by E G Manetti
Rising, Lilian searches the reception chamber. The bell has advanced. The chamber is thinning. It is but a moment to discover the senior associate who attends the seigneur. At Lilian’s discreet signal, he hastens to tend his slumbering lady.
»◊«
Scrubbing her teeth, Lilian tastes mint and a hint of bitter. The Fortuna artichokes are rising against her. At a loss, knowing milord is waiting, she washes her mouth again. It is well; she tastes naught but mint.
Scurrying through milord’s freshening closet to his chamber, she finds him nude, his eyes blazing, the bed turned down. Adelaide’s thorn. She is overdressed. With as much grace as she can muster, Lilian slows her step, peeling the velvet from her breasts, sliding it down her hips, and letting it drop to the floor.
Beneath her navel, she burns. Stepping from her shoes, she goes to him. Milord grasps her wrist, tumbling her to the bed. His body is hard against hers.
The burning in her abdomen turns to riot and begins to rise.
Milord’s head lowers.
Desperate, she has but one choice. “Red gems!”
Milord rears back, eyes wide with shock. “What? What harms you?”
Rolling free, she staggers for the freshening closet. “It is naught of milord. The artichokes . . .”
To her shame, she makes it no farther than milord’s privy. Clinging to the ceramic appliance, she empties her belly into the waste system. Lackwit. She knows better than to attempt strange delicacies on a stellar transport. Thrice more she fouls before the cramps cease and her innards quiet. Kneeling on the cool marble, she waits. Is it done?
Something warm and soft drops over her shoulders. Milord’s naked feet and the hem of the scarlet robe enter her vision. “Is it done? Can you rise?”
I am the sum of my ancestors. Could her shame grow greater? Milord has witnessed the vile attack and is compelled to attend her. Pulling the throw around her shoulders, Lilian finds her feet. To her relief, the marble tile is unmarred by her purge. With a soft sound the privy purifies and there is naught left of her foulness.
Ice rattles in a glass. Milord holds sparkling citrus water. Its cool, clean bite scrubs the residue from her mouth.
With a sound that is half grunt and half sigh, Milord encircles her waist with his arm. “If ever a halt word was well used, it was this night.”
Amusement? Milord is not appalled? Raising her eyes, she finds no censure in his gaze. There is naught but concern and that rare warmth. Guiding her to her chamber, he settles her on the cot, his deft fingers releasing the fasteners on the corset and pulling it free. Tossing it one-handed onto the worksite, he taps her hip. “Lift.”
Raising her hips, she reaches for the rose silk, but he is there first, tugging it free and tossing it on top of the corset. Wrapping her in the comforter, he tucks her into the cot, leaving the glass of citrus water near. “You are at liberty on the morrow. Rise when it suits you.”
The scarlet robe disappears into the freshening closet, leaving her in the dark to wonder.
15. Sabers and Stimulants
When order expanded into the Tenth System in the early part of the fifth century, skilled labor shortages developed. Under the guise of providing specialized training and protecting commerce from charlatans and rogues, the guilds were licensed by the Governing Council. Although chartered to enable commerce by developing a reliable supply of skilled labor, the guilds use their charters to limit the supply of skills, creating a false scarcity that allows them to inflate the cost of labor and their commissions on the members’ wages.
Stellar transit is plagued with the Transport Engineers Guild. The medical enclaves are beset by the Medical Technicians and Operatives Guild. The Ayres Alliance is tormented by the Beaconed Systems Technicians’ Guild. Although it has not been proven, it is suspected that the guilds are allied to overcome the order of commerce and replace it with the anarchy of guild cooperation. ~ excerpt from Guild Practices, Serengeti Archives.
Sevenday 131, Day 7
The pale blue sand is damp and cool from the purple waters, the sun warm on her shoulders. Waves lap at her ankles. The water rises, swirling around her hips, her waist. The current catches her, tugging her in. She twists and scrambles for the shore. The clinging water is arms. Milord’s arms. Ceasing her struggles, she turns to meet his kiss, pleasure surging with the tide, flooding her senses and then crashing through her . . .
Eyes flying open, Lilian stares into the dark, her sex throbbing pleasantly from her dream-induced release. What bell? Her fingers find her slate. Half after eighth bell. Rolling over, she hugs her pillow, fingers stroking her thorn through the slate satchel.
A hint of sour makes her wish to cleanse her mouth. Otherwise there is naught left of the prior night’s debacle but a hollow center that wishes a morning meal.
Milord! Adelaide’s thorn, that was ill. Although he was all that was kind. Rolling over, she savors the recall of his tender care as he tucked her into the cot. Lackwit. He wished her foulness nowhere near his bed, and naught destroys desire faster than illness. She will be fortunate does he request her attendance within the next month.
Stomach growling, she rises from the bed. It is Seventh Day and there is naught required of her. No Katleen to train. No marketing or endless household maintenance chores. It has been so long since she had an unencumbered day, she is not certain how to spend it. Her belly rumbles, reminding her she knows how it must begin. There will be strawberries.
Collecting her thorn, she begins the forms.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Her limbs respond to her will, supple and strong, no longer leaden with the grinding exhaustion that has dragged at her since the discovery of Despoilers and the battle of Serengeti.
I am the foundation of my family. With milord’s grace, Benmyn Empire has been destroyed and another threat to her bond and trial proof eliminated.
Honor is my blade and shield. The sevendays sharing milord’s quarters have been the most secure in years. Would she could never leave them.
Honor endures. Wayward affection. Do not. Did milord know of it, she would shame him.
Honor knows not fear. She has kept it hidden this long, she will not fail now.
Honor acts as duty commands. She will enjoy the last day of this respite, storing the joy of these few days to carry her through her final season of trial.
»◊«
The teal knit is a bit formal for a respite day, but milord would not be pleased if she went about in her training garb and she has no desire to don a suit. Nor will she deceive herself; milord found the ensemble pleasing and she enjoys his admiration. Her hair gathered in a loose chignon, Lilian loops the brilliants chain around her throat, the glittering gems creating a graceful fall in the neckline. It will not serve. As much pleasure as she takes in donning milord’s gifts, the gems are too elaborate for a morning meal at one of the transport’s cafés. With a sigh, she stores the jewels and exits her chamber.
The door to milord’s chamber is closed, the reception salon empty. Is milord yet abed or has he left the suite? Shaking off disappointment, she exits to find Mr. Stefan waiting. For the informality of the day, he wears not the sand Serengeti Militia uniform, but a dark green tunic with black trousers, his militia insignia displayed on an armband and the holster of the fireburst pistol at his hip.
As Lilian affixes her thorn to her belt, he asks, “Will any of the consortium be joining us, Conservator?”
“Not this meal,” Lilian responds as they make their way to the observatory and its dining facilities. She sent her friends notice of her plans, but none responded. It is yet ninth bell and quite possible that none have roused for the day, exploiting the rare respite. Of the protégés, she has no knowledge. It would be effrontery to inform them of her plans or inquire about theirs.
The apprentices are not alone in lingering abed. The observation restaurant has but a handful of passengers, allowing her to find a corner table that limits her view of the passing void while also meeting
her guard’s requirements. Mr. Stefan refuses to sit with her, insisting that behavior acceptable in the overcrowded casual environs of a Fortuna café is not appropriate in the elite section of the luxury transport. Appropriate deference and decorum will be observed between Monsignor’s conservator and her guard. Accepting that he is correct, Lilian settles into the table with Mr. Stefan to the table at her left.
»◊«
Pulling on a knit tunic, Lucius pads into the reception salon where Lilian’s phantom servitors have been at work. Filling a glass with juice, he eyes the open door of the servitor’s chamber. If she were within, she would have emerged to determine his will. He would not have been surprised if she yet slumbered; it is but tenth bell and it neared dark of night when he tucked her into that cot. For all his frustration, he finds he is more concerned about her recovery than relieving his lust.
Leaving his juice on the table, Lucius wanders over to the servitor’s chamber, disappointment turning to curiosity. He is pleased that he has succeeded in his design to promote Lilian’s recovery. The shadows are gone from her eyes, as are the signs of strain from her form and face. As the mark of Serengeti has faded and diminished, so has the damage to her spirit wrought by her dealings with the Despoilers. The horror of Despoiler practices and the battle of Serengeti will remain with her, as it does with Lucius, but it no longer tears at either of them.
The future holds the launch of the Nightingale, advances in Mercium and Flexible Vistrite, and the promise of her trial and bond proof. She will not fail. Entering the small chamber, Lucius explores the contents. The small, spartan chamber is precisely organized and as unyielding of secrets as its occupant. Her clothes cabinet contains her neatly arranged commerce garb and the Fortuna frocks, except for the velvet, which is yet in his chamber. Her jewels are confined in the small vault along with Benmyn’s signet. Tucked in with her lingerie are several packets of the purple minerals used with Fortuna water art. Smiling, he recalls the small piece in the courtyard of her house. The waters were clear, indicating the minerals had been exhausted.
Commerce wear and gowns? What of her training garb? Lucius’ smile fades as he glances around the chamber. Lilian has earned her liberty, but to train at this early a bell? After the violent purge of the night gone? The large bag under her bunk catches his eye. Training garb, her outerwear, and two wraps. No slate or thorn, but they would be with her. Replacing the bag, Lucius rises, glancing again at the austere chamber. When they travel next to Fortuna, she will have a proper chamber and sufficient closet space for her garb.
»◊«
Although it is midmorning, the observatory restaurant has only a handful of guests. The three warriors in search of a hearty meal after a long night of gaming and debauchery are but the first of a crowd that will grow as midday approaches. Barely glancing at the elderly couple, they do not notice the man in green’s sidearm, hidden by the tabletop, but all take their time examining the lovely woman enjoying a solitary meal.
The first man attempts to place the woman as they claim a table by the windows. “She appears familiar.”
“They say a black raider is aboard with both wife and mistress,” says the next. “Mayhap she is the doxy.”
“Not likely,” contradicts the third. “Were that woman yours, would she be enjoying a solitary meal?”
Pushing back his chair, the second replies, “Doxy or other, she is more appealing company than you two.”
“I am not certain that is wise.” The first warrior frowns as he glances over at the woman. “There is something about her—”
Straightening his tunic, the second young man says, “Worry not. Will she not have me, you two may enjoy taunting me with our meal.”
Settling back into their seats and waving away the approaching servitor, the other two watch as their friend approaches the unknown woman.
“I have ten that claim we will enjoy taunting with our meal,” says the third warrior.
“No wager,” the first replies. “I tell you, I know that woman from somewhere.” Impaired from his evening’s pleasures, he cannot be faulted for failing to make the connection. The demurely attired woman enjoying her meal bears little resemblance to Lucius Mercio’s provocatively clad apprentice he glimpsed from a distance at the governor’s gala.
Devouring a sausage link, Stefan glances up when three warriors enter the restaurant. All three run their eyes over Lilian but then move off. His charge is oblivious, dividing her attention between her slate and her meal of yogurt, granola and strawberries. Turning back to his eggs, he savors the hearty meal, beyond delighted not to be chasing Lilian and her sister along the muddy pathways of the River Quarter.
At movement near Lilian’s table, Stefan glances up from his plate, expecting a servitor.
Jonathan’s judgment. It is one of the warriors. Two inches shorter and at least a stone lighter than Stefan, the young warrior’s casual attire is rumpled and there is a shadow of a beard on his face, suggesting a night that has yet to end.
“Your pardon, mistress.” The warrior gives a small bow. “We are not known to each other. I very much wish to alter that situation.”
Lilian stiffens, her right hand disappears beneath the table. She will have reached for her thorn. The warrior is no threat to Lilian’s life, but he cannot remain. Her voice is low and pleasant when she replies, “I regret to disappoint, you may not have your wish. Please, leave me to my meal.”
Undaunted, the warrior smiles. “Do you regret it, do not disappoint me. I assure you, I am the most charming of companions.”
At the warrior’s refusal of Lilian’s dismissal, Stefan pushes back from his chair and rises. Before Stefan can act, a young transit officer appears at the table. “Conservator, is all well with your meal? Is there aught further you require?”
“Conservator?” The young man pales. “I beg your pardon. I will trouble you no further.”
The warrior retreats to his friends and is met with laughter.
“My thanks, Lieutenant.” Lilian nods at the officer.
“My honor,” the lieutenant returns.
Cocking her head, Lilian says, “You have the look of the captain. Are you kin?”
“The captain is my mother.”
“We met at the reception. She is very impressive. As is the Fire Sword.”
Chest swelling, he responds, “I regret I was not at the reception last eve. I was on duty.”
Movement from the left has Stefan reaching for his holster. Another man approaches, well into his forties, mayhap fifty, with the assurance of a man of power and discipline. Demon Shit. You would think Lilian the only attractive woman on this barge.
In a soft baritone, the new arrival asks, “Lieutenant, Adelaide’s Thorn and I are not known to each other. Will you correct that for us?”
“Of course, Discipline Master.” The lieutenant launches into the introduction and Stefan relaxes as it becomes clear that the man is a Rimon’s Discipline Master on his way to Metricelli Prime to take up a new posting. After seasons attending the household of a seer, Stefan has gained an understanding of shrine rank and recognizes that the Southern Crevasse Warrior Ring is the most prestigious in the Third System after the Garden Center Ring. A posting there indicates he is a man of importance within Rimon’s sect.
Accepting Lilian’s offer of tea, the prelate joins her, and they launch into an incomprehensible discussion of Rimon’s canon. Pushing aside his cold toast, Stefan signals for more tea and settles in to watch the increasingly busy restaurant. The nuance of canon scholarship may hold little interest for him, but there is no question in his mind that her public converse with one of Rimon’s Prelates can only be of aid in putting an end to whatever remains of Newton’s wild teachings.
»◊«
Marco dodges right, avoiding the fist driving at his jaw. His left shoulder snaps with pain as Lucius follows up with a second strike. Going low, Marco barrels into Lucius’ waist, staggering his kinsman. Lucius recovers and sweeps Marco’s ankl
es, landing him on the mat. Winded, Marco lies there looking up at his sweating cousin. Is not the first time Lucius has tossed him. His cousin’s greater strength and reach are difficult to defeat.
The match time sounds. Pushing off the mat, Marco grabs a towel. “At least you are sweating.”
“And sore in several spots.” Lucius rolls his shoulders. “Unlike Trevelyan, you do not pull your punches in deference to my preeminence.”
“He drops you on a regular basis. Why pull his punches?”
“He drops me to keep me humble. He does not wish to risk true injury.”
Marco snorts. “Humble?”
Grabbing a pair of water vials, Lucius laughs. “I did not say he succeeds.”
Accepting a vial, Marco asks, “What of Lilian and this Rimon’s Discipline Master? How did that come about?”
Lilian’s intent to go thorn against saber is the talk of the transport. To Marco’s surprise, Lucius’ lips thin and his countenance darkens. “It is a devotional offering. I cannot naysay it.”
“Naysay it?” Marco is stunned. “You reveled in her defeat of Flavia. What of this match troubles you?”
Lucius tosses the empty vial into the recycler. “Even with guarded blades, it will be dangerous.”
“You think the discipline master wishes her ill?”
“No.” Lucius hands the soiled towel to the attendant. “But she expects to bleed. According to Nickolas, going blade to blade with a Rimon’s Discipline Master will teach her much and she will be honored to shed a few drops of blood in devotion to Adelaide and Rimon.”
“According to Nickolas?” Marco follows Lucius from the training chamber, their guards trailing them. “What says Lilian?”
“She has the day at liberty. I have not spoken with her since last eve.”
Biting his lip, Marco represses the urge to laugh. That Lucius granted Lilian the full day of liberty is not unwarranted. Shades know the woman is diligent and in sore need of rest after the business with the Despoilers. His cousin’s pique is another matter. Were her valor not exceptional, he might worry at Lucius’ fascination with the woman. As it is, he savors the rare event of Lucius not having what he wants when he wants it.