “I fare well. How fares it with you?”
“Well, very well.” With a sweet smile, Natalia glances past Lilian at Nickolas. “What think you of Fletcher’s chances?”
“What is it you wish?” Nickolas’ cool tones have Lilian turning her head. The protégé’s forbidding expression is a mirror of milord’s. “A year gone you raced to deny the conservator. What has changed your will? Lilian’s role in Graham’s elevation to master associate? Perhaps you are more comfortable since two Lord Prelates and Monsignor accepted the hospitality of Mistress Lilian’s household?”
Eyes wide, Natalia flushes an unbecoming red. Before she can say aught, Declan returns, and she takes refuge behind his presence. Ignoring Natalia, Lilian considers Nickolas. There was a time when the green-eyed warrior despised her and made no secret of it. To this day, she knows not what altered his opinion, only that he offered amends with sword and fist at the festival brawl when most still abused her and sought her demise. As gratifying as his defense is, in this instance it is ill-advised. “My thanks for your gallantry. It would be better to allow Natalia’s disdain to go unnoticed. There was naught in her behavior that could be faulted. She is Okoth’s heir. The cartel requires no strife in that direction.”
Nickolas frowns. “You are Monsignor’s conservator. You need not overlook such slights.”
This day. “If I do not, I will quarrel with the whole of the Twelve Systems. It is better not to notice.”
As Nickolas opens his mouth, she adds, “Or at least, pretend not to notice. It serves both Monsignor and me that I do so.”
Nickolas’ mouth closes, and he nods. “I need not be on good terms with Okoth’s heir. I prefer the hummingbird. She is clever and amusing, and for all her silliness, she owns a warrior’s heart.” Grabbing fresh water vials from a passing servitor, he adds, “Your time at Mulan’s Temple must have been very interesting.”
I will not fail. Seven years her senior, Nickolas attended Mulan’s University during her early years there, although they did not meet. Her youth kept her isolated and later, she cultivated it. She knows not what prompts his curiosity, but she does not dare indulge it. “It was interesting to me. I imagine it was of little note to others.”
What Nickolas might have replied is lost when the chimes announce the start of the race.
»◊«
Socraide’s sword, it is a good day. Lucius sweeps the observatory with his gaze, locating Lilian in the back with the protégés. Whatever Nickolas is saying has her responding with the precise primness that suggests analysis. From Nickolas’ expressions she is reaffirming her conviction that Matahorn will win the inscription trials.
Horatio steps up and follows his gaze. “Your protégé and conservator are a credit to your cartouche, Lucius. Neither is readily overset.”
Horatio has chosen his time well, counting on the setting to maintain civil discourse. Lucius turns to his rival. He will not make this easy for him. “As you voice.”
Horatio’s eyes narrow and his face tightens. His words are pleasant enough. “I regret that one of my retainers is not as well disciplined. Benmyn exits planet on the morrow. It was not an intrigue of my design.”
Lucius believes him. Not that Horatio would not lie if it suited him, but he had naught to gain from the ugly scene between Benmyn and Lilian. That Horatio was not behind it does not lessen Lucius’ anger. While Lilian and Nickolas visited Horatio that morn, Lucius reviewed the visuals from her protocol review. As with Remus Gariten’s Final Draught, there was a great deal more than conveyed in the transcripts. The goad had indeed overenjoyed his duty. The man will pay. “That you did not design it does not lessen the insult.”
Horatio’s countenance is impassive. “What will you, Lucius?”
“Benmyn’s signet.” Lucius could be ordering wine.
“It will be sent to you on the morrow,” Horatio replies as if the matter is no more important than a bottle of wine.
Had he anticipated Lucius’ demand? But then, Benmyn’s signet was forfeit as soon as Horatio reviewed Lilian’s data. If the man remains within the cartouche, his new duties will be beyond humiliating. It is not enough. “The signet is to be delivered to Mistress Lilian.”
Horatio’s face darkens. “Your apprentice?”
“My conservator, and a member of Bright Star.” Lilian’s place in Bright Star is justified by her conservator status. To have insulted her while she was acting for Bright Star was to insult Lucius’ vessel. “Be glad I do not have Benmyn crawl to Serenity House with the signet in his mouth and place it at her feet.”
Horatio nods. “It will be delivered to Mistress Lilian.”
Horns sound and three flyers launch from the observatory. Scarlet, violet, and sapphire, they race for the distant rose moon. Fletcher has taken the lead, closely pursued by Leonardo and Matahorn. They reach the most distant of the three moons and dive low, beneath and behind the glowing rock. The chamber is silent, all intent on the race. Three bright objects flare at the top of the distant rose moon. They drop, crossing the axis, scarlet, violet, and sapphire. They reach the bottom edge, rise, and chase each other toward the smaller, ruby orb of Fortuna’s second moon. They disappear beneath it and the chamber holds it breath. A sparkle of light at the top of the moon turns into a flyer and then drops, the sapphire of Matahorn almost black against the red moon. Leonardo follows, then Blooded Dagger.
They reach the base of the moon and disappear behind it again. They reappear, and Leonardo is in the lead. A smattering of cheers and applause sound from the crowd. After the third and final loop, Blooded Dagger is in the lead, again. Nickolas whoops in delight as Fletcher’s flyer flashes t
oward the amethyst moon, the other two tight on his tail. Matahorn closes but does not catch Blooded Dagger as the scarlet craft flies over the amethyst face and disappears into its shadow. The largest of the three moons, there are several long minutes before the flyers emerge from the dark side. A flare of light at the distant edge solidifies into a sapphire bolt, shooting toward the tethered SEV1, reaching it moments before Serengeti and Leonardo arrive almost as one to flank the victor.
With a cheer, the members of the Matahorn contingent leap to their feet, followed by the rest of the chamber. A bright line spears from the Matahorn flyer and glows against the SEV1 hull, flashing blue, green, and red as it moves, obscuring the hull. The stream thins and fades, the dazzling light dissipates, and the vessel’s identity is revealed.
Nightingale.
Lucius raises his arms. “The Thirteenth System is within our grasp and Rimon’s Nightingale will guide us.”
The chamber explodes. “Nightingale!” “Bright Star!
Horatio is astounded. Lucius Mercio has named the revolutionary stellar transport in honor of his beloved spouse. By laying claim to Rimon, he has also signaled his intention to rejuvenate the atrophying society of the Twelve Systems and return it to the vibrant, energetic society of the time when Rimon led system expansion. Since he achieved the age of consent, Horatio Margovian has focused on consolidating his dominion over the beaconed galaxy. For the first time, he wonders if he has lacked ambition.
Lucius turns from the windows to face the crowd. Punching a fist toward the roof he shouts, “Bright Star!”
Joining his voice to the crowed, Horatio agrees. “Bright Star!”
12. The Governor’s Gala
The warrior dagger symbolizes the genetic and spiritual link between the Five Warriors and their descendants. Although all inhabitants of the Twelve Systems have the right to bear a personal blade of no more than six inches, a warrior dagger can be twice that length and the right to wear it is earned in a shrine competency trial. Once earned, the blade may be worn at all times but is essential for shrine rites and formal events. For shrine rites and festivals, competent warriors are also permitted the larger blade of their discipline. Whether dagger or large blade, the hilt and scabbard are marked with the cartouche emblem of the warrior’s family, worked either in enamel or precious metal and gems. Family insignia are also displayed on the high collars of formalwear for men and at the shoulder or waist for women. ~ excerpt from A Social History of the Twelve Systems, an academy primer.
Sevenday 131, Day 3 – Continued
Helena on his arm, Trevelyan follows the acolyte into the main salon of Sinead’s Shrine Quarters. Although not quite the size of Apollo’s palace, the quarters qualify as a mansion, the ornate decoration in keeping with a warrior renowned for her love of the fine arts as much as her ferocity and ruthlessness. Elaborate enamels cover the walls depicting passages from Sinead’s canon. Lush silk carpets cover intricate tiles, while thick cushions pad the exquisitely carved, lacquered, and gilded furnishings. As Trevelyan has cause to know, the luxury is consistent throughout the quarters. Although they have not been needed since Trevelyan took up temporary residence in Katleen’s house, Helena’s private chambers remain in readiness—chambers Keeper Waiman provided with a serene smile after catching them in an embrace at the shrine.
Ignoring the hovering acolyte, Trevelyan bypasses Sinead’s effigy and turns for the shadowed western wall and the door to Helena’s contemplation chamber. The past two days were naught but one horror-filled revelation after another. The knowledge that Damocles and Sebastian have resurrected the vile Servants of the Eldest, the indictment and incarceration of Damocles, the grueling conferences with Apollo and Gilead, followed by Lilian’s painful attempt to gain intelligence from Emalia . . . Not since the pirate actions has he felt so fouled by his duty. He could tell himself he seeks out Helena from his concern for Lilian’s well-being. It would be but a half-truth, for he is concerned that this latest round of darkness may shatter her reserves. But it would not be all. He wishes to see Helena because he wishes the comfort of her presence.
The acolyte on duty by the door rises at his approach. Pushing past the man, Trevelyan enters the chamber, ignoring the acolyte’s protests. Curled up on the long couch, Helena is clad in naught but a tunic, a throw across her lap, her vestments set aside while she rests. Starting up, she blinks and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Trevelyan?”
Her gray eyes filled with question, Helena holds out her hands, inviting contact. Her fingers are long and elegant, strong from years of training with the short sword, cool and scented with herbs. The clean, pure aroma is a balm he cannot resist, inciting him to press kisses on her fingers, palms, and wrists. Her hands cup his face, the gray eyes clouded with concern. “Dear heart, what has occurred?”
Dear heart. It the first proof she has given that she returns his affections. Unwilling to burden her, he says naught, raising his hands to her face to mirror her caress. Her gray eyes widen, concern becoming confusion and then certainty. She leans in, her lips soft and full against his. The profound sweetness takes his breath and then his will. Deepening the kiss, he pulls her close, diving into the bright sensations.
With an eager sound, she lies back, pulling him with her. The throw slides free and naked thighs entwine with his legs, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed to his chest. Leaving her lips, he explores her slender neck, fragrant with herbs and that which is uniquely Helena. His groin tightens, and his shaft hardens and throbs. Her ass is firm and full. He pulls her tight to him, pressing his erection into her heated cleft, naught between them but a scrap of silk and his too snug trousers.
Sliding a hand under her tunic, he cups her breast, thrilling at the hardened peak, testimony to her desire.
“Seigneur!” Keeper Waiman’s sharp voice breaks through the haze of lust.
Universe scatter it. What was he thinking? Pulling up, he grabs the lost throw and drapes it over Helena, who pushes up to sit. “Keeper. Helena.” Trevelyan glances from one woman to the other, not certain who should receive an apology first. Rubbing the back of his neck, he mutters, “Demon shit. I have become deranged.”
With a laugh, Helena takes his hand. “It is not as bad as most think. I would know.”
Know? What? Did she make a joke about her disordered wits?
Smiling, Helena drops a kiss on his jaw. “Waiman is correct. This is not the proper place.” Turning to the prelate, she says, “A private chamber in the shrine quarters would be preferable.”
Trevelyan would have been glad to carry Helena to his house in the River Quarter or lease chambers at one of the Garden Center guesthouses, but Waiman persuaded him that Helena would be more comfortable in the familiar shrine quarters. Aware that the seer can become overset in strange environments, he yielded, although he has made a point to encourage her to make small forays outside the narrow confines of the Garden Center. The dinner by the River Quarter was an unequivocal success.
“Seigneur, Helena,” Waiman greets them, an acolyte at her shoulder with an offer of refreshment. The sparkle in her eyes and the half curve of her lips make him wonder if she is also recalling that evening before the battle of Serengeti. Of an age with Helena, Waiman’s straight black hair is unmarred by gray, the black, almond-shaped eyes holding the sharp wit associated with her deity. Although it has not been spoken, Trevelyan suspects that the keeper has overlooked his commoner lineage in deference to his status as Serengeti’s security-privilege seigneur and the protection it offers.
Turning to Katleen and Rebecca, Waiman offers them both a greeting and says, “Katleen, will you find your own refreshment and some for Mistress Rebecca?”
With a bright smile, Katleen grabs Rebecca’s hand and rushes off, stopping on her way to the buffet to greet a half score of the guests scattered around the room, including the shrine discipline master and several senior acolytes. At a more decorous pace, Helena acknowledges the discipline master, his spouse, and several others a
s they make their way to one of the plush sofas near the reviewer. He would have been pleased to provide Helena with a wall-sized reviewer and some comfortable furniture so that she and Katleen could watch the SEV1 inscription from the safety of their home, but the seer would not hear of it. Although she claimed it risked a charge of excess consideration in Lilian’s trial, he is certain it was but a convenient excuse.
For all their intimacy, the woman has refused all but the most modest tokens of his affection. A private transport to carry her to and from the shrine was dismissed in favor of needing the exercise of a stroll. An account at Hidaka’s so they need not trouble with marketing and food preparation was turned away on the pretext that too much rich food would not suit them. Jewels, new garb, all turned away with a sweet smile and reasoned refusal. At least Helena permitted him to carry her and Katleen to the shrine quarters in his transport and arrange for Rebecca’s invitation. Not that his apprentice could not have enjoyed the race and inscription on the reviewer at the Serengeti Associates’ Quarters, but here, protected by the shrine keeper’s privilege, she may cuddle with Katleen, who is already settling them in a nearby loveseat, her arm around Rebecca’s waist.
Trevelyan wishes he could claim the license of youth and wrap his arm around Helena. As it is, he settles for stroking her fingers as he hands her a small plate of sweets. To his delight the cool gray eyes warm and her lips curl in smile. “Patience, my passion. We must remain for the race.”
“Do you see her?” Katleen springs from the sofa and dances to the wall reviewer. “There is Monsignor entering the observatory. She should be right behind him. Where? There!” With a triumphant cry she points out Lilian’s black-clad figure. A moment later, Lilian turns her head and steps away from the media stream as it follows Lucius to the front of the observatory. “She is gone.”