by E G Manetti
Wordlessly the guard takes his position to the left of the man seated in the throne-like armchair, bookending his equally burly counterpart, who stands to Tiger’s right. Tiger Sylvester, a notorious black commerce raider, is of average height and build. In his early sixties, Tiger keeps his receding hair closely cropped, displaying uneven features that include a nose that has been broken several times and a ragged scar defining his left jawline. His deep-set black eyes hold intelligence, ruthlessness, and, at the moment, complacency.
Tiger does not offer Hilda a seat as he crosses his legs and slouches comfortably in his chair. “It’s over for you, Hilda. The odds have dropped to even that Lilian will survive past the rains. You’ll never cover your wagers. Sell out now and I’ll take you on to manage my interests on Sinead’s World.”
Ignoring the raider’s obvious intimidation tactics, Hilda grapples with her shock that Tiger wishes to absorb her legitimate enterprise rather than exploit it. It is well known in the Third System that Tiger’s legitimate commerce shields illicit endeavors including everything from decadents dealing to assassination. She expected Tiger to demand the use of her tottering odds management enterprise in his black dealings. Instead, he is interested in expanding his legitimate commerce interests.
The black raider’s strange turn is no more fantastical than the survival of Remus Gariten’s foul spawn Lilian. Lilian should have self-slaughtered in despair. She should have run afoul of the apprentice protocol or her Trial by Ordeal and been forced to the Final Draught. Lilian will never survive the full three years. If Hilda can avoid bankruptcy at the next Settlement Day, the longer-term wagers will see her right in the end. How badly does Tiger want to expand?
“Half interest, not full sale,” Hilda counters desperately.
Tiger gives a bark of laughter at the woman’s temerity before his face hardens into cruelty. “You lack commerce judgment. I can wait until Settlement Day and collect your bankrupt holdings for a fraction of what you ask. I withdraw my offer of employment. I have no use for you.”
“I can bring you two other odds managers in similar difficulty you could buy out,” the woman baits. Tiger’s smile fades and his eyes narrow. Oh yes, he’s interested. “If Mercio’s doxy survives past the new year, at least one other.”
Tiger puts his feet on the floor and rests his elbows on the arms of his chair. The new year is five months distant. For several moments, he does not speak as he considers his new associate. “Deliver the other odds managers you have promised, and you may retain half interest. Fail, and I take it all.”
»◊«
A fine drizzle mists the vista of the Garden Center and cityscape visible through the glazed surfaces that comprise two walls of Lucius’ opulent office. Lucius is oblivious to the panorama commanded by his commerce suite on the top level of the thirty-five-storey tower. He is focused inward and on the future. This day’s events will alter the course of the Blooded Dagger Cartouche, the Serengeti Group, and even the future of the Twelve Systems. The sound of the eighth-bell chimes pulls Lucius from his reverie and his attention to the scarlet door, which recesses to admit the lithe form of his apprentice. Lilian.
Unnoticed next to the windows, Lucius observes that her gray eyes are bright with anticipation, which is echoed in the tightly controlled energy of her movements. He can discover no lingering effects of the traumatic events of a sevenday gone. Once again, Lucius wonders at his apprentice’s remarkable resiliency.
Attired in the black of a Blooded Dagger apprentice, her hair gathered tightly to her head in a warrior’s queue, Lilian’s athletic form moves gracefully into the chamber, intent on his massive ebony desk. Discovering the scarlet leather chair lacks an occupant, Lilian glides to halt. Frowning slightly in confusion, Lilian turns, sweeping the chamber with her gaze. When she finds him, the frown eases as Lilian comes to attention, her obediently neutral expression unable to fully hide her excitement.
After five months, Lucius has barely scratched the surface of the young woman’s formidable reserve. Born a warrior, his prodigy was raised in luxury and privilege. At the early age of fifteen, she was sent to Mulan’s Temple, the great university on Artesia in the First System, where she remained for nine years. Lucius expected a sheltered academic, frightened and resentful of her loss in status, unable to fully submit to his will.
Lilian met none of those expectations. Pragmatic, courageous, fiercely loyal to her friends, and protective of her small family, Lilian has demonstrated her commitment to Lucius’ will, his Cartouche and his Cartel on more than one occasion. She confounded him on her First Day and regularly since. It is not a state Lucius enjoys. He is very much looking forward to confounding his apprentice some bells hence. The thought brings a smile to his lips as he motions Lilian toward him.
Milord? Lilian considers the empty desk chair in momentary confusion. Where is milord? Pivoting slowly, Lilian scans the expansive chamber, seeking milord at the crystal conference table in the corner, on the scarlet sofa facing the wall-size reviewer, in the comfortable seating area. There is a slight sound, and then a shadow by the windows coalesces into a man.
Milord!
Garbed in gray almost the color of the exterior mist, milord was invisible until he moved. His sudden appearance from the shadows sends a brief frisson of shock through Lilian, increasing her barely contained excitement.
Lilian knew when she sealed her bond that Monsignor Lucius, at the impossibly young age of thirty-eight, succeeded his father as Serengeti preeminence in the midst of the worst societal unrest since the Anarchy. Through brilliance, ruthlessness, daring, and uncanny prescience, milord salvaged Serengeti and moved it to new heights. She is now certain those traits have not lessened over the years.
Milord holds out his hand, a smile softening his harsh features. Milord is pleased. As Lilian reaches milord, he pulls her close. His large, strong hands grasp her shoulders and then move to cup her head. His thumbs gently trace her jaw. Milord’s dark gaze holds heat and a spark of dark humor. I am the sum of my ancestors. Milord’s amusement can prove very disconcerting. Mesmerized by milord’s touch and intimidated by the hint of mischief, Lilian attempts to hold on to her control.
As Lucius lightly strokes the delicate jaw, trepidation mingles with excitement in the bright gray eyes, and the lithe form trembles slightly. Pleased at the evidence that he has overset his stoic apprentice, Lucius yields to impulse and pulls Lilian into a kiss.
Milord’s mouth is on hers, demanding, insistent. Releasing her reserve, Lilian yields to milord’s embrace. Her lips part and milord’s tongue sweeps in, challenging, taking. Large, strong hands mold her against his length. Her breasts are pressed against milord’s chest, her thighs to his. As her senses swim, milord’s mouth retreats, milord’s embrace ceases.
Relief and disappoint mingle as milord ends the contact and moves away. Eighth bell is for status; midday is for milord’s pleasure. Lilian finds it difficult enough to maintain her balance and contend with milord’s often-inexplicable will without the added confusion of disruptions to the established routine. I am the sum of my ancestors.
“Lilian,” milord begins, only to be interrupted by a chime from the ebony desk. Frowning with annoyance, milord crosses to his desk, Lilian in his wake. A few quick taps on the techno console, and milord’s frown deepens. “Master Trevelyan will be joining us.”
»◊«
I am the foundation of my family. Anxiety coils in Lilian’s chest as she obediently settles into the comfortable chair to milord’s left. Master Trevelyan’s presence at her eighth-bell status review is a significant departure from protocol, as is the use of milord’s seating area rather than the conference table. Most unusual of all is that Lilian is seated to milord’s left and not at attention behind milord’s shoulder. It is uncomfortably reminiscent of her bells spent answering milord’s and Trevelyan’s interrogation after the shrine beggar incident. It is not an experience that Lilian wishes to revisit, although she is certain she has no choi
ce.
This is ill. Milord’s expression is forbidding as he demands, “Trevelyan, what have you?”
“I regret, Monsignor,” Trevelyan replies as he ignites his slate, “my findings are inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?” Lucius echoes, eyes narrowing. “Explain.”
Random violence is common enough in the less savory sections of Crevasse City, but it is exceedingly rare in the Garden Center District, which is home to the warrior elite.
Referencing his slate, Trevelyan cites, “The shrine beggar was born here in Crevasse City in the Refinery District. Apprenticed in a tannery at the age of sixteen; at the age of twenty, sentenced to five years’ menial labor in the Great Crevasse for assault and robbery. Subsequently employed at a tannery for two years until injured while unloading a shipment of hides; evicted from his residence several months later for failure to pay rent.”
Lifting his gaze from his slate, Trevelyan completes, “That was a year gone. Since then the record is a sporadic one of occasional labor intermingled with shrine beggary. He was migrating steadily away from the center of the city and into the plains until three sevendays ago, when he first appeared at the Garden Center shrines.”
“A sudden abrupt shift in his pattern of movement,” Lucius interrupts. “Hired?”
“It is the most obvious conclusion.” Trevelyan frowns in frustration. “It is unlikely, though; he had but a pittance.”
“Payment upon success?” Lucius hazards.
“Mayhap, r,” Trevelyan agrees without conviction. “I can discover no evidence of a confederate, and there is another possibility.”
Lucius’ fingers steeple as he considers his spymaster. “Voice it.”
With a tightening of his lips, Trevelyan says, “The man was thrice presented to the Shades.”
“Disordered in his wits?” Lucius startles.
“Three separate shrines did not find him so, including Jonathan’s Shrine in the Garden Center,” Trevelyan replies in clipped tones.
Had the man been proven deranged, he would have been taken into the care of the Shrines and constrained to the extent necessary to protect him or others from his acts of madness. At one time or another, most shrine beggars will present themselves to the Shrines of the Five Warriors in the hope of the relative comfort of shrine confinement. Very few are ever found truly deranged.
Lucius cares not for Trevelyan’s findings. Too many possibilities, too little real information. “What of your shine informants?”
“Nothing useful,” Trevelyan admits. “The beggar was only within the Garden Center Shrine Ring for a few days before he attacked Mistress Lilian. Kept to himself, did not say much, favored Jonathan’s Shrine.”
“Not much value in that,” Lucius recognizes. “Half of the Third System follows the Fourth Warrior.”
Lucius knows one other avenue of inquiry. His Cartouche, Blooded Dagger, owns the Vistrite Crevasse. “What of his time in the Great Crevasse?”
“He tended the sanitation conduits.” Trevelyan does not need to reference his slate for this. “He executed the terms of his sentence without incident or complaint. Beyond that, my operatives have naught. It is three years gone, and none noted the man at the time.”
“He was sound of body and possessed a clean record of Crevasse service,” Lucius interjects. “Yet he chose the life of a shrine beggar?”
With a clean record of Crevasse service, the shrine beggar could have returned to the mines as a laborer. Life in the Crevasse is difficult, but the wages are among the best in the Twelve Systems.
“It does call into question the man’s motives,” Trevelyan admits. “However, it is insufficient evidence of true derangement.”
“Lilian.” Lucius turns to his apprentice, who has been silent and motionless for the discussion. “Have you aught?”
Absently fingering her scarlet and gold conservator’s seal, Lilian shakes her head, her voice soft. “Naught, milord. I am certain I never encountered him before that morning.”
Honor is my blade and shield. There is no purpose to be served in inquiring who wishes Lilian ill. The list includes half the Twelve Systems and includes scores, if not hundreds, of those harmed by Remus Gariten’s foul crimes who might wish to retaliate against his tainted offspring.
Honor knows not fear. Whether random misfortune or a deliberate assault, it is the Shades’ Grace that Lilian lives. Honor endures. She dare not forget again how many wish her ill. It is not only her life in peril. Does Lilian fall before her bond proves, the life of a shrine beggar will not see Katleen to her majority. Honor acts as duty commands.
“Enough.” Milord’s voice holds conviction as it pulls Lilian from her concern. “If the beggar was deranged, there is naught to be done. If there is something more nefarious in play, we have little means of discovering it. Trevelyan, leave the investigation active in the shrines and the Crevasse—perhaps the Luck of the First will favor us. Beyond those measures, expend no more of your attention. There are great matters before us, and they must not be hindered.”
Turning back to Lilian, milord’s gaze once again softens. “Attend me in the synthetics lab at tenth bell.”
Accepting milord’s words as dismissal, Lilian rises with a hint of her earlier brightness. Months of labor are about to bear fruit.
»◊«
I am the sum of my ancestors. I am the foundation of my family. The familiar verses of the Warriors’ Litany soothe Lilian’s spirit as she moves rapidly through the corridors to her worksite. Lilian regrets the shrine beggar’s death, but she cannot regret that she lives.
Although a few admiring glances follow the arresting twenty-four-year-old as she navigates the crowded corridors, there are many more sneers. All within Serengeti recognize Lucius Mercio’s notorious apprentice and fallen warrior.
The disgraced heir to a defunct cartouche, Lilian was expected to end her life in penitence for the criminal acts of her father. Failure to do so has added cowardice to the indictment of blood taint, or corrupt genetics. If she is able to execute her three-year bond, none will be able to demand Lilian’s death, but she will never again be counted among the warriors. At the moment, Lilian’s mind has no room for her sordid family history or even her present trial. She is focused on what is to occur at tenth bell.
“A training exercise, Lilian, it was naught but a training exercise.” Chrys’ bright eyes and smile break through Lilian’s inner litany as he intercepts her at the entrance to her worksite walkway.
Tucked into a corner by the risers, Lilian’s worksite has a wall at the back, no one across the aisle, and two taciturn associates occupying the front two worksites. The Grim Twins, as Lilian mentally refers to the discouraging associates, are not present. Lilian is almost certain that they are Trevelyan’s operatives. The proximity of their worksites to hers provides Lilian with protection from harassment and milord with close monitoring of her behavior.
Dismissing the Grim Twins from her mind, Lilian brightens in response to Chrys’ greeting, her lips softening. Chrys, Lilian’s first friend in the Cartel, is a tall, sandy-haired young man with light brown eyes whose blocky suit in the black of a Blooded Dagger apprentice gives him an unprepossessing appearance. Lilian has viewed Chrys often enough in training to know that beneath his boxy-cut suits, he owns a strong, powerful physique.
In the absence of the Grim Twins, Lilian does not hesitate to speak. “A training lesson that would have come to naught without your aid.”
Five months ago, perplexed by an anomaly in the operations of the Vistrite mine and refinery on Desperation in the Sixth System, Lilian begged aid from Chrys. After several sevendays of investigation and analysis, Lilian identified a plot to create counterfeit Vistrite. A substance both illegal and potentially lethal when improperly used in sophisticated technology.
Ruthlessly protecting Blooded Dagger and Serengeti supremacy, Lucius Mercio hunted down the counterfeiters and had the operation dismantled. At Lilian’s suggestion, Monsignor Lucius reta
ined key elements of the criminal operation in the hope of fabricating a legitimate synthetic that could expand the wealth and influence of his Cartouche and Cartel. It was a wildly unconventional decision. Lilian and Chrys are certain it will succeed. If it does, their opportunity for advancement and a successful bond proof is all but assured.
“Are you ready?” Chrys returns. “There is much to accomplish before tenth bell.”
“I require only a moment,” Lilian replies and then hastens to her worksite to rapidly work her slate and worksite reviewer. Actions complete, Lilian rejoins Chrys, her mind intent on the coming tenth bell and the promise of synthetic Vistrite.
»◊«
Milord is pleased. Seigneur Rachelle and Master Simon have done well. The familiar astringent scent of the synthetics lab tickles Lilian’s nose as she peers around milord from her position behind his left shoulder.
“Remarkable, Rachelle, truly remarkable.” Milord praises his research and development seigneur as he carefully rolls a small cylinder between his fingers.
Glowing with pride at both her accomplishment and milord’s acknowledgment, Rachelle responds formally, “It is an honor to serve Blooded Dagger and Serengeti.”
This day Seigneur Rachelle’s shapely, well-toned, six-foot figure is encased in a beautifully tailored suit in Blooded Dagger scarlet that flatters her flawless mahogany complexion. Gold glitters at her throat and wrists. From behind Seigneur Rachelle’s left shoulder, Chrys meets Lilian’s gaze, his expression echoing her awe.
Returning the ten-centimeter rod to the tray held by Master Simon, milord selects a small, flat disk the size of Lilian’s thumbnail. Held to the light, it shimmers from dark green at the edge to black in the center. Admiring the object, milord remarks, “Had I not witnessed it, it would be difficult to believe this was fabricated and not pulled from the Crevasse.”
At milord’s words, Simon preens slightly, increasing the gangly technologist’s resemblance to a stork with his sharp, pointed face above a short torso affixed with long legs and arms.
