by Sharon Lee
“I understand. But what is it that you offer?”
Another sigh, as if the entire business went against all the order of the universe. Her hands came out of her pockets, palms up and empty.
“I will teach you. We will build upon these long-ago basic lessons you received. A few tricks, only, you understand, but they may be made to suffice. You have become a target, masyr, and you had best see to your own defense.”
“A target?” he repeated, looking up at her.
“Oh, yes. One does not thwart Councilor Vertoi in any of her desires. And one certainly does not embarrass her enforcer.”
“Councilor Vertoi is not permitted to disrupt my team while we are working,” he said calmly.
Serana Benoit laughed, short and sharp.
“Yes, yes, little one; you have expressed this sentiment with perfect clarity! Fritz Gerard, Councilor Vertoi, myself—none of us missed your meaning. Councilor Vertoi has done you the honor of believing you to be a serious man, and she has hired Louis LeBlanc to wait upon you.”
Something was clearly expected of him, but Don Eyr could only show his palms in turn and repeat, “Louis LeBlanc?”
“Ah, I forget. You live sheltered here. Louis LeBlanc is a very bad man. He has been hired to hurt you, from which we learn that Madame the Councilor considers that you have damaged her reputation and so may show you no mercy.”
Chauncey had a pet; a green-and-red bird that had learned to say certain amusing phrases. Don Eyr felt a certain kinship with the bird now, able only to repeat her own words back to her.
“No mercy? He is to strike me lightly on the head?”
Serana Benoit looked grim.
“Were you of Madame’s own station, or in the employ of one of such station, Louis would have been instructed to kill you. That is mercy at Madame’s level. She has, regrettably, seen that you are a catering manager, a mere minion who must be taught his proper place.”
She took a breath, and added, softly.
“Louis . . . Understand me, I have seen Louis’ work, and speak from the evidence of my own eyes! Louis will break all of your bones, not quickly; abuse tendons, and tear muscles. Perhaps, yes, he will strike you in the head, but I think not, for Madame will want you to know why you have become a cripple, and a beggar.”
He stared at her, seeing truth in her face, hearing it in her voice. There were, perhaps, a number of things he might have said to her, then, but what he did say was . . .
“Come into the kitchen. There is tea—and bread and butter.”
• • • • • •
He was an apt student, Don Eyr, a joy to instruct; supple and unexpectedly strong. When she mentioned this, he had laughed, which was pleasing of itself, and said that flour came in thirty-two kilogram sacks.
She could wish that several Benoit apprentices were so willing, adept, and of such a happy nature. And as much as she enjoyed teaching him, she enjoyed even more their time after practice, when they would adjourn to the little room behind the kitchen, for a simple snack of tea and bread, and talk of whatever occurred to them.
Very quickly, she was Serana, and he was Don Eyr. She told him such bits of gossip as she heard in the course of her duties, and he told her such on-dits as had filtered into the Institute’s classrooms and kitchens. She told him somewhat of life in House Benoit, and was pleased that he enjoyed even Grand-père’s saltier observations.
For himself, he was the lesser child of his family, which he considered luck, indeed, as it had allowed him to pursue his talent for baking.
Yes, she enjoyed his company. Very much. Perhaps she watched him with too much appreciation; perhaps she regarded him too warmly. But she did not act on these things—he was a student, after all, clearly some years her junior, and she was his teacher.
It would not have done, and she did not need Grand-père to tell her so.
As for the training—apt as he was, he would never defeat Louis. The best he might do would be to surprise and disable him long enough to run to some place of safety. Whereupon the hunt would begin again. Louis might even become fond of the child, if he gave good enough sport, and one shuddered to think what that might come to, when he was, as he must be, at the last—caught.
Still, they trained, and two weeks along there came the news that Louis LeBlanc had been taken up by Calvin of House Fontaine, caught in the very act of threatening a citizen. Serana knew Calvin; had known him very well, indeed, when they had both been foot soldiers for their Houses. It had been some time since she had sought him out, but she had done so after that news had hit the street.
“The Common Judge gave him four weeks, non-negotiable,” Calvin said, drinking the glass of wine she’d bought him. “In four weeks, plus one day, he will be on the streets again.”
“Is there any likelihood of a pattern-of-behavior charge?” asked Serana.
Calvin shrugged.
“The father had said some such at first, but he’s quiet now.”
“Bought off?” Serana guessed, sipping her own wine.
“Or frightened off.” Another shrug and quizzical glance.
“Why do you care? Even if Louis is permanently removed, another will rise to fill the void.” He raised his glass, as if in salute. “There must always be a Louis; to keep the Councilors from going to war.”
“It may be that a replacement Louis will enjoy his work less,” Serana said, and shrugged. “One might hope.”
“This is on behalf of the new lover?”
“New student,” she corrected.
“So? Does Benoit agree to this?”
“No need for Benoit to agree to what I do on my off-hours,” Serana said, which was not . . . precisely true. “Besides, he came from off-world, half-trained and a danger to himself and our fellow citizens. I make the streets safer by teaching him.”
“A baker, I hear,” said Calvin.
“You have big ears, my friend.”
Calvin laughed and drank off the last of his wine.
• • • • • •
“When,” she asked Don Eyr as they sat together over their quiet tea. “When will you graduate?”
“Graduate?” He looked amused. “I graduated two years ago. I have completed my coursework, and taken the certification tests for master baker, pastry chef, and commis chef. At the moment, the Institute employs me to teach an introductory workshop in breads, and an upper level seminar in pastry. Two days, I work in the test kitchens; one day I supervise the distribution baking; and, as you know, I manage one of the catering teams.”
Serana blinked, realized that she had been staring, and raised her tea cup.
Don Eyr began to butter a piece of bread.
“Soon, I will need to make other arrangements,” he said. “Chauncey has been trying to entice me to stay and become faculty—to teach, you know.”
“You do not wish to be a teacher?” Serana managed.
He put the butter knife aside and glanced up at her.
“In many ways, teaching is enjoyable, especially when one has an apt pupil. But, no. I want to bake, to feed people, and bring joy to their day. I have determined to open my own boulangerie.”
His own bakeshop, bless the child; and she had thought him too young to understand her.
“A shop here—in the City?”
He laughed, dark eyes dancing.
“No one opens a boulangerie in Lutetia! What would be the point, when the Institute supplies all of the restaurants and coffee houses, and could easily supply a third again more?”
“You will leave us, then?” she persisted, which both relieved her, and filled her with a profound sadness.
He gave her a grave look.
“I think that I must, and I have a plan, you see. When I wrote to . . . my family’s accountant, to inform him of my certifications, and graduation, he wrote back with information regarding certain accounts and properties which are mine, alone.
“My mother left me a property—a house and a some land—on Ezhel’ti. Those funds h
ave, in part, been supporting me here, with the remainder being placed into an account which Mr. dea’Bon has held in trust for me. The house and the account came to me upon graduation. I have been researching Ezhel’ti, and it seems a very promising world, with two large metropolitan areas, and a scattering of smaller towns. It remains to be seen if a city or a town will suit me best, but my intention is to emigrate and open a boulangerie.”
He gave her a small smile.
“Mr. dea’Bon is retired from my clan’s business, and finds himself wishing for a little project to keep him entertained. He has offered to advise me, which is kind. Certainly, I shall have need of him.”
“Indeed,” she said, and put her tea cup on the tray. “It may be wise, to leave as soon as your planning allows,” she said, her lips feeling stiff. “The rumor inside the Watch is that Louis LeBlanc will be off the streets for four weeks, no longer. Since it is possible for you to remove yourself from danger . . .”
“I must stay until the end of the term,” he told her. “I have signed a contract.”
“How long?” she asked.
“Eight weeks. But after—”
“Yes, after. I advise, make your arrangements now.”
“I will,” he said, as she rose.
“You are leaving?”
“I have the early Watch tomorrow,” she lied. “Good-night, Don Eyr.”
“Good-night,” he said, and rose in his turn to open the bay door and see her out.
• • • • • •
The peaceful round of weeks flowed by, each day bringing its rewards. Don Eyr had dispatched letters, received some replies, and written more letters. He and Serana had kept to their schedule of sparring and suddenly, it was the day of Louis LeBlanc’s release from mandatory confinement.
He would not have said that the date weighed over-heavy on his mind, though naturally he had noted it. And truly, he did not begin to worry until he left for their usual meeting.
He arrived in the practice room before her, which was not so unusual. He occupied himself with warm-ups, and moved on to first-level exercises.
When he finished the set and she still had not come—then he began to worry. It was ridiculous, of course, to worry after Serana, who was a Watch Captain and fully able to take care of herself—and any other two dozen persons who happened to be nearby. But he worried, nonetheless. He reminded himself that she had missed their meeting on two previous occasions, and had turned up, perfectly well, if appallingly tired, at the Institute, later, wanting her tea and buttered bread—and, more than that, someone to talk to about commonplaces, and simple things. It pleased him that she came to him for comfort on those nights when her duty was a burden. But, he could not help but recall that her duty might see her maimed, or killed, much as she might laugh off that aspect of the matter.
“You will worry yourself into a shadow, little one, if you worry about me. I have more lives than a cat—Grand-père has said it, so you know it is true! I may be late, but always I will come back to you, eh? My word on it.”
Yes, but today—today an especial danger had been released back onto the streets, and he might be assumed to be angry about his recent confinement, and seeking to wreak havoc upon those whom he judged to be most responsible.
Surely, being the sort of man he was, LeBlanc would consider Serana’s friend Calvin at fault, but Serana had told him that the Commander of the Watch had decided to hold Calvin at headquarters for the first day of Louis LeBlanc’s renewed liberty, and also to set a guard around the Common Judge who had sentenced him.
These were, so Serana said, temporary measures, to give LeBlanc time to work off his ill-humor, and reconnect with his usual sources.
Work, said Serana, with a certain amount of irony, seemed to exert a steadying influence over Louis LeBlanc.
Don Eyr finished his workout early, without Serana to spar with, and returned to the tea room, where he took special care with this evening’s snack; her favored blend of tea; and thin slices of the crusty, chewy bread she had declared—rather surprising herself, so he thought, with amusement—the best she had ever eaten, beside which all other so-called breads were revealed as impostors. He added a dish of jam to complement the butter, and stood looking down at the tea table, wondering what he would do, if she did not come tonight.
The bell rang then, and he hurried down the hall, looking by habit at the screen—and it was Serana standing there, in her Watch uniform, her face in shadow, her posture stiff. He took a breath, and pulled the door open.
She followed him silently down to the tea-room, and stood, silent yet, just inside the door.
He turned, and saw her face clearly for the first time that evening.
“Serana, what has happened?”
She looked at him, her face haggard, eyes red, proud shoulders slumped.
“Come in.”
He stepped up to her, and caught her arm, leading her to the table; saw her seated in her usual chair. Then, he crossed the room to the small cabinet, opened it, and poured red wine into a glass. He set it before her, and commanded, “Drink.”
She shook herself slightly, and obeyed, downing the whole of it in two long gulps, without appreciation, or even full knowledge of what she did. No matter; it was a common vintage, and it seemed to be doing her some good. Her pale green eyes sparkled; and her shoulders came up, somewhat.
“Good,” he said, and took the glass away to refill it, and to pour one for himself.
He came back to the table, and sat across from her.
“Tell me,” he said.
She blinked, then, and seemed to fully see. She smiled somewhat.
“Peremptory, little one,” she murmured.
“Ah, but I am a manager, and a master baker, and a blight upon the lives of my students,” he told her. “Arrogance is the least of my accomplishments.”
Her lips bent slightly; perhaps she thought she had smiled.
“So,” she said; “I will tell you. Louis LeBlanc died today. Badly.”
He blinked, taking in the uniform. Serana did not come to their meetings in her uniform. She came always as Serana Benoit; never as Watch Captain Benoit. He sipped wine to cover his shiver.
“Do you think I did this thing?” he asked.
She laughed, and it was terrible to hear.
“You? No, I do not think that.”
She raised her glass and drank.
“No?” he asked. “A man in fear of his life . . .”
She slashed the air with her free hand.
“A man in fear of his life would not have had time to do what was done to Louis,” she snarled, horror and anger in her voice. “And you, little one—you are not capable of what I saw. You are my student; I know this.”
She turned her head aside, but not before he saw the tears.
He took a careful breath.
“Serana—” he began.
“Oh, understand me; I have no love for Louis LeBlanc. But the manner of his death, and the timing of it . . . It is a message, from one Councilor to another, you see; and such a message—it will be war, now, between the ruling houses, but they will not bleed! No, they will use us as little toy soldiers, and we will die—for what? The world will not be made better; and when the war is over, or the point is won—another will rise to become the next Louis LeBlanc. It will all be the same, only we will be fewer in the senior and novice ranks, and there will be more orphans from which to recruit replacements . . .”
There was a breathless moment, before she repeated, in a bitter whisper.
“Replacements.”
He was an idiot; he could think of nothing to say, to ease her. She had told him the history of House Benoit—told it lightly, as if it were a very fine joke. But, now . . .
“I am not a coward. I am not afraid to do my duty,” she whispered. “But my duty is to protect the citizens, not to kill fellow Watchmen!”
He did not remember rising, or going ’round the table. He barely remembered putting his arm
around her shoulders, and feeling her press her face against his side.
“Of course you are not a coward,” he murmured. “You are bold and honorable. Can you not appeal—” Appeal to whom? he thought wildly. If the Councilors were at war, surely the City Council would not rule against them.
“The Common Judges?” he ventured. “Can they not issue a restraint, releasing the Watch from such orders?”
She made a sound; perhaps it was a laugh.
“Don Eyr’s twisty mind works on,” she murmured. “That is a particularly fine notion—and it was tried, the . . . last time the Councilors went to war. They simply ignored the order, and had those of the Watch and the judiciary who protested killed.”
He closed his eyes.
“Don Eyr.”
She shifted in his arms, and he stepped back, letting her go as she straightened in her chair. She caught his hand, and looked into his face.
“Don Eyr,” she repeated.
“Yes, my friend. What may I do for you?”
She laughed, soft and broken.
“You make it too easy,” she said, and drew a breath, keeping her eyes on his.
“I would like to make love with you, little one.”
He hesitated. She released his hand.
“I am maladroit,” she said. “Please do not regard it.”
“No, I will regard it,” he said, taking her hand between both of his. “Only—to make love. I may not have the recipe. But, this I offer—that I value you, and would willingly share pleasure; give and receive comfort. Indeed, I have wished for it, but while we stood as teacher and student—”
“I see it,” she said, offering a small smile, but a true one; “we are both fools.”
“That is perhaps accurate. I propose that we now teach each other—I will learn to make love . . .”
“And I will learn to share pleasure. Agreed, but—”
She glanced about them, and he laughed.
“No; let us to my rooms; we may be private there.”
“Yes,” she said, and rose.
• • • • • •
His rooms, at the top of the Institute . . . His rooms were neat, and modest; the bed under the eaves big enough for both, so long as she was careful of her head.
