by E G Manetti
Returning to the sofa, Katleen curls up against Rebecca, who wraps an arm around Katleen’s shoulders. “Monsignor Lucius is the last. It will not be long now.”
Tenth bell has chimed. If it were any other night, Katleen would be tucked in bed. As it is, all the Twelve Systems watches the SEV1, waiting for the moment the name is inscribed. There are a few more minutes of media commentary on the high-ranking warriors collected in the observatory and then the horns sound. The reviewer shifts perspective and three flyers blaze past. The race is on. The half-period flight is naught compared to the treacherous two-period moon race final, but it is exciting nonetheless. Trevelyan finds himself on the edge of his seat as Fletcher takes the lead, Helena’s hands gripping his forearm. When the Matahorn flyer is the first to reach the SEV1, Katleen groans her disappointment and he is hard put not to echo the sound. Next to him, Helena whispers, “The Nightingale flies first.”
Turning to her, he finds her eyes hold the inward stare of prophecy. “First into the night. The Nightingale flies first.”
Ignoring the throng, Trevelyan takes her hands. “What is amiss?”
Light blazes from the reviewer as Matahorn inscribes the SEV1. Nightingale.
Helena blinks and returns to him. She looks at the reviewer and then at him. “The vessel is well named for one who is formidable.”
Formidable? “What say you? Is there aught of danger?”
Helena tilts her head. “The beaconless expanse is fraught with danger. Lilian labors to a shadow to offset it.”
“And the Nightingale flies first?” Trevelyan asks, struggling for the source of her concern.
Turning to the reviewer, she watches as Lucius stands with his arms raised in triumph, the crowd screaming around him. “Bright Star!”
“The first into the beaconless expanse. The first to the Thirteenth System,” Helena says. “I do not believe Lucius Mercio intends it to be the last.”
Katleen and Rebecca join the cheers and then Helena, whatever troubled her gone. Recalling that the vision panels show the triumphs of Mercium and Vistrite, Trevelyan decides that this latest prophecy is likely more of the same, the seer’s recognition of commerce-altering events.
»◊«
Socraide’s sword, it has been a good day. Lucius gazes up at the distant moons, reliving the triumph from the afternoon. At this angle, the bright light of the satellite anchoring the Nightingale is not visible, but he has been told it will be from the governor’s palace. As soon as Lilian emerges from her chamber, they will depart. Two bells gone, she was met in the lobby by Pippa and a serene Mulan acolyte he guessed was the cousin. Guarded by Mrs. Zdenka, they hustled Lilian off to the guesthouse rejuvenation center for the elaborate preparations needed for the formal affair.
A soft rustle and light footfall alert him to Lilian’s entrance as the eighth bell chimes. Turning with anticipation, he is not disappointed. Her gray eyes sparkle, and her dark red hair is pulled softly from her brow and collected high in the back. The sleeveless silk gown drops from her shoulders in a form-fitting cascade that caresses her hips before swirling in graceful folds to the floor. Vistrite and Mercium brilliants wrap about her throat above the modest décolletage that frames creamy skin from shoulders to the tops of her breasts. It is echoed by the glittering warbelt that rides just below her waist.
Before he can gesture, Lilian pivots.
The gathered hair is collected in the combs in an arrangement that creates the illusion of one confining circlet of precious gold, rubies and Vistrite. The brilliants chain that circles her throat twice extends into a long strand of taunting sparkle that traces the exposed spine from neck to waist. This time, Lilian’s gown truly lacks a back, her shoulder blades exposed to reveal the shooting-star scar. The wide exposure narrows where the gown collects at her waist, no more than an inch between the exposed skin and the gold warbelt.
Lucius moves close. As provocative as it is, the gown offers no hint of Adelaide’s mark. Intrigued, he slides his hands along her waist, confirming his suspicion that no hidden structure supports the dress. His decorous apprentice has once again abandoned any semblance of a bra in favor of fashion. The delightful weight of her breasts fill his hands, the nipples pebbling against his palms, her citrusy scent setting off a pleasant spark of desire. Unable to resist, he sets his lips to the curve of her shoulder at the edge of the brilliants. “Woman, you are a temptation.”
She sighs and tilts her head in invitation. An invitation he does not accept. Lucius releases her and steps back. Does he continue, in a matter of moments two periods of effort will be undone. Releasing her, he says, “It is wonderment how one so readily chilled would don but half a gown.”
Turning to face him, her expression is all that is decorous, but for a slight twitching of her nose. “It is the fashion, milord.”
Does she tease him? She would not dare.
»◊«
Lilian forces a serene countenance as she follows milord into the transport. He is compelling in formal attire, the tailored fabric snug to his broad shoulders and tapered to his waist. The precisely tailored trousers showcase his long, powerful legs. The high collar of the jacket bears the insignia of the Mercio family worked in platinum and rubies, the cartouche emblem repeated on his preeminence signet and his dagger’s sheath and hilt.
Sliding into the transport, she is careful to pull the skirt taught, so it will not wrinkle, the warm interior allowing her to keep the wrap loose about her shoulders. The two bells spent readying for this event were more than rewarded by the heat in milord’s eyes when he beheld her. Heat that has somehow transferred to her and settled between her legs.
This day. Milord may enjoy her response to his touch, but he is less likely to be pleased by her wayward interest. Fortunately, she has a distraction. “If milord pleases, Rebecca’s investigation into Newton has revealed something of use.”
At milord’s nod, she says, “Newton was not consecrated to Rimon or any of the Five Warriors or Adelaide.”
Milord’s eyes narrow and he turns to her. “What say you?”
Milord’s shock mirrors her own. It is almost unheard of for one of warrior descent to not be consecrated. “Rebecca could not discover the details, only that Newton entered shrine service at twenty and there is no record of his consecration mark in Rimon’s archives. There are few other details. A retired shrine servant was located near the salt flats in the south who claims Newtown was rejected by Rimon at the consecration rite, but there is no record that the rite was ever attempted.”
Milord nods, turning his gaze to the front of the transport. “Fortuna’s governor has the influence to have the record concealed, but none can compel a warrior’s mark be inked or the record of one entered into the sect archives.”
The mad prelate Newton is not a prelate; he is but a shrine servant. Stripped to the waist, his left pectoral will lack the crossed swords of Rimon’s consecrated. Mastery of Rimon’s canon or Rimon’s Discipline could overcome the lack, as it would for a commoner. Newton lacks both. Even the Governor’s intercession will not grant him a shrine. Only Rimon’s Prelate has such authority.
Milord’s fingers steeple as he gazes into the night. “The Euphrates preeminence is second only to the Ayres preeminence in patronage of Rimon’s sect. She has promised Newton a shrine in return for his support in discrediting Celadon.”
Rimon’s Lord Prelate would think naught of granting such a request unless it were challenged by another powerful patron and there is no reason for the Ayres preeminence to make such a challenge. To the contrary, Ayres might promote the Newton intrigue to inconvenience milord. If Bright Star delivers on its promise, Serengeti could displace Ayres as second among the cartels.
Milord’s smile is dark. “Aristides will know how best to use this to discredit Newton and I doubt Rimon’s Prelate will appreciate the scandal.”
Clever, devious man.
The dark night yields to bright lanterns as the transport passes the outer walls of
Fort Rimon’s militia base.
»◊«
Perched atop the entrance to the bay, the palace commands a view of the city from every angle and, at one time, the ability to defend the frontier settlement. Even in these modern, civilized times, the base provides security for the region surrounding the palace on the three sides not protected by a sheer drop to the rocky coast.
As much diplomat as military commander, the governor welcomes milord and greets Lilian with the courtesy appropriate to milord’s conservator. Beyond the entry, the massive reception chambers are crowded and the expansive terrace that surrounds the palace has been opened and furnished with heating units to accommodate the elite of Fortuna as well as the most prominent of the visitors who arrived for the Nightingale’s launch. Appearing from the throng, Nickolas greets his mentor and offers Lilian his escort to the area set aside for their meal. Escorted by a militia lieutenant and trailed by Mr. George, Milord disappears into the chamber where he will dine with the governor and the most important guests.
Moving through the chambers with Nickolas, Lilian notes that Mr. George and Mr. Stefan are not the only bodyguards shadowing their charges. She is also pleased to note that gold is a popular hue for gowns, hers but one among many, and milord’s gifts as elegant and valuable as many on display. Were it not for her notoriety, none would note her. As it is, while she garners a fair number of glances, none appear hostile or disdainful. She suspects that is due in part to her escort. Handsome enough to turn heads in any circumstances, Nickolas is every inch the warrior in midnight-blue formal wear with emerald and gold family insignia on his high collar and a gold and emerald dagger hilt marking his waist.
Passing into another large chamber, Nickolas gestures to the far side. “Our table is to the right of that water art.”
The intricate sculpture rises toward the distant ceiling, where it sends out fragile tendrils two to three paces across the ceiling in a gravity-defying display as none of the water drips onto the guests. Pinpricks of pale blue and mauve lights flicker throughout, reflecting the facets of the shimmering brilliants showered across the structure.
Seeing Fletcher rise and wave, they turn for the table where Mayling sits next to Fletcher with Declan on her other side. Beyond Declan, Monsignor Horatio’s protégé, Basil, and Seigneur Gwyneth’s protégé, Jasper, have Natalia between them, leaving two places for Nickolas and Lilian. When they reach the table, the others rise with Fletcher and greetings are exchanged along with compliments on Fletcher’s race.
With formal charm, Nickolas compliments the other women on their appearance, both in elaborate gowns with jewels at their throats, ears, and entwined in their hair.
As the women accept Nickolas’ compliments, Declan says, “Mistress Lilian, you are stunning this evening. I cannot help but note the gems in your hair. Have they special significance?”
I am the sum of my ancestors. Manners are far more relaxed in the Fourth System than they are in the Third, but it is not done to compliment an apprentice on aught other than a well-executed task. Next to her, Nickolas stiffens, his brows drawing together.
With a flash of his charismatic smile, Fletcher says, “Indeed, Conservator, you are a credit to Blooded Dagger.”
Conservator. If she were she but an apprentice, she would not be in attendance. With a small nod she acknowledges the compliments. “My thanks, gentlemen.”
Flushing, Declan returns her nod. He did not miss Fletcher’s use of “Blooded Dagger,” a reminder that she is Monsignor Lucius’ property.
With a flourish, Fletcher turns to Mayling, pulling out her chair and asking her preference in wine.
Relieved to have the awkward moment passed, the others follow suit, finding their places again and passing the bottles of green and rose wine set on the table. Seated between Fletcher and Nickolas, Lilian examines the table, glad she is on the far side from Natalia and Jasper. Although not as brightly garbed as the women, the men are all in full formal wear, all with cartouche insignia worked in gold and gems at their collars. The only exception is Basil, the platinum of his insignia indicating he is of his cartouche’s preeminent line, a platinum disk on his belt that he is heir. When his protégé contract completes, he will join his grandsire’s cartouche, one of Matahorn’s major suppliers to the Eleventh and Twelfth Systems.
As servitors present the first course, Nickolas leans in. “The Vistrite gems in your hair are the count of the Serengeti fallen. Did I count them, would I find the rubies are the number of the enemy?”
Milord’s protégé has ever been clever. “Monsignor is generous. But how did you guess?”
“The rubies at your belt are defeated enemies. What else would be the significance of the ones in your hair?” Nickolas replies. With a somber smile he adds, “Your valor that day is uncontestable.”
“Valor?” Fletcher leans over Nickolas. His eyes flash from Nickolas to Lilian and then flicker to her hair. “Rubies and Vistrite, the marks of Blooded Dagger honor.”
“Blooded Dagger honor?” Declan echoes. “Is there a tale?”
“Not one that is worth voicing,” Lilian replies. As pleased as she is by the protégé’s acknowledgement, no good will come of mentioning Despoilers. “But I would hear of Master Fletcher’s race. From the observatory it was marvelously exciting. How was it in the field?”
With a smile and nod, Fletcher launches into an account of flying the moons of Fortuna. As Fletcher finishes his discussion of the race, the servitors arrive to change the courses and renew the wine. Before a new topic is begun, Lt. Sinjin approaches.
Lilian knew from Pippa that Sinjin was on duty and noticed when he circled the chamber with two other officers, ensuring that the governor’s guests are well tended. At each table, they have had brief speech and then paused to address the other four private militia guards positioned against the walls. When he completes his duties with Lilian’s party, Sinjin will have a brief word with Mr. Stefan, who is standing by a wall beyond Lilian and Nickolas.
The young lieutenant has not left their table for last by happenstance. He is in a difficult position. As the governor’s representative he must adhere to strict protocol and greet the highest-ranking member of their group first. Since the reception is in honor of Bright Star, Monsignor’s protégé holds the highest rank at their table. However, in the Twelve Systems, Monsignor Horatio is first among warriors and his protégé outranks all others and is heir to a cartouche. No matter what course Sinjin takes, a powerful warrior may be offended.
Rising, Lilian offers Sinjin a gracious smile. “Sinjin, the governor’s hospitality is wondrous.”
“I am glad you are enjoying it, Thornbearer.” Sinjin returns her smile. Her familiar greeting and his acknowledgement of her temporary prelate status have diffused the awkward rank protocol. By custom, prelates are given courtesy of first recognition.
With her familiar greeting establishing a more casual tone, Lilian says, “Master Nickolas and you are known to each other. May I make you known to Master Basil?”
Once the introductions are complete, Sinjin takes his leave and they return to their meal and conversation turns to Fletcher’s ambitions to acquire a cutter for use while on Fortuna, the history behind the development of Fortuna’s unique water art, the latest in entertainments, and a variety of commerce gossip.
»◊«
The retiring chamber next to the freshening closet is almost as opulent as a reception salon. The full-length mirrors covering one wall allow a dozen women to check their appearance. Taking a quick turn, Lilian confirms that two periods of preparation were justified. She has not a hair out of place, and the subtle cosmetics have not faded. Shaking out her skirts, she notes her care has been rewarded; no wrinkles mar the surface.
Returning to the reception, she finds the door to milord’s dining chamber is yet closed, leaving her at liberty to tour the chambers and enjoy the entertainments. Waving away a servitor with a tray of wine, she accepts sparkling water and wanders over to join Nickolas,
Mayling, and Fletcher at a martial arts demonstration using wooden staves. Several other ancient weapons are displayed nearby, suggesting further demonstrations.
“Will you hold me in despite, Lilian?” Natalia appears at her side.
Adelaide’s thorn. Lilian has no interest in the other woman, but she cannot ignore her. “I have no quarrel with you.”
Natalia gestures toward Nickolas. “Monsignor’s protégé voices otherwise.”
Once again regretting Nickolas’ defense, she says, “Master Nickolas’ opinions are his own.” It is not enough; Natalia will need more if she is to leave Lilian in peace. “There is naught at fault in your distance. It is the way of things.”
Lips tight, Natalia says, “I am pleased you live. It was not expected.”
Did she wager against me? Unable to resist, she replies, “Pippa holds a wager at seventy to one.”
Something that might be shame flashes across Natalia’s face. “‘I would I had been so wise.” Flicking a glance at Mr. Stefan, she adds, “Monsignor Lucius will not lose his conservator to some odds manager’s desperation.”
There is naught to be said in response, so Lilian remains silent.
Natalia bites her lip. “Are we friends?”
“As much as we ever were.” With that, Natalia will need to be content.
She is rescued from further awkwardness by Seigneur Amaranth, who hails her from a group gathered by a station offering beverages and sweets.
Eyes snapping, Seigneur Amaranth demands, “Mistress Lilian, is it true? Newton is not truly a prelate? Not even consecrated?”
Seigneur Aristides is beyond capable. Milord must have spoken with him as soon as they arrived at the palace. It has been but two periods and already Seigneur Amaranth has the tale. It is a brilliant stroke. The diminutive warrior has been broadcasting that the Bright Dawn Horror is naught but a fable since she arrived on Fortuna. She can be counted on to spread this tale as well, her rank assuring she will be both heard and believed.