The Cartel Read online

  Following her slate trail, Lilian discovers a black enameled double door. The Blooded Dagger Cartouche, two hands high and worked in poured gold, ornaments the lintel of Monsignor Lucius’ commerce chambers. At the request of Lilian’s slate, the doors recess, permitting entry.

  The gray carpet yields to gleaming dark wood floors covered with elaborately woven rugs. The utilitarian fixtures of commerce yield to glass and crystal structures offering a warm bright light. Mistress Marieth, executive servitor to His Preeminence, Lucius Mercio sits enthroned in a worksite of carved cherry, gleaming in the midday light. The woman matches the polished splendor of the worksite with her elegantly bound silver hair, patrician features, stylish garb and refined manner.

  “Mistress Marieth, I am Lilian. Monsignor Lucius requires my attendance.” The formal words are clear and emotionless. As readily voiced as if I were presenting a record strip, Lilian mentally congratulates herself.

  “Welcome to Blooded Dagger Cartouche, Mistress Lilian. You may wait over there until the midday chimes and then enter through the scarlet door.” With a brief and graceful wave, Mistress Marieth indicates the comfortably upholstered waiting area and the scarlet enameled door.

  Courtesy. Nothing about being a doxy requires that Lilian behave in an ill-bred fashion.

  “My thanks, Mistress Marieth,” Lilian responds, careful to offer the executive servitor the third person address due a senior in rank. Excessive courtesy is never ill-advised.

  Do not dwell on it. Do not dwell on it. Do not dwell on the fact that within the next period she will yield her body to a man she has not met. A man with an intimidating reputation.

  At the impossibly young age of thirty-eight, upon the untimely death of his father, Lucius Mercio succeeded to the Preeminence of the Blooded Dagger Cartouche and Serengeti Group. No one expected him to hold the Cartel.

  Severe economic crisis throughout the Twelve Systems battered the Cartel’s standing. Piracy and mayhem along the major supply routes further undermined Cartouche and Cartel. Competitors and would be competitors moved against any vulnerable aspect of operations. It was predicted that Cartel Preeminence would fall to the wily and experienced Monsignor Sebastian Mehta of the Grey Spear Cartouche.

  In the end, Lucius Mercio proved difficult to defeat. In his first two years as Preeminence, through a series of bold and unprecedented actions, he succeeded in stabilizing the positions of Cartouche and Cartel. In the six years since, he has lead both Cartouche and Cartel to heretofore unreached heights of success.

  The Serengeti group is ranked fourth of the five dominant cartels. Seasonal and political market fluctuations have begun to place it in contention for third position. It is the first measurable shift in the relative rank of the ten largest cartels in over a century.

  Lucius Mercio’s stunning success and ability to outmaneuver opponents is so profound that the envious and superstitious speculate that his ‘Luck of the First Warrior’ derives from supernatural means. It is rumored that Lucius Mercio has sold his soul to the Shade of the First Warrior, Socraide Omsted. It is to this man that Lilian’s three year indentured-servitude contract has been sold.

  I am the sum of my ancestors. The midday chimes.

  I am the foundation of my family. Stand Up.

  Honor is my blade and shield. Walk through the door. Remember to breathe.

  The expansive chamber has two glazed walls meeting in a corner to offer a spectacular view of the Garden Center and city skyline. The glossy wood floors are ornamented with luxuriously woven silk rugs. As Lilian steps into the chamber, there is the quiet swish of the door sealing behind her.

  The chamber appears empty. Lilian has an overall impression of luxury as she scans the space for its occupant, her mid-section tight with anxiety. Lilian registers a massive black enamel desk with an impressive techno array and a large scarlet leather chair.

  Her gaze finds the long scarlet leather couch facing a wall-sized reviewer and the remainder of the sumptuous furnishings fade into the ether. Honor knows not fear. Honor endures. Honor…

  A hitherto hidden door recesses and a man walks through. His arresting, aquiline features have a dark olive cast. They sit on a tall, powerful form which moves with the confident grace of someone well familiar with the training facilities. Lucius Mercio is a tall man. Somehow Lilian had not realized he would be so tall.

  With her low heels, she might graze his chin. Without shoes she will barely reach his shoulders. Dark, deep-set eyes under heavy lids travel slowly over Lilian, measuring and assessing.

  His tunic shirt clings to a well-defined torso, jacket missing. The Cartouche Preeminence signet dangles from his belt. Worked in platinum and rubies, the elongated oval is the length of Lilian’s thumb. Honor acts as duty commands.

  “You are Lilian.” The statement is made in cool, clipped tones as the long frame folds into a chair by the chrome and crystal conference table. He leans back with elbows resting on the chair arms, the long fingers steepled. Legs spread.

  “Yes, milord,” The ancient courtesy comes to Lilian’s lips more easily than she expected

  There is silence as His Preeminence examines her from beneath hooded lids. The strong features are impassive, intimidating.

  It is too disturbing to look at his face. Look over his head at the Five Warriors print on the far wall.

  Lucius examines his apprentice seeking and finding changes. The tightly contained woman before him stands ramrod stiff and stares straight ahead. The strain of the past six sevendays is apparent in the tightness of her countenance and the shadows under her eyes. Her features are more cleanly defined. Her athletic form is willowy. Lilian has dropped weight, at least half a stone.

  Gone is the fleeting, quiet smile from the visuals. Also gone are the soft waves of hair, replaced by the severely bound tail of her warrior queue. The tailored black suit is of indifferent quality. The small, gold ear posts present the same austerity as all else about her. Long, elegantly muscled legs are revealed by her suit skirt.

  Forcing aside his fascination with Lilian’s legs, Lucius slowly evaluates the young woman, confirming his design.

  Lilian has lost her cartouche, her father, her honor and her status as a warrior. She is all but destitute. Lilian is not guilty of Remus Gariten’s crimes, only of carrying the foul criminal’s blood. It is an offense she can redeem with a three year trial by ordeal. She will not regain what she has lost. Lilian will never again be a warrior. She will retain her life and the right of every inhabitant of the Twelve Systems to forge advancement in commerce through skill, determination, hard work and ruthlessness.

  This is not the arrangement Lucius initially anticipated, it will serve. Lucius has what he wants, and that is what matters.

  “I will expect you at the eighth bell each morning to report status and receive instruction.” Terse, quiet tones express milord’s will, the expectation of complete obedience.

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian acknowledges.

  “You will discuss your work only with me, Master Nickolas, and the Associate Master. Only those assignments received from the Associate Master are to be discussed with the Associate Master.”

  Master Nickolas? Protégé. Monsignor’s protégé. “Yes, milord.”

  “All that occurs in this chamber is sealed to my security-privilege.” Lucius Mercio will have naught of his affairs revealed without his expressed consent.

  “Yes, milord.” He has yet to touch her. In Lilian’s peripheral vision, the scarlet couch looms large.

  “All that remains of your family are your mother and sister living here in the city.” It is a statement, although a question is implied.

  The abrupt change in topic unbalances Lilian. It causes her to catch her breath and drop her eyes to her interrogator’s face. Her concern with the couch dissipates under the weight of greater concern.

  “Yes, milord.” Did he notice the brief delay in her response? Focus on the Five Warriors.

  “In your sister’s house.
How did you manage to retain it?” Mild curiosity underlies the clipped tones.

  Respond to the question. Do not volunteer. Breathe. “The house is of my mother’s family. While the trust was administered by the Grey Gyre Cartouche, it was never part of the property. The benefit of the trust passed to my sister on her tenth birth anniversary. The property was the required two degrees removed from taint and was not forfeited with the Grey Gyre holdings.”

  “Have you doubt of your father’s guilt? Hold you any fanciful notion of cleansing the Gariten name and regaining warrior status?” The words are harsh.

  Stunned by the question, and its implications, Lilian drops her gaze to milord wondering if she has handed herself over to the deranged. What a ludicrous notion. No, do not voice that.

  Milord’s gaze is unwavering, commanding. He requires something, what? An acknowledgement.

  “No milord. Remus Gariten was guilty of every transgression of which he was convicted.” And a great deal more.

  “Come here, Lilian.” At the quiet command, Lilian’s heart lurches.

  Here, where here? Walk toward the seated man. Where to stop?

  In the end Lilian is unable to force a step past the invisible plane defined by the edge of milord’s knees. Shifting, milord reaches out with one hand to grip her waist and tug her closer until her knees press against the edge of the chair, his legs on either side of her thighs.

  He will instruct you.

  Milord leans in. The hand not holding Lilian moves languidly to trace her left hip, her waist. One long finger slides in between the waistband of her skirt and the silk of her blouse, tracing a pattern across her suddenly tautened mid-section.

  “Lilian, Dean Joseph attested that you have known two men.” The tone is casual, expressing mild interest.

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian acknowledges, at a loss as to the purpose of the inquiry.

  “Both men were of appropriate lineage?” Milord is not looking at her face. He is involved with his physical explorations.

  Keep your wits, ignore that finger. Respond to the question.

  “Yes milord,” Lilian responds, bewildered by the inquiry. Her lineage is tainted. What matters the lineage of her former lovers? Do not. Do not.

  “How long did these entanglements endure?” Milord’s gaze lifts, pinning her.

  “This first, eight months, milord. The second, four.” Milord must know this. Dean Joseph would have yielded all.

  Lucius considers Lilian’s responses. Her stoic countenance reveals little. Her tension at his touch reveals a great deal. Lucius rises and tightens his hand on Lilian’s waist. He pulls her close, forcing Lilian to arch backwards to meet his gaze. The gray eyes are wide with trepidation, her lips slightly parted. She trembles in his embrace. A brief trial is in order.

  As milord rises, Lilian locks her knees. This was inevitable.

  “So, until now, you have only been touched with love?” Milord inquires softly.

  “Yes, milord.” The leisurely back and forth of that single digit along her abdomen causes tiny muscle tremors up and down her torso while Lilian’s eyes fixate on the sensual lips moving toward her.

  And his mouth is on hers. Carnal. Lips slant across hers. Demanding.

  Open your mouth, lack wit.

  Milord’s tongue sweeps in; challenging, taking. Large, strong hands mold her against his length. Her breasts are pressed against milord’s chest, her thighs to his. As her senses swim, Lilian feels a stirring in the bulge at milord’s groin.

  The kiss ends as suddenly as it began. Those strong hands stand her up and set her on her feet.

  Set her on her feet?

  “Who may touch you?” One large hand cups the back of Lilian’s head as milord compels her to meet his forceful gaze.

  Bemused by her intense response to milord’s embrace, mind struggling, Lilian ponders, what was the question? Involuntarily, she blinks rapidly to counter the dark, penetrating eyes.

  “Only milord,” Lilian recites, her wits finally reordering. As milord’s apprentice, carnal knowledge of her belongs to him and him alone.

  “You will attend me this evening at the seventh bell. Mistress Marieth will instruct you on arrangements for transport.” The disconcerting scrutiny lightens. Milord’s mind is moving on to other matters.

  “Yes, milord.” The hand cupping her head travels down the warrior queue, testing its weight.

  “Lilian, wear your hair unbound.” The mildly distracted tone does not mislead, Lilian. It is a command.

  “Yes, milord,” at Lilian’s words, milord releases her hair.

  “You may leave me.”

  Upon exiting the scarlet door Lilian’s gaze quickly assesses the waiting area. No one notes her presence or the brevity of her interview with milord. Lilian cannot quite believe she is not intimately engaged on the scarlet couch. Licking lips swollen by milord’s kiss, Lilian wonders at his intent. Monsignor Lucius is as unpredictable as he is intimidating.

  Quietly approaching Mistress Marieth’s splendid station, Lilian coughs lightly to catch the older woman’s attention.

  Mistress Marieth’s brief surprise is quickly covered with exquisite courtesy, “How may I assist you Mistress Lilian?”

  “Monsignor requires that I attend monsignor this evening at the seventh bell." Lilian is well pleased with her delivery. It is polite, unemotional, and correctly refers to her bond holder. Lilian owes Chrys a boon.

  “Of course, I have your transport and access tokens here. Attend while I demonstrate,” the elegant servitor replies.

  Chapter 2: The Penthouse

  The Apprentice Protocol

  1. The bonded will submit to and execute the bondholder’s will in all matters.

  2. The bonded will address the bondholder with deference and submission.

  3. The bonded will defend the bondholder’s estate, life and honor by any method necessary unto the death of the bonded.

  4. The bonded will permit only the bondholder carnal access to the bonded.

  5. The bonded will engage in any and all carnal activities the bondholder requires.

  6. The bonded will not presume to know the bondholder’s will.

  7. The bonded will adhere to the letter and the spirit of the governing protocols.

  8. The bonded will not bear arms in the presence of the bondholder.

  9. The bonded will not speak unless addressed.

  10. The bonded will answer truly to any inquiry.

  11. The bonded will flank the bondholder at all times.

  12. The bonded will defer to and honor all of greater rank.

  Sevenday 1, Day 1

  Following the path defined by her slate, Lilian passes the entrance to milord’s commerce suite. The enameled doors and gold cartouche draw Lilian’s eyes and fire recall of milord’s kiss. For the two bells since, Lilian has buried herself in training interrogatives to avoid thinking about her unsettling interview with Lucius Mercio and his equally unsettling kiss. Milord! He is milord. Pushing aside the urge to dwell on milord and milord’s kiss, Lilian mentally reviews her notes on milord’s protégé.

  Within the ranks of the Cartel Associates, protégés are second only to the Master Associates. Monsignor Lucius’ protégé outranks all the others. Highly ranked simply by his position as protégé, Master Nickolas Cyncad also bears the red and gold seal of conservatorship.

  Only the most trusted of blood and commerce kin are honored with conservatorship. Under the protocols, conservators are milord’s vessels. In the administration of the entrusted property, the conservator’s will is treated as milord’s. Misused, conservatorship ruins estates. As Conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery Nickolas is high in milord’s favor. Even a minor Vistrite holding is of immense value.

  Lilian has a great deal to learn. Much of it will be from Master Nickolas. After milord, and Master Straus, the protégé will have the greatest impact on her advancement and success.

  Master Nickolas’ office is a luxurious contrast t
o the Spartan apprentice worksites. A fraction of the size of Monsignor Lucius’ domain, it boasts a window and a small conference table in addition to the expansive black enamel desk and impressive techno center. Unlike the offices of the seigneurs, the offices of the unranked are designed with a glazed wall fronting the corridor. None but the ranked are permitted complete privacy.

  Taking her place at attention in front of the desk and the man seated behind it, Lilian awaits instruction.

  “Do you recall me, Mistress Lilian?” The question holds polite curiosity.

  Blinking, Lilian looks into the handsome, almost pretty face. Ornamented with green eyes, and framed with burnished copper locks held back in a loose queue, Master Nickolas is enough to turn heads. Certain she would recall prior acquaintance Lilian begins to shake her head in negation. A quirk of his lips triggers an old memory.

  Warm, dappled sunshine filters through heavy summer foliage. There is the tangy scent of the sea on a light breeze, the sound of laughter. Three children of around ten-years stalk lizards along a creek bank. The intrepid hunters carry crudely devised snares.

  An older boy, a youth, strolls around the bend, his day’s catch in a satchel, his pole resting on his shoulder. One of the hunters looks up, calls ‘Nickolas’ and races towards the youth. He is followed by a girl and a boy. Nickolas is their hero and the first boy’s brother.

  “We are hunting Nickolas, we are catching salamanders,” the first boy cries out.

  “And how many have you caught?” The lad smiles indulgently as he tousles his brother’s hair.

  “I have got one. Ezra has three. Lilian does not have any,” the boy discloses. His disgrace at losing to Ezra is eased by his triumph over Lilian.

  Shamed in front of their hero, little Lilian scuffs a bare toe in the ground and looks down.

  “Why is that, Miss Lilian?” a gentle finger lifts her chin as the youth crouches before her.