Nightingale

by E G Manetti

“Katleen’s house?” he questions. “Did you not voice Lilian is well?”

  “Do you wish Lilian present in the cartel with binding marks visible on her wrists?” Chin returns, an undertone of censure in his voice.

  Demon shit. Lucius’ slightest act or expression is cause for widespread cartel gossip. If Lilian were another, the signs of bondage games would do no more than cause a smile. As it is, the comment will embarrass her.

  “Please, Master Chin,” Lilian says, her eyes on the ceiling. “The binding was required, and . . .” She bites her lip, color rising. “Enjoyable.”

  “Leave it, Chin. You are embarrassing her.” His heart lurches in a confusion of emotion at her quick defense of him, her obvious embarrassment, and the admission that she took pleasure in the game. The skin of her temple is cool satin under his fingertips. Haunted by his casual thoughts of the prior night that she is too readily poisoned, he accepts the wisdom of sequestering her for a few days. “It is better that you remain within Katleen’s house until Third Day. It will allow Trevelyan time to increase your security arrangements.”

  Sevenday 132, Day 2

  Opening her eyes to a darkened chamber, Lilian struggles for recall. Diffuse light filters through the windowed doors to the balcony. Her bedchamber. The relative brightness of the gray light suggests that the sun is well up. Only a bright day would send enough light through the second-storey windows to counter the twilight induced by the courtyard covers. She wonders if the rains have slowed to the point where she can risk opening the courtyard covers. With the grace of the Shades, by the next rainy season they will have been replaced with Vistrite-controlled covers.

  Do not. Do not. Do not. There is only this day.

  This day. Second Day and abed with the morning advancing. Poison. She was poisoned. Reaching for her slate, she increases the light in her chamber, attempting to clear the grogginess brought on by Master Chin’s potions. Why is there a cot in the corner of her chamber? The last time it was thus, one of Sinead’s acolytes was tending her after the kidnapping. Before Lilian can pursue the thought, Katleen rushes in with a tray. “Monsignor Lucius is foresworn.”

  Milord foresworn? It is impossible. Her thorn. Pushing aside the tray, she gropes under the pillows, seeking her blade. “What has occurred? What say you? What goes forward?”

  “Lilian, you are not to rise. You have been poisoned.” Katleen attempts to shove her back onto the bed.

  She shoves back with a forearm, thorn in hand. “Monsignor requires me. I am not ill.”

  Katleen clings like a limpet. “Monsignor does not require you, and you are ill.”

  “Monsignor is accused of oath breaking, it is beyond ill.” Lilian pulls free and staggers to her clothes cabinet. “Speak. What know you of this calumny? Where is Seigneur Trevelyan?”

  Katleen throws her arms around her. “Lilian, peace. Peace. I misspoke. None accuse Monsignor but me.”

  Relief washes through Lilian, leaving her weak and in need of the door for support. “What say you? How say you?”

  Wrapping an arm around Lilian’s waist, Katleen urges, “Lilian, return to bed, please. Monsignor faces no threat.”

  This day. I am the sum of my ancestors. Pillows mounded at her back, she assesses the blend of chagrin and defiance in her sister’s stance and expression. Keeping her voice calm, she asks. “How comes it that you air such a foul charge against Monsignor?”

  Katleen shudders at the color of Lilian’s voice. It is so fell, it is as if the coldest frost of the southern wastes reaches toward her. The rush of cold is accompanied by the clashing of cymbals and the beating of drums. Lilian is beyond angered. But so is Katleen. “Monsignor promised. He promised you would return well and happy. You have returned poisoned and distressed. Monsignor is foresworn.”

  Lilian’s eyes widen and then narrow. “Monsignor is also poisoned and distressed. I know naught of Monsignor’s promise. I am well. I would be much less well without Monsignor’s care for me.”

  Behind the brittle cold color and the sound of clashing cymbals is Lilian. Not the detached, repressed Lilian who haunted the house in the months after the battle of Serengeti. This is the Lilian who trains her in arms, chides her for late rising, and teases her about lurid entertainments. For a moment Katleen is dizzied by relief. Before her sister can challenger her further, she rushes to contrition. “Lilian, I beg pardon. You were so strange when Mr. George and Mr. Stefan carried you home yesterday. I could not see. You are well. Monsignor is not foresworn.”

  Grabbing the tray, Katleen sets it on Lilian’s lap. Eager to change the topic, she says, “Seigneur Trevelyan is enraged.”

  Lilian picks up a spoon. “What know you of the seigneur?”

  She is not fool enough to believe she has escaped Lilian’s retribution for her attack on Monsignor. She will grasp the mercy a change of subject offers. “Maman and I were in the kitchen when the seigneur arrived shortly after seventh bell with two guards and Rebecca. He sent Rebecca to check on you, and then he went to Maman and asked about you. Although his voice was gentle, I could hear the roar of flames behind the searing scarlet of his voice. It was as if the fires of Rimon’s dungeons were in his voice.

  “Maman was the seer, insisting, ‘The dark ones cannot hunt what they do not recognize.’ ”

  Lilian frowns. “Maman had an episode?”

  “Not truly,” Katleen says. “It was her seer’s voice, but she was not distressed. Her voice was naught but pipes and serene greens. And you know how she is, Seer one moment, Maman the next. In her next sentence she told the seigneur, ‘Lilian sleeps. Katleen has emerald fish. We should dine.’ ”

  “Emerald fish?” Lilian sighs. “For my homecoming celebration?”

  The bright green fish from the southern edge of the Western Continent is among Lilian’s favorites. It is a product of milord’s fisheries and beyond the means of the small household.

  Katleen nods. “Seigneur Trevelyan said to order what would please you. I had to serve it, it would not keep.”

  “Of course.” Lilian digs at the oatmeal, voice tinged with disappointment. “Finish your tale.”

  Nodding, she continues, “Rebecca returned as I was serving the meal and reported that you were wrapped about your pillow and unmoving. Maman sent the acolyte to remain the night with you. When she was gone, the seigneur could speak openly: he was beyond angered that the poisoner had slipped through Mistress Deidre’s net.”

  Picking up her tea, Lilian nods. “The measures were intended to capture a malicious prankster and were not impenetrable. Harsher measures could not be justified by a spiteful attack on an apprentice, not even one who is both Adelaide’s Thorn and Monsignor Lucius’ conservator.”

  “So Seigneur Trevelyan voiced.” Snatching a piece of fruit from the tray, she continues. “The seigneur also voiced that had it been known poison had been introduced to His Preeminence Monsignor Lucius Mercio, the net would have been an impassable shield. None would have exited the Fire Sword without an interview with Seigneur Trevelyan’s agents and the permission of Seigneur Thorvald’s forces. As it was, Seigneur Trevelyan dispatched his most senior operatives to support Mistress Deidre in sifting the transport’s monitor records. He did not expect to discover aught of value, though he would not permit a single stone to remain unturned.

  “With an acolyte in your chamber, the seigneur remained the night with Maman,” Katleen concludes. “He departed after my training session. Since you have been exit planet, my final quarter bell of training is the seigneur’s.”

  “How found you the seigneur’s training?” The bright hues of Lilian’s fascination replace the last of the cold ire.

  “The seigneur strikes less frequently than you and Maman, but I feel it more when he does.” With a small grimace, she rubs her ribs where the early morning session left her bruised.

  Lilian smiles approval. “Well done, Katleen. The seigneur would not try you so were you not worthy.”

  Her affection for the seigneur h
as grown to near adoration as his relationship with her mother has developed. “Maman is contented, Lilian. The seigneur pleases her.”

  Lilian has recovered from her shock at her Shade-ridden mother taking the fierce security-privilege seigneur as a lover. That he was once of the Universal Way and has become enamored of a warrior sect prelate is evidence that either the Five Warriors or the Forces of Universal Balance have an odd sense of humor. It matters not. The seer and the outcast balance each other. “Maman is well deserving of contentment. She will discover no better alliance. The seigneur is newly come to warrior, but he holds to honor in a manner any would do well to emulate.”

  Setting aside the tray, Lilian rises. “Please me and return the tray to the kitchen. I will prepare for the day. I must attend my slate before Master Chin arrives. Afterward, we will to Adelaide’s Alcove and then Sinead’s Shrine.”

  »◊«

  It is a year since Chin first beheld Lilian at Adelaide’s Discipline. That morning, having spent the night in a dispensary awaiting judgment after defending herself from assault in the Serengeti Archives, she worked through the forms shoeless and weaponless, garbed in a wrinkled commerce skirt and a torn blouse. This day, her faded training garb blends with the shadows of the dim courtyard, the grace and precision of a year gone given way to a fluidity of movement that rivals the amethyst water tumbling in the small sculpture that adorns the fountain. The thorn in her hand is a flame, then a flickering light that fades and is gone, leaving only the flowing, shadowy figure.

  He is not alone. Katleen and Stefan opened the door before he could sound for entry and now flank him as he watches. Releasing her last movement, Lilian straightens and glances around, coming forward to greet him. Leaving Stefan on watch in the entry hall, Chin climbs the stairs behind the sisters.

  Perched on the bed, Katleen watches wide-eyed as he examines Lilian. Her blood results are as expected, and this second treatment will be the last. Affixing the injector and pouch, he says, “Lie back.”

  Checking her wrists, he finds the marks are almost invisible. Whatever Lucius used was soft and loose. After almost three years, Lucius’ passion for the young woman is undimmed. Estella has the right of it; Lucius is smitten whether he will admit it or not. Stifling the desire to grin, he examines a set of scratches on her bicep. Narrow and sharp edged, these are not the marks of passion that are fading on her thighs. They are healing well, but to be safe, he applies a healing seal. With her metabolism compromised by the poison, he will take no chances.

  A shadow blocks the light as Katleen leans in. “Those are from a blade. I thought you unmarked by Flavia.”

  “A Rimon’s Discipline Master engaged with me on the transport,” Lilian says. “It is how I came into possession of the oil that poisoned us.”

  Not wishing either sister to dwell on that deadly attack, Chin asks, “Will you relay the bout? It will be some minutes before the pouch is empty.”

  Settling into the single reading chair, Chin examines the chamber as he listens to the tale of the match. While Katleen’s house is not the mansion that Lucius owns, it is a large and graceful structure, the chambers sizable with high ceilings. As with all else he has observed, the furnishings are simple to the point of spartan. The tiled floor, patterned in fern green and silver, is absent of rugs. The tile borders the windowed double door that opens onto an empty interior balcony. The cracked cordovan chair is comfortable for all its age. Her bed is a simple frame without headboard or footboard. The worn silk coverlet was once fine, the faded celestial blue trimmed in gold and bronze. Next to the bed, a small table holds Lilian’s cartel slate in a simple steel stand and a record strip box.

  The clothes chest with its half dozen drawers and fly-specked mirror is near the bed, leaving half the chamber vacant of furniture. The cracked and pitted jade surface holds what must be Lilian’s personal slate, two small boxes, and a small vial filled with red dust. The dust in the vial can be naught but the result of Vistrite mining. The first box is carved Crevasse stone, the other carved wood. While inexpensive, both are charming, offering depictions of fantastical creatures from children’s fables. The only other ornament in the chamber is a tree-troll puppet on the chair’s side table. Chin would very much like to examine the puppet but handling it would be unpardonably rude. Suppressing the compulsion, Chin recalls what he knows of the house from Thorvald and Trevelyan’s assessment of the security after Lilian’s kidnapping.

  At the top of the twin staircases, the chamber’s location insures that Lilian will know if any tread the stairs. The abandoned family quarters run along the east side of the house, where the ornamental gardens are located. The seer and Katleen have chambers on the west corridor, the seer’s first, then Katleen’s. There are two more chambers and then the door to the servants’ stairs that leads to the covered walkway and the kitchen building. The door to the stairs can only be opened with the DNA of Helena or one of her daughters. If the house is assaulted, Lilian will defend the entry stairs while Helena and Katleen exit through the kitchen and into the mews.

  A year gone, Chin asked Lucius if Lilian trained with such fervor from fear or faith. Lucius replied, “Both.” For all she has survived and accomplished since, Chin does not believe that has changed. Lilian has acquired dangerous enemies and it does not appear the number of those is lessening.

  17. Alcove Politics

  Each of the Five Warriors’ sects and Adelaide’s is governed by a Shade prelate, a living retainer touched by the Shade to guide the devoted as the Shade wills. The Shade prelate appoints a Shade discipline master, Shade canon master, and Shade healer to guide and direct the devoted, acolytes, attendants, and prelates. In systems where there is a large enough population of sect adherents, the Shade prelate may also appoint system-level discipline masters, canon masters, and healers. Although it is not typical, it is accepted to appoint commoners at the system level if they have proven their devotion to their Shade.

  To achieve prelate status, the devoted must serve as an acolyte for a minimum of a decade and then master canon or discipline. If a healer, acolyte service can overlap medic training, or they can be separate. It is not uncommon for shrine healers to leave the medical enclaves to serve the shrine as an acolyte for a decade and then be anointed a prelate. ~ excerpt from Warrior Sect Governance, an academy text.

  Sevenday 132, Day 3

  Malcon strides up the massive central staircase of Galactic Delights, Tiger Sylvester’s flagship indulgence, the garish décor a blatant display of the black raider’s wealth and complete lack of refinement. At the top of the stairs, a life-sized sculpture of a nude couple embracing is gilded to highlight the figures’ spectacular endowments. At his left, Rodolfo snorts. Joyce says naught, her sideways glance at the sculpture holding a combination of horror and amusement.

  Two guards in the awful chartreuse of Tiger’s livery flank the large double doors that open at their approach. Rodolfo and Joyce glance at him and then the door, amusement fleeing to be replaced by caution. The complete lack of challenge is unnerving. Tiger is never so cooperative.

  Tiger’s personal domain is an oasis of muted colors and fine furnishings dominated by a massive walnut desk. His expensive suit does naught to mask that the sixty-something man seated behind the desk is a dangerous thug. Of average height and build, he has milk-pale skin and prematurely receding black hair that he keeps closely cropped. The uneven features include a nose that has been broken several times and a ragged scar defining his left jawline. The scar predates Malcon’s decade of acquaintance with the raider, and he has often wondered if its origin is in a failed attempt to sever the black raider’s throat. Tiger’s deep-set black eyes hold intelligence, ruthlessness, and, at the moment, irritation. Tiger leans back in his chair. “I had no part in the poisoning. The attempt did not have its source in the Third System.”

  Leaving Rodolfo and Joyce to watch the door, Malcon turns the guest chair to allow him full view of the chamber. “And yet you know why we are come
and you are primus of the Third System Assassins’ Guild.”

  A woman rolls in a cart with tea. Underweight, she darts fearful eyes between Rodolfo and Joyce. She all but cowers as she serves Tiger tea. Yet another one working off debt. For the decade Malcon served Tiger, there was an endless stream of such servants, living in terror of displeasing Tiger and finding themselves in even worse conditions.

  “Third System,” Tiger repeats. “Does Mercio expect my aid in keeping his doxy alive, he needs to keep her within the system. I can do little beyond these planets.” Picking up his tea, he continues, “Mercio would be well served to confine his plaything to that penthouse for the remainder of her bond. She would be safe enough and readily available when he wished to make use of her.”

  Waving off the servant, Malcon says, “You will school your tongue to civility when referring to Monsignor Lucius and his conservator or you will lose it.”

  Swallowing tea, Tiger barks out a laugh. “You as well, my vicious friend? I understand His Preeminence’s fascination with the woman. He wouldn’t have bought her if he didn’t desire her. That the incorruptible Trevelyan is enraptured defies imagination. Now you? What is it about the apprentice that is so beguiling?”

  Malcon’s lips twist without humor. Although mocking, Tiger chose his words with care. He knows that Malcon does not make idle threats. “It is naught of lust, but you would not comprehend. You have no honor; you are incapable of admiring it in others.”

  The black raider values only what he can own or use and naught else.

  Tiger’s eyebrows snap together. “I hold to my bargains. That is more than many so-called honorable warriors can claim.”

  Knowing debate is futile, Malcon says, “Enough of this. You claimed to have knowledge of a recent attempt on Mistress Lilian. Yield your information.”

  A smug smile replaces Tiger’s scowl. “I will yield more than information. I will yield the assassin. Adelaide’s Thorn is not as deadly as the media portrays. Flavia arrived on planet two days gone. She’d be dead now if she were not holding fast to an outrageous claim.”