by Sharon Lee
“That is well,” he said. “Now, you will be required, also, to comport yourself as a Liaden gentleman, upholding the melant’i of Clan Serat. It will therefore be necessary for you to learn the Code and other necessary subjects, in addition to the coursework required by the school. Your tutor will work with you to build those study modules.”
He paused; Don Eyr bowed.
“I understand,” he said.
Mr. dea’Bon did not sigh.
“That is well, then. If you permit, I will ask my heir to assist you in filing your applications.”
“That is very kind in you, sir,” Don Eyr said. “My thanks.”
TWO
Lutetia
Captain Benoit of the Lutetia City Watch was bored. Society parties as a class tended to be stifling on several levels. Captain Benoit preferred the night beat in the city. Best was the university district, where she could feel the cool damp breeze from the river against her face as she walked. But, truly, any of the city beats—the outside city beats—were preferable to standing against the wall like a suit of armor, to insure that Councilor Gargon’s guests didn’t stab each other—literally—or steal the silver, or—the worst fault of all—injure the Councilor’s feelings.
In point of fact, the City Watch was not supposed to stand watch over private functions. Councilor Gargon, however, was the Patron of House Benoit, and therefore commanded such small personal services.
Fortunately, Councilor Gargon, unlike other Patrons Captain Benoit could name, possessed some modicum of restraint. House Benoit was most generally called when the Councilor was hosting a party, or giving one of her grand dinners. For the workaday world, she was satisfied with her Council-assigned bodyguards.
Tonight, the party was in the service of winning votes for the Council’s scheme to route a monorail through the Old City. The Old City was protected by hundreds of years of legislation—no modern road could be built through it. That had lately become a problem because the New City had expanded, sweeping ’round the Old like a river ’round a rock. One might, of course, walk through the twisting, narrow streets of the Old City, or bicycle—but scarcely anyone did so. In main, citizens used jitneys, or rode the trains, or drove their own vehicles. They were in a hurry; it took too long to go through the Old City—and the journey around the walls was becoming almost as long, what with the knots traffic routinely tied itself into.
Councilor Gargon was, as she so often was, on the conservative side of the issue. The radicals would drive a battle-wagon into the Old City, punching a straight line through its heart, which would become a wide highway, a short route from one side of the New City to the other.
The monorail . . . found little favor among busy citizens of the New City. The monorail was seen as a ploy, an effort to forestall progress, perhaps of use to tourists, or the indolent students, but who among the busy citizens of the City had time to queue up at a monorail stop, and crawl over the ruins?
Thus, the party, and the trading and calling in of favors. Captain Benoit, who loved the Old City, tried to recruit herself with patience, but—truly, she would rather be out on her usual beat.
If you can’t be where you’d rather, be happy where you are. That had been one of Grand-père Filepe’s advisories. He had long been retired from the Watch by the time Captain Benoit had taken up her training arms, a ready source of wisdom, humor, and, often enough, irony, for the youngers of the household. He was not, of course, her genetic grandfather, nor any blood relation at all. House Benoit, like all the City Watch Houses, recruited their ’prentices from among the orphans of the city, of which there were, unfortunately, many.
House Benoit was one of eight; and second eldest of the Watch Houses. Common citizens were not, of course, trained in arms, or in combat. The arts of war were for the members of the Watch alone. All who came to Benoit, took the House’s name, and training, and bore the burden of the House’s honor.
There.
The caterers were bringing the desserts out to the long tables, laying down plates of chouquettes, macarons, petit fours, éclairs. Captain Benoit sighed. She was especially fond of sweets, and tonight’s party was being catered by the École de Cuisine, which was justly famous for its pastries, cakes, and small delights.
Ah, here came one of the younger students, bearing a dacquoise, and after her another student, carrying a platter of fruit bread sliced so thin one could see through each one . . .
The guests were converging upon the table—and who could blame them? The younger student and the dark-haired youth who appeared to be the manager of catering, stood ready to assist. Others bustled about a second table, bringing out fresh pots of coffee, pitchers of cream, and little bowls of blue sugar that sparkled like fresh snow.
The younger student seemed somewhat nervous. The manager touched her arm, and she looked to him with a smile, her shoulders relaxing. Captain Benoit frowned, and brought her attention to those approaching the table.
Ah, merde, she cursed inwardly. Vertoi was here. She had not previously seen the Councilor among the guests; she must have come late. Vertoi was trouble, wherever she went; especially, she was trouble for those who had no standing, and therefore could neither resist her, nor demand justice from the Council. Vertoi being a Councilor, the common court had no call upon her; and she imposed no restraints upon herself.
Vertoi had an eye for beauty, and the younger student, now that Captain Benoit had taken a closer look, was very fine, indeed.
The catering manager took up an empty plate that moments before had held a mountain of petit fours, and handed it to his fair young assistant. She nodded, and left the table for the kitchen, just as Vertoi came up in the queue, her shoulders stiff and her face stormy.
Captain Benoit tensed. Vertoi was not above personally reprimanding an inferior, physically and in public, and she suddenly feared for the young manager’s health.
He, however, seemed not to notice her displeasure, but leaned forward, his eyes on her face, his hands moving above the tempting sweets, discussing now the fruit bread; now the éclairs . . .
Vertoi turned away, leaving the manager in mid-discussion, holding an empty dessert plate. He put it behind the table, and turned to greet the next guest, his face pleasant and attentive.
She had seen him before, Captain Benoit realized. Seen him at the Institute loading bays, when dawn was scarcely a red-edge blade along the top of the walls, supervising the loading of trays onto a delivery van. In the afternoon, she had seen him, too, filling the beggars’ bowls at the university district’s main gates. She had noted him particularly; compact and neatly made, his movements crisp and clean. A pretty little one; and something out of the common way among the citizens of Lutetia, who tended to be tall, brown, red-haired, and rangy.
As if he had felt the weight of her regard, the manager raised his head and caught her gaze. His eyes were dark brown, like his hair. He gave her a nod, as if perhaps he recognized her, too. She returned the salute, then a drift of dessert-seekers came between them.
• • • • • •
He had sent Sylvie back to the Institute in the first van, with the empty plates and prep bowls. She, and the other three who went with her, would have a long few hours of clean-up in the catering kitchen, but he rather felt that she would willingly clean all night and into tomorrow, so long as she was not required to bear the attentions of Councilor Vertoi.
Don Eyr sighed. She was becoming a problem, this councilor—not merely a problem for Sylvie, who, so far as he knew, lavished all of her devotion upon a certain promising young prep cook. No, Councilor Vertoi was beginning to pose a problem for the Institute and for the affairs of the Institute. Pursuing Sylvie while she was on-duty was a serious breach of what he had learned as a boy to call melant’i—and which he had learned here was an insult to the dignity of the Institute, its students, and, above all, to the directors. He would of course report the incident to his adviser, as part of this evening’s—well. This morning’s debrie
fing. He was quite looking forward to that approaching hour, sitting cozy in Chauncey’s parlor, tea in hand, and a plate of small cheese tarts set by.
Don Eyr did the final walk-through of the small prep area, finding it clean and tidy. He sighed, took off his white jacket, and folded it over one arm. Catering was not his preference. If he were ruled only by his preferences, he would be always in the kitchen, baking breads, and pastries, cakes . . . He felt his mouth twitch into a wry smile. Perhaps it was best, after all, that the directors insisted that all students learn catering, and production baking, and the other commercial aspects of their art—all of which would be useful, when he opened his own boulangerie . . .
Satisfied with the condition of the prep room, he signed the job off on the screen by the door, releasing copies of the invoice to Councilor Gargon’s financial agent, and to the Institute’s billing office. A note would also be sent to his file, and to Chauncey’s screen, so that gentleman would know when to start brewing the tea.
Don Eyr put his hand against the plate, the door to the delivery alley opened, and he stepped out into the cool, damp, and fragrant night.
The door closed behind him. Before him, the van, Keander likely already asleep in the back. Don Eyr shook his head. Keander could—and did—sleep anywhere, which might be annoying, if he did not wake willing and cheerful, eager to perform any task required of him.
He reached the van, hand extended to the door—and spun, ducking.
The move perhaps saved his life; the cudgel hit the van’s door instead of his head, denting and tearing the polymer.
Don Eyr spun, saw his attacker as a looming, dark shadow between himself and the light, and launched himself low and to the right, half-remembered training rising, as he kicked the man’s knee.
A grunt, a curse.
The man staggered, but he did not go down, and Don Eyr spun again, kicking the metal ashcan by the gate.
It rang loudly, though it was a vain cast. Keander could sleep through any din, though the softest whisper of his name would rouse him.
“Dodge all you like, little rat,” came the man’s voice, as the cudgel rose again. “Councilor Vertoi sends her regards, and a reminder to stay out of her business.”
He swung again, and Don Eyr drove forward, catching the man ’round both knees and spilling him backward onto the alley.
The ash can produced another clatter as the cudgel, released from surprised fingers, struck it; and Don Eyr rolled away.
“I will kill you,” the man snarled, and Don Eyr, on his knees by the service door, saw him roll clumsily, heaving himself to his knees, even as a second shadow moved in, and with one efficient move kicked those knees out from under him, and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the head.
Straightening, this one moved to the pool of light, revealing herself as the Watch Captain he had most lately seen at the councilor’s party, tall and fit, with her close-cropped red hair and her light eyes.
“Are you well, masyr? Do you require my assistance?”
“I am well, thank you, Watch Captain,” he said, hearing how breathy and uneven his voice was. “I believe I will stand.”
He did so, and stood looking up at her, while she looked down at him.
“Your arrival was timely,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, and shook her head.
“That was most ill-advised, masyr. This man has been trained to fight and to inflict damage. To attempt to meet him on his own terms . . .”
“What else might I have done?” he answered, perhaps too sharply. “Stand and have my head broken?”
She was silent for a long moment, then sighed, and spread her fingers before her.
“The point is yours, but now I must ask—who taught you to fight? Is this a part of the Institute curriculum?”
He laughed.
“Certainly not! A course of self-defense was taught me, before I came here. It was years ago, my tutoring of the most basic, and—as you observe—I scarcely recalled what little I had learned.”
“No, no, having taken the decision to defend yourself—you did well. A man of peace, surprised at your lawful business, and, I make no doubt, exhausted from your labors this evening. Our friend, here, he had expected an easy strike, and now he will wake in the Watch House, with a headache, a fine to pay—and an account of himself to be made to his mistress that will, I expect, be very painful for him.”
She stepped back, clearing his way to the van.
“Please, be about your business, masyr, and I will be about mine.”
“Yes,” he said.
He turned, after he had opened the van’s door.
“Thank you, Watch Captain.”
She straightened from where she had been placing binders on the fallen attacker.
“My duty, masyr. Good-night to you, now. Go in peace.”
“Good-night,” he said, and climbed into the cab, and drove away.
• • • • • •
Policemen and criminals were not so very much different. So said Grand-père Filepe. Certainly, they tended to know the same people, to drink in the same places, to roam the same streets at very nearly the same hours.
So it was that Serana Benoit was at a table in a shady corner of a particular cafe on a small street near the river, eating her midday meal, when she heard a word, spoken in a voice she recognized.
The first word was followed by several more, forming a sentence most interesting. Serana closed her eyes, the better to hear the rest of it. The proposition was made, and, after a short pause, accepted, for the usual fee. Serana opened her eyes, and turned to signal the waiter for more wine, her glance moving incuriously over the occupants of the table to her right.
Yes, she had recognized Fritz Girard’s voice; his companion was . . . Louis Leblanc. That was . . . disturbing. Unlike the hired bullies attached to the wealthy, who were used to express their masters’ displeasure by way of a broken arm or a sprained head, Louis Leblanc performed exterminations. Showy, public exterminations, meant to remove a nuisance, and also to inspire potential future nuisances to rethink their life-plans.
The waiter arrived with a fresh glass, and Serana turned back to her lunch, ears straining. There came the expected haggling over price—perfunctory, really—before the two rose and left the cafe in different directions.
Serana finished her lunch, paid her bill, and returned to her beat, troubled by what she had heard.
• • • • • •
“That’s the last,” Don Eyr told Silvesti.
The delivery driver nodded, made the rack fast to the grid inside his truck, and jumped down to the alley floor. He was taller than Don Eyr, as who was not? His mustache was grey, though his hair was still stubbornly red. There were lines in his face, and scars on his knuckles. He worked for the distributor, and before the day broke over the city walls, all of the breads, pastries, and other fresh-baked things from the Institute’s kitchens would be on offer in restaurants across the city.
“A light load this morning, my son,” Silvesti commented.
“Yes; one of our bakers did not arrive for her shift. Had she allowed us to know, we would have found someone else. As it was, we were half done before her absence was noted.”
He handed over the clipboard.
“Here is the distribution list. When we understood what had happened, we contacted the restaurants. Three were willing to forgo pastries today for extra tomorrow, so that the rest may have their normal share—though no extras, today.”
“Understood.” Silvesti took the clipboard, running a knowing blue eye down the list, before glancing up.
“You’ve made extra work for yourselves tomorrow,” he observed, “and a baker down.”
“No, we’ll call in some of the promising juniors, and let them see what the production kitchen is like.”
“Scare them into another trade,” Silvesti said wisely.
“Perhaps. But, then, you see what a similar experience did for me.”
/> The delivery driver laughed, and tucked the clipboard away into a capacious pocket.
“Some never learn the right lesson, eh? Until next week, my son.”
Don Eyr watched the van drive out of the loading yard, filling his lungs with air damp from the river. This was when the city was quietest; very nearly still. Occasionally, there came the sound of a car moving over damp ’crete, some streets distant; or a ship’s bell, far off in the middle of the river. It was not, perhaps, his favorite time of the day—there being some joy to be found in beginning the day’s baking, and also the hour in which he taught the seminar . . .
Still, this early morning time was pleasant, signaling, as it did, an end to labor for a few hours, and a chance to—
A boot heel scraped against the alley’s ’crete floor, and he turned, expecting to see Ameline, come out with her coffee and her smoke stick, as she often did, to sit on the edge of the loading dock to relax after her labors among the cakes.
But it was not Ameline, nor any other of the Institute.
“Watch Captain Benoit,” he said, taking a certain pleasure in her tall, lean figure. She was not in uniform this evening, but dressed in leggings and a dark jacket open over a striped shirt.
“This day, only Serana Benoit,” she said gently. “I hope that I did not startle you, masyr?”
“I had expected one of my colleagues,” he answered. “My name is Don Eyr fer’Gasta. I think that our introductions the other evening were incomplete.”
“Indeed, there was much about that encounter which was shabbily done,” she said, walking toward him, her hands in the pockets of her jacket.
“I am here . . .” she paused, looking down at him, her face lean, and her eyes in shadow, all the light from the dock lamps tangled in her cropped red hair.
She sighed, and shook her head.
“You understand that it is Serana Benoit, who offers this,” she said.
Melant’i. That he grasped very well. He inclined his head.
