by Sharon Lee
There was a window, which she learned later, after he had risen and left her in order to see to the day’s first baking. It was marvelous, this window; one could oversee the entire City, even the Tower of Memories in the heart of the Old City.
Her City, that she loved; her City, that she served and protected.
There would be war; that was certain. A few days, perhaps, of quiet, while the Councilors gathered themselves, and made certain of those Watch Houses which were sworn to them. Benoit’s patron was Gargon, of course. Fontaine’s patron was Vertoi. It was not to be expected that she would stand shoulder to shoulder with Calvin in this, or with his sister, or any other of her comrades at Fontaine. No, this time, they would be set at each other, like dogs thrown into the pit, while the owners watched safely from above, and perhaps placed wagers on style, and form.
Her stomach cramped, and she turned away from the window, and the view of her City, to survey this place where her little one apparently spent all too few hours at rest.
There was a screen on a small table, under a bright light, a tidy pile of bills or letters placed to the right of the keyboard. Across the room from the bed stood an armoire so large it was certain that the room had been built around it. Beyond the armoire, an archway, through which more light streamed.
She stepped into a small kitchen. A teapot steamed gently on the table next to that sunny window, and the inevitable plate of breads; butter, cheese, and cold sausage. This window overlooked the river, a happy breakfast companion.
After she had eaten, and washed up, and refilled the teapot against his eventual return to his rooms, she showered in the tiny bathroom, and donned her armor, and stood looking down at the bed, recalling what had taken place there.
A sweet lad, indeed; generous and wise; and if he had not made love, then certainly he had given pleasure in full measure.
And Serana Benoit? Serana Benoit was a greater fool than even she had supposed herself to be. What precisely had been the purpose of bedding the child, when she knew he was preparing—as he must!—to flee to his safe future off-world, his small property, his dreamed-for bake-shop? She would miss him—she would have missed him, profoundly, without the sweetness they had shared. All she had accomplished was to make her own loss more poignant.
Yet . . . if she were to die, as it was probable that she would, and soon; she would have this memory in her when she stood to be judged before Camulus in the afterworld.
Mindful of the low ceiling, she bent and made the bed, smoothing the coverlet, catching the lingering perfume of their passion.
A deep breath, and she turned away, moving to the dark corner of the room, to the left, where she recalled the hall door had been.
A piece of paper was pinned to this portal, somewhat lower than her nose. She squinted at it, and found a neat, hand-drawn, map, guiding her to the nearest outside door. At the bottom of the map, was a note.
It is an interesting recipe, my friend. I would enjoy making more love with you. If you would also enjoy this, let us meet for wine at Paiser’s this afternoon when our shifts are done.
She smiled, and tucked the note inside her armor, next to her heart.
• • • • • •
She brought him flowers, of course. He was worth every rose in the City, and she would not stint him, though it was Paiser’s and she would shortly be known as a besotted fool in every Watch House and bar in the city. No matter: there were things far worse than to be known as a doting lover.
He rose to take the bouquet from her, dark eyes wide with pleasure. She had exercised restraint, and the flowers did not, quite, overpower him, and in any case it was Paiser’s and here was the waiter, murmuring that he would place them into a vase for maysr and most immediately bring them back.
“I ordered wine,” Don Eyr said when they were both seated. “I did not know if you wished to dine, or . . . how you wish to proceed.”
Proceed? She thought. She wished to proceed to his rooms—hers were too public for this affair—and undress him, slowly, running her hands over silky, golden skin . . .
Her imaginings were too vivid, and Don Eyr perceptive, as always.
“Perhaps not here?” he murmured, and she laughed.
“Perhaps not.”
She paused at the return of the waiter, bearing a vase overfilled with roses, and a second, bearing a small stand. This was set at the side of their table in such way that the flowers formed a fragrant screen, shielding them somewhat from the rest of the room.
“Maysr has bespoken a bottle,” the first waiter said. “Shall I bring it? With some cheeses, and fruit? A basket of bread, perhaps?”
“Serana?” Don Eyr asked and she smiled at him.
“All of it. Let us linger, and make plans.”
He understood, and she was delighted to see a blush gild his cheeks with darker gold. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice.
“I have the night watch tomorrow,” she murmured. “And you?”
His blush deepened, and his eyes sparkled.
“I,” he said his voice low and sultry, “will ask Chauncey to lead the advanced seminar this evening.”
• • • • • •
The war was being fought in skirmishes, at the fringes of the city, and the few injuries sustained thus far were minor. Perhaps the Councilors were being discreet; perhaps they sensed a reluctance among their toy soldiers. They were positioning for advantage; feeling out the temper of the streets; searching for the flashpoint that would ignite violence.
Lots had been drawn at House Benoit, as at the other Watch Houses. Short straw placed you on the Council Watch, which had the duty to protect the City, and whose loyalty was to the Council. This was by necessity a short-term assignment, the Council not being plump in pocket, and was in any case a moot point.
Serana had drawn a long straw.
She did not tell him this. Of course not. There was no need to concern the child, who would be well out of everything in a matter of two weeks. Instead, she listened to him talk about his plans for this bake shop he would build on the world that was not Lutetia, far from the City, far from Serana, safe from the war brewing on the streets.
“Serana, only listen!” he said, looking up from his latest letter with eyes sparkling.
“I have kin on Ezhel’ti! My father’s clan acknowledges the connection, and the delm has written to Mr. dea’Bon to say that they will give me a place as a Festival child among them, if I should wish it. Also—”
“Do you wish it?” she asked him, from her lazy slouch in his reading chair. She had pulled it over to the window—the window that looked over her City, and sat bathed in sunlight, her cotton shirt opened over her breasts, her hair blazing like living fire.
With difficulty, Don Eyr removed his attention from the picture she made there, and looked back to the letter, thinking about her question.
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I am not accustomed to being in-clan. It would be a change, certainly; but it is all of it a change! And these people—my father’s clan—they are long-time residents of Ezhel’ti, and in a very good place from which to introduce me . . .”
“Yes, so long as they are not scoundrels,” she said; then wished the words back. Why blight his joy? And these people wanted him, which that wretched old man who had sent him away had never done, as she had heard in the spaces between the words in the tales he had told her of his childhood . . .
Don Eyr was smiling.
“You are suspicious, Watch Captain. You will therefore be pleased to know that Mr. dea’Bon is of a like turn of mind. He has put inquiries into motion, and assures me that there is no need to rush into an association until the facts are known. I may, he says, quite properly be busy with my own affairs for some time after my arrival.”
“You are correct,” she told him sincerely. “I am pleased, and relieved. Count me as an ardent admirer of Mr. dea’Bon.”
“I will be jealous,” he said lightly, and she laughed.
“An admirer from afar,” she amended. “Far afar.”
“I am soothed,” he assured her, and tipped his head. “And now you are sad.”
He was far too perceptive, she thought, and did not seek to lie to him.
“I will miss you,” she said; “very much, Don Eyr.”
“And I, you.” He rose from the desk and crossed the room to kneel at her side and look up into her face.
“Serana,” he said, softly—and she leaned forward to kiss him thoroughly, before he said the words that would bind them both.
He was made for fine things, her little one; for peace, which her own small researches had revealed was the general state of Ezhel’ti. No one knew what she had been born for. An orphan, she had been taken in by House Benoit, to be trained in arms and in violence.
His hands were on her breasts, strong fingers kneading. Good. She stood, bringing him with her to the bed, there to make such love between them that neither need utter a word.
• • • • • •
They were to meet at Paiser’s mid-afternoon for a glass of wine and a small luncheon. It was her free hour from patrol, and his, between test kitchen and seminar.
Serana arrived first, proceeding toward the outside tables, when she caught a movement from the side of her eye.
She continued her stroll, curving away from the cafe, now, finding two familiar faces on her left hand, moving toward her with precisely as much purpose as the two approaching from her right.
So, the Councilors had decided, she thought, calmly assessing the situation. And Serana Benoit was to be the flashpoint.
She continued to move away from Paiser’s, toward the center of the small square, where there were fewer innocents to be caught in the action.
“Watch business!” she snapped at those few. “Move on, move away!”
She touched the weighted stick on her belt, but did not draw it. She did not need to draw it, one look at her face, and they moved, rushing away from danger.
There was a shout behind her, which she ignored. Jacques Blanchet could see her in hell. She supposed that she ought to be complimented, that the Councilors found her so provocative that her death would, with certainty, start a war.
Another shout. Serana smiled, grimly. Monique Sauvage could stand in line behind Blanchet.
She had reached the center of the square. She turned, quickly, the stick with its lead core coming up out of her belt, to slam into the extended right arm of Servais Tanguy. He screamed, and twisted aside, weapon falling from nerveless fingers. She spun to intercept Blanchet, kicking him in the knee with her reinforced boots. He was quick, however; the blow did not connect solidly, and here at last was Monique Sauvage, flying at her like the madwoman she was, knife dancing, while Simone Papin stood back, awaiting opportunity.
The world narrowed down to the work at hand. She managed to fell Sauvage with a blow of the stick to her temple, and there was Papin coming in, blade glittering; Tanguy rushing her off-side, shock grenade in hand, and she made the decision to let the armor take the knife-thrust—
Tanguy fell back, baiting her, and there was Blanchet spinning in from her other side. This time, the kick landed well, and she danced to one side as Tanguy triggered his toy, feeling the fizzing tingle as the armor dissipated the charge. She had broken his neck before the fizzing stopped, and turned at last to deal with Papin—
Who was lying on the stones, his neck at an unfortunate angle. From far away came the blare of an emergency wagon. Much closer stood a man in a white coat, knife in hand, point toward the cobbles. He raised his head and looked at her, dark eyes wide.
Serana took a breath.
“You fool!” she snapped.
“He was going to kill you!” Don Eyr snapped in return.
“I am wearing armor!” she shouted, and reached out to grab him by the shoulder. “You are wearing a baker’s smock!”
“Serana,” he began, his eyes filling. Her heart broke; she moved to embrace him—and looked up at the sound of boots pounding cobbles.
From the left came three of House Benoit. From the right, two of Fontaine.
Fontaine was nearer, the senior-most holding binders in such a way to make it clear she knew them for the insult they were.
“Serana Benoit,” she said, her voice professional; her eyes sad. “You are under arrest.”
She extended her hands to accept the insult, and glanced over her shoulder.
There were now two of House Benoit standing at ready, and Don Eyr was not in sight.
• • • • • •
Once the binders were on, and Fontaine’s duty done, Benoit sued for Serana’s release to the custody and discipline of her House.
The surprise was that Fontaine released her, in proper form, accepting House Benoit’s honor as her bail.
The second surprise, when she emerged from her interview with Commander Mathilde Benoit, and went in search of Grand-père Filepe, to tell him with her own voice what had transpired—there was Don Eyr sitting in the sun on the back patio, listening with rapt attention to one of the old man’s saltier tales.
She paused, her hand on the warm stone pillar. Don Eyr—someone of the house had given him shirt, vest, and trousers. He had rolled the shirt sleeves above his wrists, and left the top buttons open—in respect of the heat, which was considerable, in this little stone pocket that caught the sun even on rainy days.
Grand-père wore a shawl over thick, well-buttoned shirt and vest, for winter had gotten into his bones on a campaign outside the City when he was a young man, and had never melted away.
Or so he said.
He paused now, on the very edge of the story’s bawdy denouement, raised his eyes and gave her a brief nod.
Don Eyr spun out of his chair and rushed to her, hands out, eyes on her face.
“Serana! Are you well?”
In truth, she was not well. As of this hour, she was a soldier without a House, in Lutetia, where war was about to erupt, and with her to blame, so far as the Councilors would tell it.
Those shames faded, however, to see him before her, unscathed, beautiful, and concerned for her well-being.
Wordless—for what could she say?—she opened her arms, and he stepped into her embrace.
Eventually, she recalled herself, and lifted her head to meet Grand-père’s eyes. He smiled, and nodded at the bench on his right side, where Don Eyr had been seated. A ’prentice came out of the cool, dark depths of the house, bearing a tray—wine so cold the carafe was frosty with sweat, cheese and small breads. This, she sat on the table by Grand-père’s hand, and departed, never once raising her head to see the disgraced soldier on the other side of the patio.
Don Eyr stirred in her arms. She stepped back and let him go, looking down into his face—a face ravaged, and why was that? Ah. She had shouted at him, and called his actions into doubt. Truly, she was a monster.
She caught his hand.
“Petit . . .” she began, but she had reckoned without Grand-père Filepe.
“Do not begin this on my porch, unless you intend a threesome!” he said, loudly enough to be heard in the house—or, indeed, at Paiser’s.
Serana glared at him, but Don Eyr turned; and approached the bench, bringing her with him by their linked hand.
“Sir, we dare not,” he said to the old man; “for certainly you will outstrip us.”
A shout of laughter greeted this sally, even as Grand-père waved at the tray.
“Serana, child, serve us; then sit, so that we may plan together.”
Plan? She thought, but did not ask. One did not ask Grand-père; one waited to be told.
She poured the wine, arranged the tray and table more conveniently for all, and settled onto the bench beside Don Eyr.
“So,” Grand-père said, after they had savored the wine; “Mathilde has done her duty.”
“She has,” said Serana, matching his careless tone.
“Your lover, here, has explained how it is that he has
had training of Benoit; and also how he was able to recognize and counter the particular killing strike Papin had prepared for you.”
“The armor—” Serana began, and it was Don Eyr who interrupted her.
“No. Serana—that blade—it was curved. He was coming in low for a thrust and an upsweep . . .”
She stared at him in horror.
“Under the armor?”
“Yes,” he said, and had recourse to his glass.
“But you—”
“I,” he said with irony, “was a child wearing a baker’s smock. I doubt he saw me, and if he did, he judged me no threat.”
“And he would have been correct,” Grand-père said, slapping his knee, “had you not learned that disarm so well, my friend! You make our House proud that you are one of our students.”
Serana considered him carefully.
“Mathilde acknowledges this?”
“At first, she was inclined otherwise,” Grand-père said airily. “She may have had hard words to say about bakers and civilians—” He bent a sympathetic eye upon Don Eyr. “You must not regard her, my friend; it was merely a release of her feelings, in order to free adequate room for thought.”
“I understand,” Don Eyr murmured. “And truly, it was an education.”
Serana winced. The House Commander had a strong vocabulary, indeed. The rumor was that each commander logged every curse word in a massive book, kept under lock and key, and that adding to this book had been the sacred duty of Benoit Commanders for centuries.
“When it was put to her that having a half-trained citizen with a strong aversion to having his head stove in walking the street unsupervised was more of a danger to the City than producing a full-trained citizen, Mathilde did indeed rise to the occasion. A file was made, and a certificate produced. My friend here holds the rank of scholar-soldier in House Benoit.”
“Scholar-soldier?” Serana repeated.
“There is such a rank,” Don Eyr said beside her. “Sergeant Vauclelin would have me know that the last time it was awarded was nearly one hundred local years ago. But the rank was never removed from the lists.”
“Indeed. And that rank will keep my young friend well, for the short time he remains on Lutetia. For yourself, Serana . . .”
