Transgressions Read online

  »◊«

  Katleen, the bell advances, and I lack the minutes to indulge your temper. Do you wish to engage in wild humors, seek out Maman. Lilian’s words haunt her. What demon possessed me?

  With a sudden and violent lurch, the public transport bucks under Lilian’s feet, tossing her forward. Pain flowers as a flying elbow smashes into her solar plexus and robs her of her breath. As her vision dims, reflexes developed over a decade and a half of martial arts training keep Lilian on her feet, her grip locked on the rail and her slate satchel. The transport lurches again. Her vision blurry with pain, Lilian dances on her toes, buffeted by flying limbs in the crowded transport. Groans and curses are drowned out by the screeching of the vehicle as it shudders to a halt.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. Pulling wind, Lilian ignores the throbbing pain in her middle. Naught is broken. This dull throbbing is not the sharp agony she knows accompanies broken ribs.

  Her head clears with the return of her breath, and Lilian’s earlier anxiety spikes to a new level. This is ill. It lacks but twenty minutes to eighth bell and Lilian’s mandatory attendance upon milord, Monsignor Lucius Mercio. A late arrival will be met with a harsh correction, as will any violation of the myriad strictures and customs that govern an apprentice.

  As the transport doors slowly open to the distinctive whine of manual overrides, Lilian ignores her discomfort to weave among the passengers and vault through an opening barely wide enough to accommodate her slender form.

  »◊«

  Demon shit. It is not yet eighth bell, and Lucius’ day has gone from bad to worse. Sebastian Mehta, the Grey Spear Preeminence and Lucius’ rival for control of Serengeti, has instigated yet another intrigue designed to undermine Lucius.

  Sebastian’s pettiness truly knows no bounds. It is not the first time Lucius has thought so, and it is not likely to be the last. Sebastian has unearthed an ancient Cartel provision in an attempt to deny Mercium the protection of the Serengeti Militia, beginning with the crucial prototype facility on the Western Continent. The synthetic form of Vistrite, Mercium, will produce sufficient wealth to cement the Serengeti Group’s advancement from fourth to third among the cartels. The advancement will benefit Sebastian as well as Lucius and the Blooded Dagger Cartouche.

  As a Cartel venture, the funds for Mercium protection should come from the Cartel, not Lucius and Blooded Dagger. As importantly, without the involvement of the Serengeti Militia, Mercium will not have the guardianship of one the Twelve Systems’ most able generals, Seigneur Thorvald, the Cartel Training and Militia Seigneur. That Thorvald is a warrior of Grey Spear does not concern Lucius. Unlike some of Sebastian’s other warriors, Thorvald holds his duty to the cartel first and foremost. He will give his all to protect a cartel interest, and Lucius will have only the best for Mercium. With a scowl and a few determined taps to his slate, Lucius assigns his Vistrite Conservator and kinsman, Seigneur Solomon, to thwart Monsignor Sebastian.

  »◊«

  I am the foundation of my family. Lilian has no intention of waiting for another transport. She can easily race the remaining six blocks to Serengeti Headquarters and arrive well in time for eighth bell.

  Honor is my blade and shield. The verses of the Warriors’ Litany lend a cadence to Lilian’s rapid stride. The low heels of her sturdy pumps barely touch down before lifting, the swirl of her short black skirt revealing long, well-muscled legs. Dodging a beverage cart, Lilian flies into the transitway as the pedestrian barrier begins to flash and clarion a warning. Lengthening her stride Lilian finds the far side of the transitway as the breeze from a speeding transport ruffles the back of her jacket.

  Honor knows not fear. Two more blocks. Lilian’s breath is coming hard, hindered by the throbbing in her middle. The crowd thickens as Lilian nears the massive edifice of Serengeti Headquarters. Rising thirty-five storeys, the tower encompasses an entire city block. Over the next period, five thousand Serengeti associates and retainers will converge on the structure.

  Lilian weaves through the throng, exploiting the openings created when associates pull back with disdain, unwilling to have even fleeting contact with Lucius Mercio’s tainted doxy. Lilian nears the Grey Spear entrance to the Cartel without slowing. Custom and honor demand associates use the entrance designated for their Cartouche. Even were it otherwise, it would not matter to Lilian. Monsignor Sebastian’s relentless assaults on milord’s preeminence assure that Lilian will never use those doors.

  Something catches between Lilian’s feet, hurling her forward onto her hands and knees. The rough pavement bruises and scrapes her hands and knees to the sound of tearing as a jacket seam releases. Sudden, harsh pain rips through Lilian’s left hand. With a sharp cry, Lilian pulls her fingers free of the high-heeled boot that stepped from the crowd. Springing to her feet Lilian represses the urge to pursue the high-heeled figure that rapidly retreats through the Grey Spear portal.

  Honor endures. She must not tarry. She dare not be late. Rounding the corner, Lilian races the half block to the Blooded Dagger entrance. A grunt from the entrance guard alters Lilian’s racing pace mid-stride. Lackwit. Thirty-fifth stricture. Apprentices are forbidden to race within the Cartel.

  Striding as rapidly as stricture permits, Lilian hastens to the Blooded Dagger riser bank. It lacks fifteen minutes to the chimes. Lilian will be waiting outside milord’s office within five. Seven, if the riser carriages are heavily loaded.

  Honor acts as duty commands. Lilian follows a small group of associates into the carriage, pleased that they are so few. There will not be many stops before the thirty-fifth storey.

  Sliding to the back of the carriage, Lilian twists her skirt back into position. Unpleasant experience has taught Lilian to hug the walls of the riser carriages and employ her peripheral vision to avoid the surreptitious pinching and tripping of hostile associates. As the doors close, she straightens her jacket, the looseness in its right shoulder testifies to a split seam.

  Finally, Shades’ Grace. There are only three stops between the twenty-fourth storey, where the Blooded Dagger section begins, and the thirty-fifth storey, where milord has his commerce suite. She will be in time. The repair kit in her satchel can correct the ripped seam.

  The riser moves quickly past the lower levels dedicated to the communal areas of the Cartel: the Associates’ Hall, the Archives, Training and Militia, Communications, and the Dispensary. At the tenth level, where the primary conference chambers are located, the riser halts for additional passengers.

  Five Warriors take it! Martin!

  Monsignor Sebastian’s protégé holds no love for Lilian, far from it. He has relentlessly tormented her since her first day at Serengeti. Silently, the Blooded Dagger associates shuffle about, displeased by the presence of the interlopers. As with the entrances, it is against custom to use another cartouche’s risers to access the common areas. Even more so for rival Grey Spear to invade the Blooded Dagger section.

  To the annoyed sounds of the Blooded Dagger associates, one after another of Martin’s friends press the controls for levels in the Grey Spear section of Serengeti, well below those of Blooded Dagger.

  Crevasse swallow them! The additional stops should not delay her past the eighth-bell chimes, but all too familiar with Martin’s sly viciousness, Lilian suspects he has more in play.

  The five Grey Spear associates chatter loudly among themselves about the upcoming Moon Races as the riser carriage glides to a halt at the seventeenth storey. With studied nonchalance, Martin leans against the riser-hold as he continues to speak to one of the associates. “Truly, Shoshanna, the Orion contender’s experience and superior Moon Race flyer all but guarantee her victory. Serengeti honor is all well and good, but you should hedge your wagers.”

  Rimon’s Mercy! That is his play. Martin will hold the riser at each of the levels on the pretext of prolonging his conversation with his friends. None of these Blooded Dagger associates has the rank to counter him.

  As the riser carriage begins
to ping insistently against the delay, Lilian dodges past Shoshanna, into the corridor, and then to the stairs that adjoin the risers. It is not the first occasion Lilian has used the stairs to reach the thirty-fifth storey and milord. After the last time Martin caught her with this trick, she made it a practice to use the stairs for the seven levels from her worksite to milord’s suite for eighth-bell attendance.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. The staircase appears to rise forever. Ten minutes for nineteen levels. Even for one of Lilian’s athleticism, it is daunting. Adelaide aid me!

  This day. Taking the stairs two at a time, Lilian reaches the eighteenth storey and then the nineteenth. Lackwit. Even your pace, there are sixteen more to climb.

  I am the foundation of my family. Lilian’s second day within the Cartel she arrived late for midday attendance. The minor pain of milord’s correction was naught compared to the humiliation.

  Honor is my blade and shield. Milord’s warning from that day cannot be forgotten. Do not be late again. The severity of correction increases with repeated offense.

  Honor knows not fear. At the time, Lilian did not recognize milord’s leniency. Ill prepared for her role as an apprentice, Lilian’s first months at the cartel were rife with unintended errors and missteps that milord tolerated with exceptional forbearance. Grace she cannot expect after nearly a year. Even as she attempts to deny it, Lilian’s fear mounts. Fear of the severe belting that is the most likely correction for the repeat offense of a late arrival. Fear of the humiliation that will be hers when the Cartel learns of it. Most of all, fear of milord’s displeasure.

  Honor endures. It matters not the cause, Lilian is accountable, and milord will not be pleased.

  Sweat collects beneath Lilian’s arms and breasts as she climbs to the twenty-third level. Without slowing, Lilian slides her jacket from her shoulders and hooks it over her slate satchel. The movement reveals the heavy gold belt at her hips with its single ruby charm and the scarlet conservator’s seal, marks of milord’s favor and trust.

  Above her, Lilian hears the sounds of other feet climbing the stairs. Lilian’s fellow Ravens, as the black-suited Blooded Dagger apprentices are known. Martin is not the only malicious associate who uses the riser delay against apprentices. Such torment is an apprentice’s lot. None relishes the notion of the belting that is the customary correction for an apprentice’s late arrival.

  Honor acts as duty commands. As she passes the twenty-eighth level, Lilian’s satchel snags against her thorn, a three-sided, six-inch blade sheathed at her left hip. Four times in the past year, Lilian’s skill with her thorn has defended her from assault and possible death. Within the Cartel arms are usually restricted to the militia. By milord’s will, Lilian is permitted her small blade. The only limitation is that she may not wear it in milord’s presence.

  Milord’s presence! Lackwit. Gritting her teeth against frustration, Lilian slows her pace. As she pulls the thorn from her belt to stow it in her satchel, the draped jacket slides free.

  Five Warriors’ take it! Lilian drops back two stairs to retrieve the fallen garment as the moments to eighth bell slip away.

  Warmed by her exertion, sweat wetting her blouse and hair, Lilian reaches the thirty-first level to the fading staccato of other climbers. Heart hammering, breath coming fast, Lilian ignores the stitch in her side as she forces her legs onward. I will not fail. I will not fall. As she passes the thirty-second storey, her lone footsteps echo hollowly.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. The first chime sounds as Lilian reaches the thirty-fifth storey. It is impossible. It matters not. I am the foundation of my family. Gasping, heart pounding, Lilian pushes through the door and into the corridor. Two. Three.

  Crevasse swallow the thirty-fifth stricture! It can get little worse. Abandoning any pretense of a decorous pace, Lilian races down the corridor toward the double-width ebony doors at the entrance of milord’s commerce suite. Four. Five.

  Honor is my blade and shield. Six. Lilian passes beneath the massive, poured-gold emblem of the Blooded Dagger Cartouche.

  Flushed, sweating, heart hammering with fear as much as exertion, Lilian races through the reception area and to the scarlet enamel door that marks milord’s office. Seven. As if taunting Lilian’s desperation, the scarlet door slowly drags open. Turning sideways, Lilian slides through the narrow gap as the eighth bell chimes.

  »◊«

  Mentally consigning Sebastian Mehta and his schemes to Rimon’s dungeons, Lucius settles back into his scarlet leather desk chair. Beyond the windows that cover two walls of the large opulent chamber, the panoramic view of the Garden Center and cityscape fails to distract Lucius from the imminent arrival of his apprentice. After the trying start to his day, Lilian is exactly the diversion Lucius requires. Lilian’s morning reports are primarily for her benefit; it is rare she reveals aught Lucius does not know. That is not the purpose. Lilian benefits from the discipline, and Lucius savors the half-period respite where he has little to concern himself but contemplation of how he will enjoy his apprentice at midday.

  Eighth bell chimes and Lucius relaxes further into his chair. Perhaps the scarlet couch this midday. As the fourth chime sounds without Lilian appearing, Lucius loses some of his relaxation. The crystal conference table might better suit his mood and his apprentice’s casual regard for the bells.

  At the sixth chime, Lucius envisions a brief encounter with Lilian bent over his desk. At the seventh chime, Lucius is regarding the closed door to his office with distinct displeasure. Three warning pings herald the door recessing in time with the eighth chime and the abrupt appearance of a black-clad apparition.

  Lucius’ normally immaculate apprentice is dirty and disheveled. Her jacket is slung carelessly across her satchel and her sleeveless black silk blouse is sweat-damp and half out of a skirt that is askew. Dirt and blood mar her knees. Sweat mats her dark hair. A long strand has pulled free of the severe bindings to drag along one cheek, obscuring the fine bone structure but not the lips parted as Lilian gasps for wind. Most shocking of all, instead of distress, the wide gray eyes hold a spark of triumph.

  Rising in his astonishment, Lucius demands, “What means this?”

  At the sharp command, Lilian is suddenly aware of her disheveled state, her sweat-slick skin, abraded palms, and scraped knees. Her attire violates stricture, and she is filthy. Nervously pushing the errant lock of hair behind one ear, Lilian watches the frowning man approach her.

  Lucius Mercio is a tall, virile man in his late forties, his powerful frame a testament to the regular use of the Serengeti training chambers. His compelling, olive-hued, aquiline features are set in their customary harsh, intimidating lines. His black eyes blaze with emotion that Lilian fears is about to become true anger.

  “What has occurred?” milord demands.

  Lilian blinks at the concern in milord’s voice before realization dawns. Milord believes her assaulted. It would not be the first time. As milord closes with her, Lilian tips her head back to meet the commanding gaze. Above-average height for a woman, Lilian’s head barely grazes milord’s chin, even in her heels. “The public transport experienced a collision, and I was caught by an elbow.”

  “A transport collision?” Milord’s eyes narrow and sweep Lilian with a dark glance. “How severely were you injured?”

  “Mildly, milord, naught of note,” Lilian hastily claims, knowing how readily milord will send her to the Master Medic. “I was able to keep my feet.”

  Milord’s frown deepens as he collects one of Lilian’s hands and turns it palm up to reveal the abrasions. “And this?”

  Acutely aware of her disgraceful appearance and beginning to question the wisdom of her actions, Lilian insists, “It is naught, milord. I tumbled while racing to the Cartel.”

  Milord’s dark eyes become hooded. “You did not wait for another transport?”

  “There was insufficient time, milord,” Lilian explains. “I dared not.”

  “How far did you race?�
� milord pursues.

  “It was but six blocks,” Lilian replies, uneasy at both milord’s line of inquiry and the hint of silk that is entering the clipped tones.

  Milord’s eyes narrow with suspicion as he slowly peruses her length. Tugging Lilian’s blouse completely free of her skirt, Lucius challenges, “A six block race resulted in this degree of disarray? Why do I find that difficult to believe?”

  Milord’s fingers work Lilian’s blouse fasteners, the stern line of milord’s mouth indicative of growing impatience.

  Honor is my blade and shield. Milord is not mistaken. Even with the collision and the race, unless she were injured, Lilian should have arrived at the scarlet door well in time for eighth bell and far less disheveled. Milord has caught her in a prevarication. It is not a lie, but close enough that milord’s increasing anger is justified. “I beg milord’s pardon. I could not employ the risers.”

  “The risers are disabled?” Milord’s voice drips icy skepticism as one hand grasps her warrior’s queue while the other tosses her soiled blouse in the direction of the scarlet sofa.

  “No, milord. I voiced ill, milord.” Lilian disavows such an unlikely event. “It was Master Martin.”

  “Martin!” Milord’s eyes glitter, his fierce grip on her hair easing infinitesimally. Milord is well aware that Master Martin extends himself to torment Lilian. During the rainy season, Martin used a training chamber challenge to beat Lilian unconscious and crack two of her ribs. Incredulous, milord questions, “Martin entered the Blooded Dagger risers? Knowing that you were within?”

  “I do not believe Master Martin knew I was within when he entered,” Lilian offers with careful precision, unsurprised by milord’s disbelief. For Monsignor Sebastian’s protégé to violate custom and use the Blooded Dagger risers borders on scandalous. To do so knowing Lilian was present could be considered a challenge to Blooded Dagger status, since Martin’s normal behavior is to make a great show of shunning Lilian’s tainted presence.

  “Continue.” Milord’s free hand slides into her skirt, seeking the fastener.