FLETCHER

Of the Thirteen Systems' fifty-three billion inhabitants, only two percent are warriors. Approximately one in a hundred wields a signet, the mark of a warrior and societal leader. The warrior gold signet is hereditary, passed from the holder to the heir of their choice. This choice is not limited to direct offspring, as the heir designation is at the complete discretion of the holder and does not require genetic ties. The holder often designates an adult heir until minor children reach adulthood and can be assessed for their abilities, highlighting the flexibility of the inheritance system.

The preeminence of a cartouche controls a platinum signet and can authorize the license for any warrior deemed worthy who also commands the wealth for a license. Only one percent of all signets are platinum. All offspring of a preeminence are awarded a gold warrior signet upon reaching twenty-four years of age. As with the gold signet, the platinum signet is hereditary, the heir designation at the discretion of the preeminence ~ excerpt from A Social History of the Thirteen Systems, an instructional text

Stepping from the hired transport, Fletcher straightened his tunic cuffs. The Explorer’s Delight, a warehouse turned indulgence, glowed green and gold from the lights dancing across the exterior. A steady stream of customers flowed in and out of the three entrances. It was an open secret that Crevasse City’s most exciting nightspot was owned by a black-commerce raider, adding to its cachet.

Striding forward, he reveled in his lack of limp. It had been two months since his return to Crevasse City and extensive rehabilitation, but he was finally pain-free. It had only been a two sevendays since he returned to a regular martial-arts training schedule.

This was the first time he had visited an indulgence without needing a cane to balance and offset the clumsiness from both pain and the inequity in strength between his natural and alloy legs. Fletcher was wearing none of the emblems of his warrior rank, hoping that unlike in the indulgences exclusive to the warrior elite, he would pass unnoticed in Explorer’s Delight. He was beyond weary of those who wished a vicarious connection to the Battle for the Thirteenth System through contact with a ‘hero flyer.’

Assaulted by a barrage of sound and light, he examined the sectioned interior. In the center, a hollow pillar of golden light brightened to scarlet, shifted to purple and then blue, green, and back to gold. Inside the circle of light, Fletcher could make out crowded tables and bustling waitstaff. It was an obvious attempt to mimic the pillar of water at the café in the Bright Star pavilion on Fortuna.

The exploitation of the Thirteenth System’s exploration did not stop at the pillar of light. Moving deeper into the interior, Fletcher passed a chamber where couples were gyrating to dissonant music among holographs of the Thirteenth System’s planets. Another chamber was filled with holograph stations where patrons could pretend to participate in the Battle for the Thirteenth System.

Snorting his disgust, he turned away. Maybe this was not the best choice for his evening. Not for the first time, he regretted that Nickolas Cyncad was yet on the Nightingale in the Thirteenth System. Many of the friends he had while protégé had moved from Crevasse City to other opportunities. Those who remained were either overly sympathetic or awkward in their discomfort at his state.

Discovering a chamber that claimed authentic Fortuna cuisine, he decided that a glass of potent crimson liquor might ease his mood. The rectangular bar was sparsely populated. He selected a seat at an empty corner, pleased it was well upholstered and far more comfortable than a standard barstool.

As he accepted his drink, two winsome ladies took the places adjacent to him. The leggy brunette was attired in the latest Crevasse City fashion. Her more voluptuous friend was probably blonde beneath vibrant blue curls tipped in silver in a style popular on Fortuna.

The brunette gestured at his drink. “Is that any good?”

As an opening gambit in flirtation, it was obvious, but her smile was genuine.

“It is authentic. True crimson liquor from Fortuna, not tinted wine.” He took another sip. “It has the kick of a single malt, but it is sweet with a hint of spice.”

As he had hoped, she did not recognize him. The Explorer’s Delight might turn out to have been a good choice, after all.

Loosely tying her silk robe, Clarice made her way from the bedchamber to the salon. Monsignor Hercules’ penthouse in the Grey Spear Tower had a stunning view of the garden center from almost every window. Over the past year she had spent many nights in the opulent chambers, entertaining and being entertained by the Grey Spear preeminence.

The salon was bright from the two moons hanging in the north section of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bright enough that Hercules had not bothered with lights. As she expected, he was sprawled on the sofa with a snifter cupped in his hands. Average in height, he was a fit man in his early sixties, with a sallow complexion, prominent black eyes, and a small, almost nonexistent chin. He was not a handsome man, but she learned long ago that a fair nature was far more valuable than a fair face. When she first knew him, Hercules was the Grey Spear logistics seigneur, a respected but not influential seigneur far outside the favor of the then Grey Spear preeminence, Sebastian Mehta.

Repressing a shudder at the memory of Sebastian and his sadistic lusts, she crossed to the respite console for a small glass of citrus liqueur. Even as a cartel apprentice, Hercules was pleasant and undemanding in passion. When Seigneur Herman claimed her apprentice contract, her contact with Hercules ended. By the time she completed her apprentice contract and was elevated to Herman’s protégé, Hercules had become the Grey Spear preeminence. Her physical relationship with Herman ended with her apprenticeship, leaving her at liberty to enter a liaison with anyone of her choosing. Flattered by Hercules’ attention, Clarice was delighted to discover that he had a fine grasp of legalistics and an inspired understanding of governing council politics.

In the past two months, their evenings had become less frequent, and she had begun to suspect their liaison had run its course. It was inevitable, and she was surprised at the slight wistfulness the notion engendered. She had become used to Hercules’ company, and, being honest with herself, the cachet of their alliance. His enthusiasm this evening suggested she might be mistaken about his waning interest. Joining him on the sofa, she lifted her glass to the moons. “Moon race fever will be starting soon.”

He returned the gesture. “It will not be the same without a Serengeti contender. Even without his injury, I doubt Fletcher would have the bells to train. Kemeha suffers the same shortage of staff as the rest of us. With Fletcher’s training in Nightingale systems, he is likely to be returning to the Fourth System.”

It made sense and Clarice was surprised to feel a small pang of disappointment. She had grown used to seeing Fletcher in the cartel. “It is probably well. I think it might have grieved him to be here during moon race season.”

The entire cartel was short-staffed due to the emergence of mercium at the same time Bright Star was initiated. Significant resources were further diverted to deal with the despoiler threat. Even after the victory in the Thirteenth System, considerable resources were diverted to dealing with the surviving despoilers. And there was the ongoing need to replace the stellar craft destroyed in the battle.

The pressure was such that when Hercules took a protégé in the past year, he broke with the tradition of engaging someone from the warrior class and contracted a member of the second-level elite. A woman with only eighty percent of the genetic markers required for warrior status. Of course, with five apprentices elevated to protégé in the past two years, a second-level elite protégé had not caused even a ripple of comment.

Hercules turned to face her, his expression tentative. “My new protégé has worked out better than expected. Come the new year, she will be able to assist in the instruction of an apprentice.”

Training an apprentice was time-consuming, and it was common practice for a seigneur to have his protégé supervise some or all of the apprentice’s assignments. Recruiting apprentices from the most brilliant among the poorest of commoners kept the cartel’s genetic pool strong and was considered an act of honor. It was also a matter of prestige.

Monsignor Hercules was gently informing Clarice that their liaison was at an end. His physical passions would soon be focused on his new apprentice. “Monsignor is no doubt wise.”

His gaze flickered. “Of course, bringing on an apprentice is less challenging than it was before you and your Thornscore fellows began tending to them.”

What says he? Had Monsignor Lucius informed his fellow governors of their activities? Under Lilian’s leadership, her cadre of apprentice allies protected each other from the taunting and exploitation that was common to apprentices. Monsignor Lucius had given his tacit approval by not forbidding Lilian’s actions. By the time their apprenticeships finished, the practice of senior apprentices helping the new ones had become institutionalized. It was all but impossible that Grey Spear Monsignor Hercules and Iron Hammer Monsignor Elenora were unaware, but until this evening nothing had ever been said.

At her expression, Hercules chuckled. “Sebastian had no notion what you were about, but I suspected early on.” He reached for her hand. “You were remarkable as an apprentice. Attacking those drunk warrior scions when they went for Lilian and her sister. You could have been killed, but you did not hesitate.”

“Monsignor knows that I have good cause for my loyalty to Lilian.”

He shook his head. “It was more than loyalty. I wish you felt for me even a small degree of the affection you hold for your Thornscore friends.”

Shocked, she whispered. “Monsignor knows I hold you in the highest regard.”

Lifting her fingers to his lips, he sighed. “You are beyond lovely, and I am honored by your regard.”

For the first time in months, Fletcher did not feel as if he was on display. After a period, another drink, and some Fortuna-style small bites, the blue-haired friend had disappeared. There was no discussion of battle, heroics, or sacrifices. In her mid-twenties, she seemed eons younger than his thirty-three, her uninhibited enthusiasm even more attractive than her face and form. He would not mind spending more time with her.

The bartender gave their empty glasses and plates a glance. “Another round?”

His lovely companion shook her head, offering a hesitant smile. “I am enjoying our conversation, but I am weary of this indulgence.”

“Are you at liberty on the morrow? Perhaps a midday meal? Or an entertainment if you prefer.”

Her smile broadened in delight. “That would be wondrous, but I hate our evening to end. My quarters are not far. If you would care for a nightcap?”

Her invitation was unmistakable, and Fletcher’s shaft stirred at the thought. Although he preferred a slower seduction and his liaisons to last beyond a single interlude, he had not experienced true desire in months. “I would be honored.”

As he handed over his credit token, she slipped from her seat. “I must find my friend and let her know we are leaving. Meet me by the light pillar?”

The bartender was efficient and, within moments Fletcher had his token returned and was strolling through the indulgence, anticipation hastening his step. The crowds had increased as the night progressed, and without warrior insignia to instill deference, Fletcher had to wind his way through the boisterous patrons.

Catching a glimpse of vibrant blue curls, he navigated around a trio drunkenly debating the merits of an entertainment.

“—him, Fletcher Detrenti.” The brunette’s voice was an excited whisper. “I cannot believe he was sitting in the bar like no one important.”

“Fearsome—half metal,” the blue-haired girl hissed.

“He is a hero. And being half machine?” Her voice lowered. “Exciting.”

Muttering an apology, Fletcher pushed through a knot of people and headed for the exit.

Fletcher pulled on his training boots and rose. Settling his trousers in place, he glanced at his reflection in the mirrored wall. In the eight days since his ill-fated expedition to the Explorer’s Delight, he had not once had to use his cane. He had yet to regain his full weight, but his muscles were finally returning to the definition he enjoyed before his injury.

Squaring his shoulders, he secured his locker. Contemplating his limbs would not improve his ability to use them and his prosthetics. Weaving through the crowded Serengeti training chambers, Fletcher located an unoccupied practice square. The next square was occupied by Clarice. Devoted to Mulan, the golden skin of her unmarked shoulders indicated her commoner status.

Her movements turned Clarice in his direction, her head dipping in a shallow nod of acknowledgment. As a master associate he outranked the protégé, but her deference also held recognition of their years of acquaintance. As an apprentice, she twice fought battles to protect cartouche and cartel, justifying her elevation and earning Fletcher’s respect.

Ignoring the stares and murmurs rising around him, he took up his stance. Once, those stares would have been admiring. Now, they were a combination of pity and prurient curiosity for the man who was only half a warrior, the other half machine.

The still flame is power contained. Dropping into Mulan’s meditation, he shut out his surroundings, centered his balance, and raised his arms in the first movement of Mulan’s discipline. Although they appeared identical, the muscles in the left arm were denser and stronger, a side effect of genetic enhancements created to bond the muscle to the artificial tendons. Between the strength of his alloy bones and the enhanced muscles and sinews, his left arm could lift twice the weight of his right. More of the alloy had been fused to his shoulders and spine to support the additional stress.

The forge flame strengthens and shapes. One movement flowed into the next, each defensive stance a foundation for an attack movement. Many would covet prosthetics that were indistinguishable from his natural limbs and almost identical in terms of sensitivity and responsiveness. But those were not galaxy-renowned moon racers forced into retirement because the neural transmitters that controlled his prosthetics were a few nanoseconds slower than his right side. Although he could qualify for the preliminary events, the possibility of advancing to the finals was all but nonexistent. The revolutionary design was so new, that Serengeti militia would not clear him to pilot a Nightingale flyer in the exploration and mapping of the Thirteenth System.

Mulan’s flame! His feet flew past the border of his training square, momentum hurtling him at Clarice. Shocked black eyes met his; her lush lips parted in surprise. Twisting, he hit the mat hard, his right foot catching her and knocking her down. Horrified, his heart pounding, he scrambled across the mat, seeking the tumbled woman. “Clarice?”

Rolling toward him, she found her knees. Almond-shaped eyes wide, she blinked at him. “That was unexpected.”

“Misjudged a handspring.” Pushing to his feet, Fletcher reached for her. “Did I injure you?”

Taking his hand, she rose to her feet, the grace of her movements easing his fear. Her free hand rubbed her hip. “A bruise. Is it naught that the master medic’s potions cannot correct.” Her expression turned to concern, her gaze running over him. “Are you well?”

He had at least eight inches and three stone on the delicate woman. There was no cause for her pity. “My apologies.”

Clarice’s expression flattened into polite neutrality. “None required. It was naught.”

Regretting his harsh tone, Fletcher sought words that might mitigate his rudeness. Acutely aware of the murmurs and stares of those around him, he jerked a nod and returned to his square.

Ignoring the mild throb from her bruised hip, Clarice tumbled through the final sequence of Mulan’s discipline. Her rapid breathing and sweat-slicked skin were evidence of a successful session. To reach the point of muscle failure, she would need another bell or a sparring partner. Taking up her towel, she marveled at her ability to match warrior skill and endurance. Five years ago, the notion would have been as ludicrous as that idea of becoming protégé to Serengeti’s legalistics seigneur.

When she entered Serengeti as a cartel apprentice, she was the lowest of associates. Junior to all—even the other apprentices—and vulnerable to exploitation and abuse. Her unjustified caning brought her to Lilian Thornraven’s attention, and with it, an invitation into the storm surrounding the fallen warrior. A storm that exposed Clarice to unimaginable danger and even more unimaginable opportunities.

To survive, she honed both her combat and legalistics skills. The combat skills kept her alive through two desperate battles. Her legalistics abilities propelled her to Serengeti protégé and legalistics principal for Thornscore, the commerce enterprise founded by Lilian and her friends.

In the next square, a wicked swishing drew her attention to the training saber wielded by Fletcher Detrenti. With his left hand, he twirled a dagger so fast it blurred. His fierce expression showed no hint of the engaging grin that used to appear when he trained.

Lean, with whipcord muscles and extraordinary reflexes, Fletcher’s skill with a blade rivaled his skill as flyer. A well-regarded protégé when Clarice was an apprentice, he was both a warrior and Iron Hammer engineer. Before the battle for the Thirteenth System, his charisma and charm made him a darling of the moon races. In the months since his return, she could not recall him smiling, let alone flashing the grin that turned heads throughout the Third System.

Catching his gaze, she smiled, letting him know she held no ill will about the accident. For truth, had he been less skilled, he could not have twisted at the last moment to avert serious injury.

With a brusque nod, he turned his back.

Mentally shrugging, Clarice picked up her water vial and yielded her square to a waiting associate. Fletcher had always been gracious, even when she was an apprentice. When she was elevated to protégé, his congratulations were sincere, and he never failed to offer her the courtesy due to her new rank. Now, though, his curt manner was no different with her than with others, and not surprising, considering what he had suffered. It made no sense that she mourned the loss of his carefree manner. That they were both Iron Hammer Cartouche made them close commerce allies, but naught more.

The smallest and least powerful of the three Serengeti cartouches, Iron Hammer’s section of Serengeti Headquarters claimed the eleventh through fifteenth stories of the thirty-five-story tower that encompassed a city block. The Iron Hammer preeminence’s suite on the fifteenth level, did not have the panoramic city view commanded by Monsignor Lucius’ on the thirty-fifth, but Fletcher had always enjoyed the view of the garden center with its lush foliage, groomed pathways, and impressive shrine circle.

In the early days of the green season, the parkland was lacy with pale green and blue buds that would soon explode into vibrant blossoms. He fingered the small phoenix ornament hanging from his belt. His optimism had been unrealistic. He was unlikely to ever fly again. At least not in a meaningful manner. He had the wealth to hire or buy a flyer for entertainment purposes, but the moon races were closed to him, as was the exploration and mapping of the Thirteenth System.

Releasing the gem, he once again considered discarding it. Or at least burying it in a drawer, but it seemed impolitic. Within the cartel it was better to maintain the pretense he was not half a warrior.

Seigner Kemeha’s voice shattered his morose thoughts, “What in this beautiful day has brought you to glower at Mulan’s shrine?”

A brilliant engineer, Kemeha had oversight of the Nightingale’s design and construction. He had also trained Fletcher in the workings of the cartel, advanced Fletcher to first lieutenant on the Nightingale, and been unwavering in ensuring that Fletcher’s prosthetics were the best available in the Thirteen Systems. The anger Fletcher had felt when denied a return to the Nightingale had dissipated over the months as it became clear that even with Kemeha’s support, Fletcher would not be given a Nightingale flyer.

Forcing a smile, Fletcher shook his head. “A stray thought about a training chamber failing. Naught of note.”

Clapping Fletcher’s back, Kemeha ushered them into his office. “It is good you are back to your training schedule. It was Master Medic Chin’s last hurdle before allowing you to exit planet.”

Excitement fizzed. “Exit planet? Where am I going?”

His smile turning to a broad grin, Kemeha said, “Fortuna and then the Thirteenth System. You will be testing the new navigational pairing devices in stellar transit.”

The newly discovered Thirteenth System could only be reached by following the signals of passage markers set by the Nightingale. The markers had a fraction of the beacon-network’s capacity and no redundancies. They were not much more than a string of candles providing a pathway in the dark.

Based on the devices hurriedly crafted for the armada’s rescue of the Thirteenth System, the new prototypes could be installed in third-party stellar craft with safeguards that would allow Bright Star to control the transit time from the Fourth to Thirteenth System. The devices also blocked the third-party navigation systems from discovering the markers’ locations and signals. Controlled by Bright Star, they could be disabled upon return to Fortuna.

Hope surged. “Are we installing the devices in flyers?”

Kemeha’s expression sobered. “There is no purpose in that. These devices are for third-party stellar transports carrying settlers and supplies. The tests will use Bright Star craft that can return with samples from the survey teams.”

Swallowing disappointment, Fletcher nodded. “The competition for mining and extraction rights will escalate if actual samples are available.”

“Precisely. And, since you were part of the original survey team, who better to determine the best source for samples?”

It was not all Fletcher would wish, but returning to the Thirteenth System and exploring the untouched planets was more than he dared imagine the day gone. “My thanks, Seigneur. What are my immediate tasks?”

Fletcher slid onto the barstool opposite Rigel. Seigneur Marco’s protégé was a handsome young man in his late twenties, the Mercio dark eyes vivid in his pale complexion. Average height, and slender, he had a whippet-like grace that he used to advantage when wielding a blade in the training chambers. They had met a few times on Fortuna in the hectic days before the Nightingale’s flight. Fletcher had found the scion of one of Blooded Dagger’s cadet branches competent in commerce and pleasant enough otherwise.

The lounge in Serengeti Headquarters’ lobby was among the most expensive and most exclusive. It was one Fletcher and Nickolas favored when they were protégés. “Your invitation mentioned Farstar. How do you know of it?”

Rigel smiled. “All enterprises formed for colonization and development of the Thirteenth System are vetted by Seigneur Marco. One with Nickolas Cyncad of Blooded Dagger needed only cursory review. That review fell to me, along with most of those proposed by Serengeti retainers.”

Of course. Fletcher and Nickolas had expected that their partnership, Farstar, would receive approval with minimal scrutiny. Between them, they had enough honor points from Bright Star service and the battle for the Thirteenth System for considerable land tracts in the premier tier. With their resources and some family investment, they had the financial capability to fund the costs of development. “What is your interest in Farstar?”

“My points for Bright Star service are limited to the third tier. I have no use for rocky or arid land, even in the Thirteenth System. Added to the Farstar points, they become first-tier.”

Fletcher picked up his drink to mask his eagerness. He had already increased Farstar’s points by ten percent by purchasing points from Serengeti members with third-tier allotments. “What is your per-point price?”

“I was thinking not so much as a sale, a buy-in. I am content as a junior. I seek not governance.”

I should not be surprised. Since Fletcher’s return to Crevasse City, he had encountered the protégé in several conferences where he demonstrated astute commerce skills. “If you had the points to join as junior principal, I would know it.”

“I can match the market value of my points with funds.”

A quick calculation had Fletcher shaking his head. “That equates to no more than five percent of Farstar’s assets. Even if we were entertaining junior principals—which we are not—twenty percent would be required.”

Rigel’s jaw tightened. “Seigneur Marco holds you in high regard, yet you turn down investment within a sevenday of the internal bids?”

Those who earned valor points from Bright Star and battle service had access to a closed internal Bright Star bid, known as the honor bidding, at the next settlement day. Commerce bidding would not occur until the new year. It was an incredible opportunity to cherry-pick sections of the two planets, and every point was valuable. More importantly, Rigel was protégé to Serengeti’s Bright Star seigneur. If Fletcher had any hope of returning to the Nightingale, he would need Seigneur Marco’s support. “But, if you can match your points with equal funding, that will make you a prestige investor. As opportunities become available, you will have first right of refusal on further investment.”

Rigel’s expression lightened. “At twenty percent, I am junior principal?”

“With Nickolas’ agreement, which I do not imagine he will withhold, and based on market value at the time.”

Rigel lifted his glass.

Fletcher returned the gesture.

Entering her quarters, Clarice set the lights low. One moon was up, and she enjoyed the light streaming through the windows. The River Quarter was not as prestigious, or expensive, as the garden center district, but the older, lower buildings allowed plenty of light into the chambers on the top floor of the four-story building.

Setting her satchel on the nightstand, she walked into her closet. Pumps went into designated slots, her jacket, skirt, top, and lingerie into the launderers’ cabinet. Rebecca had insisted that they lease quarters with concierge services. Within two days, the garments would be returned in pristine condition. The same concierge also cleaned and maintained their chambers.

Pulling on a tunic and loose trousers, she shuffled her feet into soft slippers. Leaving the closet, she collected her personal slate from the dresser and made her way to the kitchen. At the click of high heels, she looked up from plating cold poultry and grilled vegetables.

Lovely, blonde, and no taller than Clarice, although with more curves, Rebecca was Clarice’s closest friend in the cartel. Their alliance was born out of shared adversity in their first seasons as cartel apprentices. Stepping out of her heels, Rebecca, asked, “Is there more?”

Taking out another plate, she nodded. “There are some mashed roots, too.”

“What you have for yourself will suffice.” Rebecca opened the food keeper. “Wine?”

“Please. No Malcon?”

Seigneur Trevelyan’s second in command, Malcon had pursued Rebecca for seasons until she finally yielded a few sevendays before the Nightingale’s flight almost a year gone. If their liaison continued without abating for another season, Clarice might need to seek another to share the apartment.

Rebecca filled two glasses. “We were together the past three nights. I needed some time.”

It was a common need among former apprentices. After years of having every moment monitored, every thought and word filtered for potential transgressions, the freedom of solitude was almost as necessary as breath.

Following Rebecca into the salon, Clarice gestured at the double doors and terrace beyond. “The second moon is on the rise.”

With a mock shudder, Rebecca shook her head. “It is too chill.”

“I will ignite the heater.”

With a long-suffering air, Rebecca set down her plate to grab a throw. “As you wish.”

Laughing at her friend’s dramatics, Clarice arranged her plate and glass, leaving the seat closest to the heater for Rebecca. “You love this terrace as much as I do. And for the same reasons.”

Rebecca twirled her glass. “For the freedom to sit and give voice to what I will. For the funds to live in such comfort.” She turned her gaze to the treetops that hid the river several blocks distant. “For so much that there are no words.”

Neither of them imagined when they entered Serengeti that they would rise from apprentices to protégés or be partners in Thornscore with Lilian Thornraven, Adelaide’s Thorn Bearer and consort to Monsignor Lucius. Befriending Lilian when she was an outcast and despised had been a daring and dangerous choice. A choice that placed them in peril but brought them rewards beyond anything they had dared to hope for when they entered the cartel. Clarice lifted her glass to Rebecca. “Discovering a means.’’

As apprentices, the thirty-six strictures that governed their lives equated to a single instruction: whatever was asked of them, they must discover a means.

With a fierce smile Rebecca returned the gesture. “Discovering a means.”

Sipping wine, Rebecca hummed with approval. “From Monsignor Hercules?”

“The last of the case he gifted me for Mulan’s Festival.” She savored another sip. “Enjoy it. There will not be another.”

Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up. “He ended it?”

“He spoke of taking an apprentice in the new year.”

“A polite method to let you know he was seeking another for his bed.” Rebecca speared a sliver of poultry. “When was this?”

“A week gone, Sixth Day. The next Firs Day, I received an emerald-and-sapphire necklace with matching wrist cuff and ear jewels. They were sent with a polite note about enjoying my company for the past year.”

“Generous. And a definite confirmation of your parting.” Rebecca sent a curious glance her way. “You do not appear distressed.”

“It is not as if I expected it to last. For truth, I think he found it exotic to bed me of my own will when, at one time, he could command it.”

As cartel apprentices, Clarice and Rebecca had been available to any seigneur who wished their attention. It was only when Rebecca went to Trevelyan, and Clarice to Herman, that they were limited to their designated seigneurs.

Although it was never spoken, Clarice was certain Trevelyan had not touched Rebecca in the two years he held her bond. At one time a universalist, he had the sect’s abhorrence of indenture. He was among the loudest supporters when Lilian demanded as her reward for slaying the last despoiler leader, that indentured servitude be outlawed in the Thirteenth System. With indenture already prohibited in the free-trader Eleventh and Twelfth Systems, it was but a matter of time before the practice ceased.

Rebecca swallowed. “You underestimate your appeal. You are beautiful, brilliant, and protégé to Serengeti’s legalistics seigneur. Half the warriors in Crevasse City wish for your favor. I did wonder why you chose Monsignor Hercules. He has a face like a tortoise.”

After being bound to her university scholar and then Seigneur Herman, it had been heady to choose a lover. More so, to attract a warrior of such power and prestige who treated her with respect. “He is honorable as so many warriors are not. Brilliant. It was never a trial to converse.” She lifted her glass. “Generous. Undemanding in bed.”

“So, very analytical and dispassionate.” Cocking her head, Rebecca gazed at Clarice through narrowed eyes. “Have you no affection for him?”

“Respect. Admiration.” Clarice thought a moment. Was there anything else? “Appreciation. His favor cemented my position as protégé when there were those who would have held being a former apprentice against me.”

“For someone who enjoys romance stories, you hold precious little in your heart.”

“Romances are entertaining because they are improbable and silly.” She gazed out at the moons. “For truth, as much as I admire Monsignor Hercules, no warmth swells my heart as it does for you and others of Thornscore. I cannot imagine fearing for him, or any lover, as I did for Lilian and Chrys when they went to battle for the Thirteenth System. Or for you and Malcon when you went to rescue Lilian from the despoiler stronghold.”

Putting down her wine, Rebecca wrapped Clarice in a one-armed hug. “You are the sister I always wanted.”

Clarice returned the embrace. “It is well we both chose to take Serengeti as our surname. It helps with the illusion.”

When entering an apprentice bond, the bonded gave up their family name, and were known by their affiliation to their bondholder. When the bond was completed, they could reclaim their family name, as Chrys and Verity chose, or select another, as Lilian did when she chose Thornraven. In rare cases, an apprentice could, through an act of valor, earn the right to select Serengeti. Both Clarice and Rebecca accepted that honor.

“It is not an illusion.” Rebecca gave her an admonishing squeeze. There is more to a family than shared genetics. Thornscore is also the family I never had.”

Laying her head back, Clarice addressed the moons. “All else aside, it was Lilian’s care for her mother and sister that cemented my loyalty. It was the same with Chrys. From the first day, he was determined to use his advancement for the benefit of his siblings. Verity visits her parents as often as commerce permits. Simon adores and reveres his parents. By the Five Warriors’ grace, they have accepted Tabitha.”

“What is your point?”

“Did I have a point? Oh yes. Family.” She raised her empty glass to the two moons. “Thornscore. My family. But am I Thornscore’s? Have we met Simon’s family? Or Verity’s? Chrys’ is in the Ninth System, so that would not be practical.”

“You are beyond tipsy.” Rebecca snatched Clarice’s glass. “You attend a warrior cotillion in two days. Because not only Lilian, but the seer and Katleen consider you kin.” Setting aside the glass, Rebecca clasped Clarice’s shoulders. “I think the loss of Monsignor Hercules’ favor troubles you more than you know.”

“Maybe.” She did not feel sorrow, but there was some regret. “It was comfortable. Safe. He was kind.”

Rebecca’s expression softened, and then her grin appeared. “You can get the same from a dog. What of passion?”

Interlocking their fingers, Rebecca sighed. “That you ask, means you never felt passion.”

“Pleasant?” Rebecca chortled. “True passion is violent. Brilliant. Overwhelming. Indescribable.”

Tired and wanting her bed, Clarice groaned. “Enough. Malcon is the epitome of a dark romance hero. Congratulations.”

Laughing, Rebecca rose, pulling the throw with her. “I love you as a sister and Thornscore is our family. I pity the man who thaws your heart.”

Following Rebecca, she asked, “Why?”

“Because he will need exceptional fortitude to face the combined expectations of your family.”

Stepping out onto the tiled terrace, Fletcher inhaled the fresh scent of the swollen river churning past its banks. His twin’s quarters in the top two stories of the converted River Quarter townhouse brought a sense of calm. On the far north bank, the Halls of Justice were dark, shadows scattered by the muted streetlights. To the west, only the highest tips of the commerce towers were touched with the last rays of the descending sun. The River Quarter was less prestigious than the warrior-dense garden center district, but it was also quieter, lacking the tourists attracted to the fashionable section.

While bright days had begun to outnumber the rainy ones, it would be several sevendays before the rains abated. Then a month after that before the river would subside to a degree that river race crews could begin practice. From this vantage, Fletcher enjoyed a good view of the central section of the annual race.

Except, if all went as planned, by then, Fletcher would be in the Thirteenth System. Taking another deep breath, he savored the cool of the evening and the potential adventure.

At the rattle of a tray, he turned to find Brianne carrying a tray of drinks and small bites. “It is a bit chill. I brought mulled wine.”

Taking the cup, Fletcher murmured his thanks. “I will ignite the heaters. We can watch the second moon rise.”

Fletcher had given up his quarters when he joined the Nightingale’s crew. When he returned from Fortuna after his injury, Brianne had insisted he stay with her, and he had been glad of it. His twin’s natural serenity had always grounded his impetuous and adventurous nature. In the painful months of rehabilitation, her presence was often all that kept him from despair.

Taking a padded chair near the heater, Brianne shot him a quizzical look. “How was commerce?”

Settling in the seat next to hers, he cupped his hands around the warm wine. “I am to return to the Thirteenth System.”

Her expression brightened. “They have relented? Bright Star is giving you a flyer?”

His earlier disappointment returning, Fletcher shook his head. “No. They are sending me to test new navigational devices. If they perform as promised, it will accelerate the flow of supplies and maybe even settlers.”

For a second, her expression mirrored his disappointment and then shifted to bright anticipation. “But you will be in the Thirteenth System? There is no end to the possibilities.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Until the sevenday before new year. We will be a sevenday or so on Fortuna preparing. Another three to the Thirteenth System, and then at least one more gathering samples.”

“Three sevendays? I thought it could be accomplished in two.”

“Maximum transit velocity is limited to Bright Star transports. This is a test to confirm that we can control the rate of transit by third parties. Both for security purposes and to manage the flow in and out of the Thirteenth System. There is only one landing platform and its priority is supplies and technicians for the vistrite crevasse. Most third-party suppliers will be allocated three sevendays of transit to the system, and four back.”

Nodding, she lifted the cover off a dish, offering him a warm savory canape. “When do you leave?”

“No more than two sevendays. Chrys and Verity return this Seventh Day with the prototypes and Seigneur Marco leaves for Bright Star Deuce with a vistrite survey team a sevenday later. He will want to know he can count on suppliers for the excavation.”

It had been six hundred years since vistrite was discovered on Desperation in the Sixth System. The crystals were essential to all advanced technology. Stellar transit, and communication across the stellar expanse would be impossible without it.

Brianne swallowed a bite. “I am surprised he has not yet departed.”

“He will not miss Katleen’s age-of-consent cotillion.”

Lilian Thornraven’s young sister was foster daughter to Serengeti’s security-privilege seigneur, Trevelyan. The seigneur was consort to Lilian’s mother, Sinead’s Seer, Helena, who had been instrumental in the defeat of the despoilers. Add in that Katleen was sister to Monsignor Lucius’ consort, and it was not a surprise when His Preeminence offered to host the cotillion.

With a soft laugh, Brianne nodded. “Every warrior in the Third System vied for invitations.”

Selecting another canape, Fletcher said, “I am certain that was Monsignor’s intent. Proving Katleen was not sired by Remus Gariten and returning to her warrior status was a legalistics matter. This cotillion is a societal one. None among the warriors will fail to acknowledge her.”

He swallowed the tidbit in two bites. “Do you wish to share a transport to the cotillion?”

Shaking her head, Brianne smiled. “Is that your less-than-subtle way of finding a means to interrogate my escort?”

“I did not intend to be subtle. I am but surprised you are interested in a scholar.”

“The Art Institute Master Scholar of Ancients’ Art is not a mere scholar,” she replied. “And, as you well know, he is nephew to Lord Prelate Gilead.”

The leader of the Fourth Warrior’s sect, Gilead was arguably the most powerful prelate in the Thirteen Systems and could trace a direct line of descent from Jonathan Metricelli, the Fourth Warrior. In addition to his family wealth, Brianne’s suitor commanded considerable wealth as a department master scholar of a prestigious university. By the standards of warrior society, an alliance between the scholar and Brianne would be excellent.

But Fletcher was more concerned with his twin’s happiness. He shared the common sentiment that physical passion was for pleasure and to be indulged as means and inclination allowed. And while he agreed that wedlock alliances should result in an advantageous mingling of wealth and genetics, he did not subscribe to the notion that they could be successful without affection and passion. “But does he please you? I know Maman has been plaguing you.”

“I like him well and believe it could become more. As for our mother”—she made a flicking motion with her fingers—“your near-death has her rattled. She wishes a next generation to reassure her brother that designating you as his heir does not risk the signet passing to a meager branch of the family.”

Their uncle was Iron Hammer’s First System seigneur, but not all his wealth came from the cartel. Through his spouse, the family had significant holdings in precious and industrial metals. Although the seigneur adored both his son and daughter, neither the prelate nor the musician had the training or temperament to wield a signet. “Does our uncle think to alter the heir designation to you?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “Not now that you are recovered.”

“It would not trouble me.” Fletcher reached for another canape. “You are as capable as I am, and for truth, it might come to neither of us in the end.”

“You think our uncle will change his mind about one of our cousins?”

“No, but they are both wedlocked, and Uncle is unlikely to surrender the signet for another three decades.” In his early fifties, their uncle had every expectation of enjoying a century plus a decade of life. It was unlikely he would release the signet before his mid-eighties. “More than sufficient time for our cousins to provide an acceptable heir.”

“The notion does not appear to distress you.”

“For truth, I have not counted on receiving Uncle’s signet, although being the heir comes with a pleasant level of deference.” He gazed at the rising moon. “Since the battle, I have had plentiful bells for thought. If all proceeds with the cartel and my Thirteen Systems investment as planned, I will have the signet license fee within a decade. I doubt Monsignor Elenora will refuse me.”

“After saving Monsignor Lucius at the risk of your life?” Brianne chuckled. “She might cover the fee. Or Monsignor Lucius might.”

“That would be useful, but I do not intend to plan for it.” He eyed the last canape. “As for Maman, do not let her pressure you into an alliance that does not please you.”

“Take it.” She gestured at the plate. “As for Maman, I would honor her wishes, but not to the extent of an ill-conceived alliance. Besides, now that you are recovered, prepare to be pressured to form an alliance of your own.”

Relieved, but not surprised by Brianne’s clear-eyed assessment, Fletcher relaxed. “Nonetheless, I wish to know your scholar. And other than the cotillion, I may not have an opportunity before I depart.”

She flashed him a grin. “Bring me a souvenir from the Thirteenth System?”

At her bright expression, he frowned. “You seemed pleased. Have I overstayed my welcome?”

She reached out to rest her hand on his forearm. “I will miss you, but remaining here, spending your days at cartel headquarters”—she waved a hand—“it is no good for you now that you are healed. Too many reminders of what is lost and not enough challenge to give you purpose.” Her fingers squeezed his forearm before releasing. “As much as I love having you at home, I cannot bear to see you so morose.”

“Have I been so bad?”

“Of course not. You were all that is gallant and courageous, facing the pain of your surgeries and rehabilitation. Now that you are healed, your nature demands adventure. More than you can find in the local indulgences. Not that you have spent much time in them of late.”

Before his injury, Fletcher loved the excitement of the popular nightspots, often finding a winsome woman who would welcome his attention. Memory of his most recent attempt at seduction made his skin crawl.

Brianne frowned. “What is amiss?”

“Fletcher, I felt your cringe. What was so awful?”

His year and half on the other side of the Thirteen Systems had weakened their twin connection, but it could still surge at odd moments. Stretching out his legs, Fletcher drained his cup. “When the women desired the famous moon racer, I reveled in it. When they were enamored of the adventurous Nightingale lieutenant, it filled me with delight. Now, they either want the thrill of bedding one who is half machine, or the sense of pride from providing solace to the wounded hero. Both are repellent.”

“I understand disliking the vulgar interest.” She shuddered. “But is it so ill to recognize your heroic sacrifice?”

Staring into the empty cup, he sought words. “We lost half the Nightingale flyers that day. Men and women with whom I shared a unique bond. They made heroic sacrifices. And the scores from the armada who died in battle, coming to our aid.” Leaning back, he stared at the pale green disk of the second moon. “Their desire to bed a survivor somehow diminishes those deaths. Trivializes them.”

“Are you not being a bit harsh?”

Turning to meet her concerned gaze, he could feel his lips curl into a dark smile. “The last time I ventured into an indulgence, I went without the cane. The only interest came from one with a machine kink.”