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Captain Benoit of the Lutetia City Watch was bored. Society parties as a class tended to be stifling on several levels. Captain Benoit preferred the night beat in the city. Best was the the university district, where she could feel the cool damp breeze from the river against her face as she walked. But, truly, any of the city beats–the outside city beats–were preferable to standing against the wall like a suit of armor, to insure that Councilor Gargon's guests didn't stab each other–literally–or steal the silver, or–the worst fault of all–injure the Councilor's feelings.
In point of fact, the City Watch was not supposed to stand watch over private functions. Councilor Gargon, however, was the patron of House Benoit, and therefore commanded such small personal services.
Fortunately, Councilor Gargon, unlike other Patrons Captain Benoit could name, possessed some modicum of restraint. House Benoit was most generally called when the Councilor was hosting a party, or giving one of her grand dinners. For the workaday world, she was satisfied with her Council-assigned bodyguards.
Tonight, the party was in the service of winning votes for the Council's scheme to route a monorail through the Old City. The Old City was protected by hundreds of years of legislation–no modern road could be built through it. That had lately become a problem because the New City had expanded, sweeping 'round the Old like a river 'round a rock. One might, of course, walk through the twisting, narrow streets of the Old City, or bicycle–but scarcely anyone did so. In main, citizens used jitneys, or rode the trains, or drove their own vehicles. They were in a hurry; it took too long to go through the Old City–and the journey around the walls was becoming almost as long, what with the knots traffic routinely tied itself into.
Councilor Gargon was, as she so often was, on the conservative side of the issue. The radicals would drive a battle-wagon into the Old City, punching a straight line through its heart, which would become a wide highway, a short route from one side of the New City to the other.
The monorail. . .found little favor among busy citizens of the New City. The monorail was seen was a ploy, an effort to forestall progress, perhaps of use to tourists, or the indolent students, but who among the working citizens of the City had time to queue up at a monorail stop, and crawl over the ruins?
Thus, the party, and the trading and calling in of favors. Captain Benoit, who loved the Old City, tried to recruit herself with patience, but–truly, she would rather be out on her usual beat.
If you can't be where you'd rather, be happy where you are. That had been one of Grand-père Filepe's advisories. He had long been retired from the Watch by the time Captain Benoit had taken up her training arms, a ready source of wisdom, humor, and, often enough, irony, for the youngers of the household. He was not, of course, her genetic grandfather, nor any blood relation at all. House Benoit, like all the City Watch Houses recruited their 'prentices from among the orphans of the city, of which there were, unfortunately, many.
House Benoit was one of eight; and second eldest of the Watch Houses. Common citizens were not, of course, trained in arms, or in combat. The arts of war were for the members of the Watch alone. All who came to Benoit, took the House's name, and training, and bore the burden of the House's honor.
There.
The caterers were bringing the desserts out to the long tables, laying down plates of chouquettes, macarons, petit fours, éclairs. Captain Benoit sighed. She was especially fond of sweets, and tonight's party was being catered by the École de Cuisine, which was justly famous for its pastries, cakes, and small delights.
Ah, here came one of the younger students, bearing a dacquoise, and after her another student, carrying a platter of fruit bread sliced so thin one could see through each one. . .
The guests were converging upon the table–and who could blame them? The younger student and the dark-haired youth who appeared to be the manager of catering, stood ready to assist. Others bustled about a second table, bringing out fresh pots of coffee, pitchers of cream, and little bowls of blue sugar that sparkled like fresh snow.
The younger student seemed somewhat nervous. The manager touched her arm, and she looked to him with a smile, her shoulders relaxing. Captain Benoit frowned, and brought her attention to those approaching the table.
Ah, merde, she cursed inwardly. Vertoi was here. She had not previously seen the Councilor among the guests; she must have come late. Vertoi was trouble, wherever she went; especially, she was trouble for those who had no standing, and therefore could neither resist her, nor demand justice from the Council. Vertoi being a Councilor, the common court had no call upon her; and she imposed no restraints upon herself.
Vertoi had an eye for beauty, and the younger student, now that Captain Benoit had taken a closer look, was very fine, indeed.
The catering manager took up an empty plate that moments before had held a mountain of petit fours, and handed it to his fair young assistant. She nodded, and left the table for the kitchen, just as Vertoi came up in the queue, her shoulders stiff and her face stormy.
Captain Benoit tensed. Vertoi was not above personally reprimanding an inferior, physically and in public, and she suddenly feared for the young manager's health.
He, however, seemed not to notice her displeasure, but leaned forward, his eyes on her face, his hands moving above the tempting sweets, discussing now the fruit bread; now the éclairs. . .
Vertoi turned away, leaving the manager in mid-discussion, holding an empty dessert plate. He put it behind the table, and turned to greet the next guest, his face pleasant and attentive.
She had seen him before, Captain Benoit realized. Seen him at the Institute loading bays, when dawn was scarcely a red-edge blade along the top of the walls, supervising the loading of trays onto a delivery van. In the afternoon, she had seen him, too, filling the beggars' bowls at the university district's main gates. She had noted him particularly; compact and neatly made, his movements crisp and clean. A pretty little one; and something out of the common way among the citizens of Lutetia, who tended to be tall, brown, red-haired and rangy.
As if he had felt the weight of her regard, the manager raised his head and caught her gaze. His eyes were dark brown, like his hair. He gave her a nod, as if perhaps he recognized her, too. She returned the salute, then a drift of dessert-seekers came between them.
* * *
He had sent Sylvie back to the Institute in the first van, with the empty plates and prep bowls. She, and the other three who went with her, would have a long few hours of clean-up in the catering kitchen, but he rather felt that she would willingly clean all night and into tomorrow, so long as she was not required to bear the attentions of Councilor Vertoi.
Don Eyr sighed. She was becoming a problem, this councilor–not merely a problem for Sylvie, who, so far as he knew, lavished all of her devotion upon a certain promising young prep cook. No, Councilor Vertoi was beginning to pose a problem for the Institute and for the affairs of the Institute. Pursuing Sylvie while she was on-duty was a serious breach of what he had learned as a boy to call melant'i–and which he had learned here was an insult to the dignity of the Institute, its students, and, above, to the directors. He would of course report the incident to his adviser, as part of this evening's–well. This morning's debriefing. He was quite looking forward to that approaching hour, sitting cozy in Chauncey's parlor, tea in hand, and a plate of small cheese tarts set by.
Don Eyr did the final walk-through of the small prep area, finding it clean and tidy. He sighed, took off his white jacket, and folded it over one arm. Catering was not his preference. If he were ruled only by his preferences, he would be always in the kitchen, baking breads, and pastries, cakes. . . He felt his mouth twitch into a wry smile. Perhaps it was best, after all, that the directors insisted that all students learn catering, and production baking, and the other commercial aspects of their art–all of which would be useful, when he opened his own boulangerie . .
Satisfied with the condition of the prep room, he signed the job off on the screen by the door, releasing copies of the invoice to Councilor Gargon's financial agent, and to the Institute's billing office. A note would also be sent to his file, and to Chauncey's screen, so that gentleman would know when to start brewing the tea.
Don Eyr put his hand against the plate, the door to the delivery alley opened, and he stepped out into the cool, damp, and fragrant night.
The door closed behind him. Before him, the van, Keander likely already asleep in the back. Don Eyr shook his head. Keander could–and did–sleep anywhere, which might be annoying, if he did not wake willing and cheerful, eager to perform any task required of him.
He reached the van, hand extended to the door–and spun, ducking.
The move perhaps saved his life; the cudgel hit the van's door instead of his head, denting and tearing the polymer.
Don Eyr spun, saw his attacker as a looming, dark shadow between himself and the light, and launched himself low and to the right, half-remembered training rising, as he kicked the man's knee.
A grunt, a curse.
The man staggered, but he did not go down, and Don Eyr spun again, kicking the metal ashcan by the gate.
It rang loudly, though it was a vain cast. Keander could sleep through any din, though the softest whisper of his name would rouse him.
"Dodge all you like, little rat," came the man's voice, as the cudgel rose again. "Councilor Vertoi sends her regards, and a reminder to stay out of her business."
He swung again, and Don Eyr drove forward, catching the man 'round both knees and spilling him backward onto the alley.
The ash can produced another clatter as the cudgel, released from surprised fingers, struck it as Don Eyr rolled away.
"I will kill you," the man snarled, and Don Eyr, on his knees by the service door, saw him roll clumsily, heaving himself to his knees, even as a second shadow moved in, and with one efficient move kicked those knees out from under him, and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the head.
Straightening, this one moved to the pool of light, revealing herself as the Watch Captain he had most lately seen at the councilor's party, tall and fit, with her cross-cropped red hair and her light eyes.
"Are you well, masyr? Do you require my assistance?"
"I am well, thank you, Watch Captain," he said, hearing how breathy and uneven his voice was. "I believe I will stand."
He did so, and stood looking up at her, while she looked down at him.
"Your arrival was timely," he said.
"Yes," she agreed, and shook her head.
"That was most ill-advised, masyr. This man has been trained to fight and to inflict damage. To attempt to meet him on his own terms. . ."
"What else might I have done?" he answered, perhaps too sharply. "Stand and have my head broken?"
She was silent for a long moment, then sighed, and spread her fingers before her.
"The point is yours, but now I must ask–who taught you to fight? Is this now a part of the Institute curriculum?"
He laughed.
"Certainly not! A course of self-defense was taught me, before I came here. It was years ago, my tutoring of the most basic, and–as you observe–I scarcely recalled what little I had learned."
"No, no, having taken the decision to defend yourself–you did well. A man of peace, surprised at your lawful business, and, I make no doubt, exhausted from your labors this evening. Our friend, here, he had expected an easy strike, and now he will wake in the Watch House, with a headache, a fine to pay–and an account of himself to be made to his mistress that will, I expect, be very painful for him."
She stepped back, clearing his way to the van.
"Please, be about your business, masyr, and I will be about mine."
"Yes," he said.
He turned, after he had opened the door.
"Thank you, Watch Captain."
She straightened from where she had been placing binders on the fallen attacker.
"My duty, masyr. Good-night to you, now. Go in peace."
"Good-night," he said, and climbed into the cab, and drove away.
* * *
Policemen and criminals were not so very much different. So said Grand-père Filepe. Certainly, they tended to know the same people, to drink in the same places, to roam the same streets at very nearly the same hours.
So it was that Serena Benoit was at a table in a shady corner of a particular cafe on a small street near the river, eating her midday meal, when she heard a word, spoken in a voice she recognized.
The first word was followed by several more, forming a sentence most interesting. Serana closed her eyes, the better to hear the rest of it. The proposition was made, and, after a short pause, accepted, for the usual fee. Serana opened her eyes, and turned to signal her waiter for more wine, her glance moving incuriously over the occupants of the table to her right.
Yes, she had recognized Fritz Girard's voice; his companion was. . .Louis Leblanc. That was. . .disturbing. Unlike the hired bullies attached to the wealthy, who were used to express their masters' displeasure by way of a broken arm or a sprained head, Louis Leblanc performed exterminations. Showy, public exterminations, meant to remove a nuisance, and also to inspire potential future nuisances to rethink their life-plans.
The waiter arrived with a fresh glass, and Serana turned back to her lunch, ears straining. There came the expected haggling over price–perfunctory, really–before the two rose and left the cafe in different directions.
Serana finished her lunch, paid her bill, and returned to her beat, troubled by what she had heard.
* * *
"That's the last," Don Eyr told Silvesti.
The delivery driver nodded, made the rack fast to the grid inside his truck, and jumped down to the alley floor. He was taller than Don Eyr, as who was not? His mustache was grey, though his hair was still stubbornly red. There were lines in his face, and scars on his knuckles. He worked for the distributor, and before the day broke over the city walls, all of the breads, pastries, and other fresh-baked things from the Institute's kitchens would be on offer in restaurants across the city.
"A light load this morning, my son," Silvesti commented.
"Yes; one of our bakers did not arrive for her shift. Had she allowed us to know, we would have found someone else. As it was, we were half done before her absence was noted."
He handed over the clipboard.
"Here is the distribution list. When we understood what had happened, we contacted the restaurants. Three were willing to forgo pastries today for extra tomorrow, so that the rest may have their normal share–though no extras, today."
"Understood." Silvesti took the clipboard, running a knowing blue eye down the list, before glancing up.
"You've made extra work for yourselves tomorrow," he observed, "and a baker down."
"No, we'll call in some of the promising juniors, and let them see what the production kitchen is like."
"Scare them into another trade," Silvesti said wisely.
"Perhaps. But, then, you see what a similar experience did for me."
The delivery driver laughed, and tucked the clipboard away into a capacious pocket.
"Some never learn the right lesson, eh? Until next week, my son."
Don Eyr watched the van drive out of the loading yard, filling his lungs with air damp from the river. This was when the city was quietest; very nearly still. Occasionally, there came sound of a car moving over damp 'crete, some streets distant; or a ship's bell, far off in the middle of the river. It was not, perhaps, his favorite time of the day–there being some joy to be found in beginning the day's baking, and also the hour in which he taught the seminar. . .
Still, this early morning time was pleasant, signaling, as it did, an end to labor for a few hours, and a chance to–
A boot heel scraped against the alley's crete floor, and he turned, expecting to see Ameline, come out with her coffee and her smoke stick, as she often did, to sit on the edge of the loading dock to relax after her labors among the cakes.
But it was not Ameline, nor any other of the Institute.
"Watch Captain Benoit," he said, taking a certain pleasure in her tall, lean figure. She was not in uniform this evening, but dressed in leggings and a dark jacket open over a striped shirt.
"Tonight, only Serena Benoit," she said gently. "I hope that I did not startle you, masyr?"
"I had expected one of my colleagues," he answered. "My name is Don Eyr fer'Gasta. I think that our introductions the other evening were incomplete."
"Indeed, there was much about that encounter which was shabbily done," she said, walking toward him, her hands in the pockets of her jacket.
"I am here. . ." she paused, looking down at him, her face lean, and her eyes in shadow, all the light from the dock lamps tangled in her cropped red hair.
She sighed, and shook her head.
"You understand that it is Serana Benoit, who offers this," she said.
Melant'i. That he grasped very well. He inclined his head.
"I understand. But what is it that you offer?"
Another sigh, as if the entire business went against all the order of the universe. Her hands came out of her pockets, palms up and empty.
"I will teach you. We will build upon these long-ago basic lessons you received. A few tricks, only, you understand, but they may be made to suffice. You have become a target, masyr, and you had best see to your own defense."
"A target?" he repeated, looking up at her.
"Oh, yes. One does not thwart Councilor Vertoi in any of her desires. And one certainly does not embarrass her enforcer."
"Councilor Vertoi is not permitted to disrupt my team while we are working," he said calmly.
Serana Benoit laughed, short and sharp.
"Yes, yes, little one; you have expressed this sentiment with perfect clarity.
Fritz Gerard, Councilor Vertoi, myself–none of us missed your meaning. Councilor Vertoi has done you the honor of believing you to be a serious man, and she has hired Louis LeBlanc to wait upon you."
Something was clearly expected of him, but Don Eyr could only turn his palms up in turn and repeat, "Louis LeBlanc?"
"Ah, I forget. You live sheltered here. Louis LeBlanc is a very bad man. He has been hired to hurt you, from which we learn that Madame the Councilor considers that you have damaged her reputation and so may show you no mercy."
Chauncey had a pet; a green-and-red bird that had learned to say certain amusing phrases. Don Eyr felt a certain kinship with the bird now, able only to repeat her own words back to her.
"No mercy? He is to strike me lightly on the head?"
Serana Benoit looked grim.
"Were you of Madame's own station, or in the employ of one of such station, Louis would have been instructed to kill you. That is mercy at Madame's level. She has, regrettably, seen that you are a catering manager, a mere minion who must be taught his proper place."
She took a breath, and added, softly.
"Louis. . .Understand me, I have seen Louis' work, and speak from the evidence of my own eyes! Louis will break all of your bones, not quickly; abuse tendons, and tear muscles. Perhaps, yes, he will strike you in the head, but I think not, for Madame will want you to know why you have become a cripple, and a beggar."
He stared at her, seeing truth in her face, hearing it in her voice. There were, perhaps, a number of things he might have said to her, then, but what he did say was. . .
"Come into the kitchen. There is tea–and bread and butter."
* * *
He was an apt student, Don Eyr, a joy to instruct; supple and unexpectedly strong. When she mentioned this, he had laughed, which pleasing of itself, and said that flour came in thirty-two kilogram sacks.
She could wish that several Benoit apprentices were so willing, adept, and of such a happy nature. And as much as she enjoyed teaching him, she enjoyed even more their time after practice, when they would adjourn to the little room behind the kitchen, for a simple snack of tea and bred, and talk of whatever occurred to them.
Very quickly, she was Serana, and he was Don Eyr. She told him such bits of gossip as she heard in the course of her duties, and he told her such on-dits as had filtered into the Institute's classrooms and kitchens. She told him somewhat of life in House Benoit, and was pleased that he enjoyed even Grand-père's saltier observations.
For himself, he was the lesser child of his family, which he considered luck, indeed, as it had allowed him to pursue his talent for baking.
Yes, she enjoyed his company. Very much. Perhaps she watched him with too much appreciation; perhaps she regarded him too warmly. But she did not act on these things–he was a student, after all, clearly some years her junior, and she was his teacher.
It would not have done, and she did not need Grand-père to tell her so.
As for the training–apt as he was, he would never defeat Louis. The best he might do would be to surprise and disable him long enough to run to some place of safety. Whereupon the hunt would begin again. Louis might become fond of the child, if he gave good enough sport, and one shuddered to think what that might come to, when he was, as he must be, at the last–caught.
Still, they trained, and two weeks along there came the news that Louis LeBlanc had been taken up by Calvin of House Fontaine, caught in the very act of threatening a citizen. Serana knew Calvin; had known him very well, indeed, when they had both been foot soldiers for their Houses. It had been some time since she had sought him out, but she had done so after that news had hit the street.
"The Common Judge gave him four weeks, non-negotiable," Calvin said, drinking the glass of wine she'd bought him. "In four weeks, plus one day, he will be on the streets again."
"Is there any likelihood of a pattern-of-behavior charge?" asked Serana.
Calvin shrugged.
"The father had said some such at first, but he's quiet now."
"Bought off?" Serana guessed, sipping her own wine.
"Or frightened off." Another shrug and quizzical glance.
"Why do you care? Even if Louis permanently removed, another will rise to fill the void." He raised his glass, as if in salute. "There must always be a Louis; to keep the Councilors from going to war."
"It may be that a replacement Louis will enjoy his work less," Serana said, and shrugged. "One might hope."
"This is on behalf of the new lover?"
"New student," she corrected.
"So? Does Benoit agree to this?"
"No need for Benoit to agree to what I do on my off-hours," Serana said, which was not. . .precisely true. "Besides, he came from off-world, half-trained and a danger to himself and our fellow citizens. I make the streets safer by teaching him."
"A baker, I hear," said Calvin.
"You have big ears, my friend."
Calvin laughed and drank off the last of his wine.
#
"When," she asked Don Eyr as they sat together over their quiet tea. "When will you graduate?"
"Graduate?" He looked amused. "I graduated two years ago. I have completed my coursework, and taken the certification tests for master baker, pastry chef, and commis chef. At the moment, the Institute employs me to teach an introductory workshop to breads, and an upper level seminar in pastry. Two days, I work in the test kitchens; one day I supervise the distribution baking; and, as you know, I manage one of the catering teams."
Serana blinked, realized that she had been staring, and raised her tea cup.
Don Eyr began to butter a piece of bread.
"Soon, I will need to make other arrangements," he said. "Chauncey has been trying to entice me to stay and become faculty–to teach, you know."
"You do not wish to be a teacher?" Serana managed.
He put the butter knife aside and glanced up at her.
"In many ways, teaching is enjoyable, especially when one has an apt pupil. But, no. I want to bake, to feed people, and bring joy to their day. I have determined to open my own boulangerie."
His own bakeshop, bless the child; and she had thought him too young to understand her.
"A shop here–in the City?"
He laughed, dark eyes dancing.
"No one opens a boulangerie in Lutetia! What would be the point, when the Institute supplies all of the restaurants and coffee houses, and could easily supply a third again more?"
"You will leave us, then?" she persisted, which both relieved her, and filled her with a profound sadness.
He gave her a grave look.
"I think that I must, and I have a plan, you see. When I wrote to. . .my family's accountant, to inform him of my certifications, and graduation, he wrote back with information regarding certain accounts and properties which are mine, alone.
"My mother left me a property–a house and a some land–on Ezhel'ti. Those funds have, in part, been supporting me here, with the remainder being placed into an account which Mr. dea'Bon has held in trust for me. The house and the account came to me upon graduation. I have been researching Ezhel'ti, and it seems a very promising world, with two large metropolitan areas, and a scattering of smaller towns. It remains to be seen if a city or a town will suit me best, but my intention is to emigrate and open a boulangerie."
He gave her a small smile.
"Mr. dea'Bon is retired from my clan's business, and finds himself wishing for a little project to keep him entertained. He has offered to advise me, which is kind. Certainly, I shall have need of him."
"Indeed," she said, and put her tea cup on the tray. "It may be wise, to leave as soon as your planning allows," she said, her lips feeling stiff. "The rumor inside the Watch is that Louis LeBlanc will be off the streets for four weeks, no longer. Since it is possible for you to remove yourself from danger. . ."
"I must stay until the end of the term," he told her. "I have signed a contract."
"How long?" she asked.
"Eight weeks. But after–"
"Yes, after. I advise, make your arrangements now."
"I will," he said, as she rose.
"You are leaving?"
"I have the early Watch tomorrow," she lied. "Good-night, Don Eyr."
"Good-night," he said, and rose in his turn to open the bay door and see her out.
* * *
The peaceful round of weeks flowed by, each day bringing its rewards. Don Eyr had dispatched letters, received some replies, and written more letters. He and Serana had kept to their schedule of sparring and suddenly, it was the day of Louis LeBlanc's release from mandatory confinement.
He would not have said that the date weighed over-heavy on his mind, though naturally he had noted it. And truly, he did not begin to worry until he left for their usual meeting.
He arrived in the practice room before her, which was not so unusual. He occupied himself with warm-ups, and moved on to first-level exercises.
When he finished the set and she still had not come–then he began to worry. It was ridiculous, of course, to worry after Serana, who was a Watch Captain and fully able to take care of herself–and any other two dozen persons who happened to be nearby. But he worried, nonetheless. He reminded himself that she had missed their meeting on two previous occasions, and had turned up, perfectly well, if appallingly tired, at the Institute, later, wanting her tea and buttered bread–and, more than that, someone to talk to about commonplaces, and simple things. It pleased him that she came to him for comfort on those nights when her duty was a burden. But, he could not help but recall that her duty might see her maimed, or killed, much as she might laugh off that aspect of the matter.
"You will worry yourself into a shadow, little one, if you worry about me. I have more lives than a cat–Grand-père has said it, so you know it is true! I may be late, but always I will come back to you, eh? My word on it."
Yes, but today–today an especial danger had been released back onto the streets, and he might be assumed to be angry about his recent confinement, and seeking to wreak havoc upon those whom he judged to be most responsible.
Surely, being the sort of man he was, LeBlanc would consider Serana's friend Calvin at fault, but Serana had told him that the Commander of the Watch had decided to hold Calvin at headquarters for the first day of Louis LeBlanc's renewed liberty, and also to set a guard around the Common Judge who had sentenced him.
These were, so Serana said, temporary measures, to give LeBlanc time to work off his ill-humor, and reconnect with his usual sources.
Work, said Serana, with a certain amount of irony, seemed to exert a steadying influence over Louis LeBlanc.
Don Eyr finished his workout early, without Serana to spar with, and returned to the tea room, where he took special care with this evening's snack; her favored blend of tea; and thin slices of the crusty chewy bread she had declared–rather surprising herself, so he thought, with amusement–the best she had ever eaten, beside which all other so-called breads were revealed as impostors. He added a dish of jam to compliment the butter, and stood looking down at the tea table, wondering what he would do, if she did not come tonight.
The bell rang then, and he hurried down the hall, looking by habit at the screen–and it was Serana standing there, in her Watch uniform, her face in shadow, her posture stiff. He took a breath, and pulled the door open.
She followed him silently down to the tea-room, and stood, silent yet, just inside the door.
He turned, and saw her face clearly for the first time that evening.
"Serana, what has happened?"
She looked at him, her face haggard, eyes red, proud shoulders slumped.
"Come in."
He stepped up to her, and caught her arm, leading her to the table; saw her seated in her usual chair. Then, he crossed the room to the small cabinet, opened it, and poured red wine into a glass. He set it before her, and commanded, "Drink."
She shook herself slightly, and obeyed, downing the whole of it in two long gulps, without appreciation, or even full knowledge of what she did. No matter; it was a common vintage, and it seemed to be doing her some good. Her pale green eyes sparkled; and her shoulders came up, somewhat.
"Good," he said, and took the glass away to refill it, and to pour one for himself.
He came back to the table, and sat across from her.
"Tell me," he said.
She blinked, then, and seemed to fully see. She smiled somewhat.
"Peremptory, little one," she murmured.
"Ah, but I am a manager, and a master baker, and a blight upon the lives of my students," he told her. "Arrogance is the least of my accomplishments."
Her lips bent slightly; perhaps she thought she had smiled.
"So," she said; "I will tell you. Louis LeBlanc died today. Badly."
He blinked, taking in the uniform. Serana did not come to their meetings in her uniform. She came always as Serena Benoit; never as Watch Captain Benoit. He sipped wine to cover his shiver.
"Do you think I did this thing?" he asked.
She laughed, and it was terrible to hear.
"You? No, I do not think that."
She raised her glass and drank.
"No?" he asked. "A man in fear of his life. . ."
She slashed the air with her free hand.
"A man in fear of his life would not have had time to do what was done to Louis," she snarled, horror and anger in her voice. "And you, little one–you are not capable of what I saw. You are my student; I know this."
She turned her head aside, but not before he saw the tears.
He took a careful breath.
"Serana–" he began.
"Oh, understand me; I have no love for Louis LeBlanc. But the manner of his death, and the timing of it. . .It is a message, from one Councilor to another, you see; and such a message–it will be war, now, between the ruling houses, but they will not bleed! No, they will use us as little toy soldiers, and we will die–for what? The world will not be made better; and when the war is over, or the point is won–another will rise to become the next Louis LeBlanc. It will all be the same, only we will be fewer in the senior and novice ranks, and there will be more orphans from which to recruit replacements. . ."
There was a breathless moment, before she repeated, in a bitter whisper.
"Replacements."
He was an idiot; he could think of nothing to say, to ease her. She had told him the history of House Benoit–told it lightly, as if it were a very fine joke. But, now. . .
"I am not a coward. I am not afraid to do my duty," she whispered. "But my duty is to protect the citizens, not to kill fellow Watchmen!"
He did not remember rising, or going 'round the table. He barely remembered putting his arm around her shoulders, and feeling her press her face against his side.
"Of course you are not a coward," he murmured. "You are bold and honorable. Can you not appeal –" Appeal to whom? he thought wildly. If the Councilors were at war, surely the City Council would not rule against them.
"The Common Judges?" he ventured. "Can they not issue a restraint, releasing the Watch from such orders?"
She made a sound; perhaps it was a laugh.
"Don Eyr's twisty mind works on," she murmured. "That is a particularly fine notion–and it was tried, the. . .last time the Councilors went to war. They simply ignored the order, and had those of the Watch and the judiciary who protested killed."
He closed his eyes.
"Don Eyr."
She shifted in his arms, and he stepped back, letting her go as she straightened in her chair. She caught his hand, and looked into his face.
"Don Eyr," she repeated.
"Yes, my friend. What may I do for you?"
She laughed, soft and broken.
"You make it too easy," she said, and drew a breath, keeping her eyes on his.
"I would like to make love with you, little one."
He hesitated. She released his hand.
"I am maladroit," she said. "Please do not regard it."
"No, I will regard it," he said, taking her hand between both of his. "Only–to make love. I may not have the recipe. But, this I offer–that I value you, and would willingly share pleasure; give and receive comfort. Indeed, I have wished for it, but while we stood as teacher and student–"
"I see it," she said, offering a small smile, but a true one; "we are both fools."
"That is perhaps accurate. I propose that we now teach each other–I will learn to make love. . ."
"And I will learn to share pleasure. Agreed, but –"
She glanced about them, and he laughed.
"No; let us to my rooms; we may be private there."
"Yes," she said, and rose.
* * *
His rooms, at the top of the Institute. . .His rooms were neat, and modest; the bed under the eaves big enough for both, so long as she was careful of her head.
There was a window, which she learned later, after he had risen and left her in order to see to the day's first baking. It was marvelous, this window; one could oversee the entire City, even the Tower of Memories in the heart of the Old City.
Her City, that she loved; her City, that she served and protected.
There would be war; that was certain. A few days, perhaps, of quiet, while the Councilors gathered themselves, and made certain of those Watch Houses which were sworn to them. Benoit's patron was Gargon, of course. Fontaine's patron was Vertoi. It was not to be expected that she would stand shoulder to shoulder with Calvin in this, or with his sister, or any other of her comrades at Fontaine. No, this time, they would be set at each other, like dogs thrown into the pit, while the owners watched safely from above, and perhaps placed wagers on style, and form.
Her stomach cramped, and she turned away from the window, and the view of her City, to survey this place where her little one apparently spent all too few hours at rest.
There was a screen on a small table, under a bright light, a tidy pile of bills or letters placed to the right of the keyboard. Across the room from the bed stood an armoire so large it was certain that the room had been built around it. Beyond the armoire, an archway, through which more light streamed.
She stepped into a small kitchen. A teapot steamed gently on the table next to that sunny window, and the inevitable plate of breads; butter, cheese, and cold sausage. The window overlooked the river, a happy breakfast companion.
After she had eaten, and washed up, and refilled the teapot against his eventual return to his rooms, she showered in the tiny bathroom, and donned her armor, and stood looking down at the bed, recalling what had taken place there.
A sweet lad, indeed; generous and wise; and if he had not made love, then certainly he had given pleasure in full measure.
And Serana Benoit? Serana Benoit was a greater fool than even she had supposed herself to be. What precisely had been the purpose of bedding the child, when she knew he was preparing–as he must!–to flee to his safe future off-world, his small property, his dreamed-for bake-shop? She would miss him–she would have missed him, profoundly, without the sweetness they had shared. All she had accomplished was to make her own loss more poignant.
Yet. . .if she were to die, as it was probable that she would, and soon; she would have this memory in her when she stood to be judged before Camulus in the afterworld.
Mindful of the low ceiling, she bent and made the bed, smoothing the coverlet, catching the lingering perfume of their passion.
A deep breath, and she turned away, moving to the dark corner of the room, to the left, where she recalled the hall door had been.
A piece of paper was pinned to this portal, somewhat lower than her nose. She squinted at it, and found a neat, hand-drawn, map, guiding her to the nearest outside door. At the bottom of the map, was a note.
It is an interesting recipe, my friend. I would enjoy making more love with you. If you would also enjoy this, let us meet for wine at Paiser's this afternoon when our shifts are done.
She smiled, and tucked the note inside her armor, next to her heart.
#
She brought him flowers, of course. He was worth every rose in the City, and she would not stint him, though it was Paiser's and she would shortly be known as a besotted fool in every Watch House and bar in the city. No matter: there were things far worse than to be known as a doting lover.
He rose to take the bouquet from her, dark eyes wide with pleasure. She had exercised restraint, and the flowers did not, quite, overpower him, and in any case it was Paiser's and here was the waiter, murmuring that he would place them into a vase for maysr and most immediately bring them back.
"I ordered wine," Don Eyr said when they were both seated. "I did not know if you wished to dine, or. . .how you wish to proceed."
Proceed? She thought. She wished to proceed to his rooms–hers were too public for this affair–and undress him, slowly, running her hands over silky, golden skin. . .
Her imaginings were too vivid, and Don Eyr perceptive, as always.
"Perhaps not here?" he murmured, and she laughed.
"Perhaps not."
She paused at the return of the waiter, bearing a vase overfilled with roses, and a second, bearing a small table. This was set at the side of their table in such way that the flowers formed a fragrant screen, shielding them somewhat from the rest of the room.
"Maysr has bespoken a bottle," the first waiter said. "Shall I bring it? With some cheeses, and fruit? A basket of bread, perhaps?"
"Serana?" Don Eyr asked and she smiled at him.
"All of it. Let us linger, and make plans."
He understood, and she was delighted to see a blush gild his cheeks with darker gold. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice.
"I have the night watch tomorrow," she murmured. "And you?"
His blush deepened, and his eyes sparkled.
"I," he said his voice low and sultry, "will ask Chauncey to lead the advanced seminar this evening."
* * *
The war was being fought in skirmishes, at the fringes of the city, and the few injuries sustained thus far were minor. Perhaps the Councilors were being discreet; perhaps they sensed a reluctance among their toy soldiers. They were positioning for advantage; feeling out the temper of the streets; searching for the flashpoint that would ignite violence.
Lots had been drawn at House Benoit, as at the other Watch Houses. Short straw placed you on the Council Watch, which had the duty to protect the City, and whose loyalty was to the Council. This was by necessity a short-term assignment, the Council not being plump in pocket, and was in any case a moot point.
Serana had drawn a long straw.
She did not tell him this. Of course not. There was no need to concern the child, who would be well out of everything in a matter of two weeks. Instead, she listened to him talk about his plans for this bake shop he would build on the world that was not Lutetia, far from the City, far from Serana, safe from the war brewing on the streets.
"Serana, only listen!" he said, looking up from his latest letter with eyes sparkling.
"I have kin on Ezhel'ti! My father's clan acknowledges the connection, and the delm has written to Mr. dea'Bon to say that they will give me a place as a Festival child among them, if I should wish it. Also –"
"Do you wish it?" she asked him, from her lazy slouch in his reading chair. She had pulled it over to the window–the window that looked over her City, and sat bathed in sunlight, her cotton shirt opened over her breasts, her hair blazing like living fire.
With difficulty, Don Eyr removed his attention from the picture she made there, and looked back to the letter, thinking about her question.
"I do not know," he admitted. "I am not accustomed to being in-clan. It would be a change, certainly; but it is all of it a change! And these people–my father's clan–they are long-time residents of Ezhel'ti, and in a very good place from which to introduce me. . ."
"Yes, so long as they are not scoundrels," she said; then wished the words back. Why blight his joy? And these people wanted him, which that wretched old man who had sent him away had never done, as she had heard in the spaces between the words in the tales he had told her of his childhood. . .
Don Eyr was smiling.
"You are suspicious, Watch Captain. You will therefore be pleased to know that Mr. dea'Bon is of a like turn of mind. He has put inquiries into motion, and assures me that there is no need to rush into an association until the facts are known. I may, he says, quite properly be busy with my own affairs for some time after my arrival."
"You are correct," she told him sincerely. "I am pleased, and relieved. Count me as an ardent admirer of Mr. dea'Bon."
"I will be jealous," he said lightly, and she laughed.
"An admirer from afar," she amended. "Far afar."
"I am soothed," he assured her, and tipped his head. "And now you are sad."
He was far too perceptive, she thought, and did not seek to lie to him.
"I will miss you," she said; "very much, Don Eyr."
"And I, you." He rose from the desk and crossed the room to kneel at her side and look up into his face.
"Serana," he said, softly–and she leaned forward to kiss him thoroughly, before he said the words that would bind them both.
He was made for fine things, her little one; for peace, which her own small researches had revealed was the general state of Ezhel'ti. No one knew what she had been born for. An orphan, she had been taken in by House Benoit, to be trained in arms and in violence.
His hands were on her breasts, strong fingers kneading . Good. She stood, bringing him with her to the bed, there to make such love between them that neither need utter a word.
* * *
They were to meet at Paiser's mid-afternoon for a glass of wine and a small luncheon. It was her free hour from patrol, and his, between test kitchen and seminar.
Serana arrived first, proceeding toward the outside tables, when she caught a movement from the side of her eye.
She continued her stroll, curving away from the cafe, now, finding two familiar faces on her left hand, moving toward her with precisely as much purpose as the two approaching from her right.
So, the Councilors had decided, she thought, calmly assessing the situation. And Serana Benoit was to be the flashpoint.
She continued to move away from Paiser's, toward the center of the small square, where there were fewer innocents to be caught in the action.
"Watch business!" she snapped at those few. "Move on, move away!"
She touched the weighted stick on her belt, but did not draw it. She did not need to draw it, one look at her face, and they moved, rushing away from danger.
There was a shout behind her, which she ignored. Jacques Blanchet could see her in hell. She supposed that she ought to be complimented, that the Councilors found her so provocative that her death would, with certainty, start a war.
Another shout. Serana smiled, grimly. Monique Sauvage could stand in line behind Blanchet.
She had reached the center of the square. She turned, quickly, the stick with its lead core coming up out of her belt, to slam into the extended right arm of Servais Tanguy. He screamed, and twisted aside, weapon falling from nerveless fingers. She spun to intercept Blanchet, kicking him in the knee with her reinforced boots. He was quick, however; the blow did not connect solidly, and here at last was Monique Sauvage, flying at her like the madwoman she was, knife dancing, while Simone Papin stood back, awaiting opportunity.
The world narrowed down to the work at hand. She managed to fell Sauvage with a blow of the stick to her temple, and there was Papin coming in, blade glittering; Tanguy rushing her off-side, shock grenade in hand, and she made the decision to let the armor take the knife-thrust–
Tanguy fell back, baiting her, and there was Blanchet spinning in from her other side. This time, the kick landed well, and she danced to one side as Tanguy triggered his toy, feeling the fizzing tingle as the armor dissipated the charge. She had broken his neck before the fizzing stopped, and turned at last to deal with Papin–
Who was lying on the stones, his neck at an unfortunate angle. From far away came the blare of an emergency wagon. Much closer stood a man in a white coat, knife in hand, point toward the cobbles. He raised his head and looked at her, dark eyes wide.
Serana took a breath.
"You fool!" she snapped.
"He was going to kill you!" Don Eyr snapped in return.
"I am wearing armor!" she shouted, and reached out to grab him by the shoulder. "You are wearing a baker's smock!"
"Serana," he began, his eyes filling. Her heart broke; she moved to embrace him–and
looked up at the sound of boots pounding cobbles.
From the left came three of House Benoit. From the right, two of Fontaine.
Fontaine was nearer, the senior-most holding binders in such a way to make it clear she knew them for the insult they were.
"Serana Benoit," she said, her voice professional; her eyes sad. "You are under arrest."
She extended her hands to accept the insult, and glanced over her shoulder.
There were now two of House Benoit standing at ready, and Don Eyr was not in sight.
* * *
Once the binders were on, and Fontaine's duty done, Benoit sued for Serana's release to the custody and discipline of her House.
The surprise was that Fontaine released her, in proper form, accepting House Benoit's honor as her bail.
The second surprise, when she emerged from her interview with Commander Mathilde Benoit, and went in search of Grand-père Filepe, to tell him with her own voice what had transpired–there was Don Eyr sitting in the sun on the back patio, listening with rapt attention to one of the old man's saltier tales.
She paused, her hand on the warm stone pillar. Don Eyr–someone of the house had given him shirt, vest, and trousers. He had rolled the shirt sleeves above his wrists, and left the top buttons open–in respect of the heat, which was considerable, in this little stone pocket that caught the sun even on rainy days.
Grand-père wore a shawl over thick, well-buttoned shirt and vest, for winter had gotten into his bones on a campaign outside the City when he was a young man, and had never melted away.
Or so he said.
He paused now, on the very edge of the story's bawdy denouement, raised his eyes and gave her a brief nod.
Don Eyr spun out of his chair and rushed to her, hands out, eyes on her face.
"Serana! Are you well?"
In truth, she was not well. As of this hour, she was a soldier without a House, in Lutetia, where war was about to erupt, and with her to blame, so far as the Councilors would tell it.
Those shames faded, however, to see him before her, unscathed, beautiful, and concerned for her well-being.
Wordless–for what could she say?–she opened her arms, and he stepped into her embrace.
Eventually, she recalled herself, and lifted her head to meet Grand-père's eyes. He smiled, and nodded at the bench on his right side, where Don Eyr had been seated. A 'prentice came out of the cool, dark depths of the house, bearing a tray–wine so cold the carafe was frosty with sweat, cheese and small breads. This, she sat on the table by Grand-père's hand, and departed, never once raising her head to see the disgraced soldier on the other side of the patio.
Don Eyr stirred in her arms. She stepped back and let him go, looking down into his face–a face ravaged, and why was that? Ah. She had shouted at him, and called his actions into doubt. Truly, she was a monster.
She caught his hand.
"Petit. . ." she began, but she had reckoned without Grand-père Filepe.
"Do not begin this on my porch, unless you intend a threesome!" he said, loudly enough to be heard in the house–or, indeed, at Paiser's.
Serana glared at him, but Don Eyr turned; and approached the bench, bringing her with him by their linked hand.
"Sir, we dare not," he said to the old man; "for certainly you will outstrip us."
A shout of laughter greeted this sally, even as Grand-père waved at the tray.
"Serana, child, serve us; then sit, so that we may plan together."
Plan? She thought, but did not ask. One did not ask Grand-père; one waited to be told.
She poured the wine, arranged the tray and table more conveniently for all, and settled onto the bench beside Don Eyr.
"So," Grand-père said, after they had savored the wine; "Mathilde has done her duty."
"She has," said Serana, matching his careless tone.
"Your lover, here, has explained how it is that he has had training of Benoit; and also how he was able to recognize and counter the particular killing strike Papin had prepared for you."
"The armor –" Serana began, and it was Don Eyr who interrupted her.
"No. Serana–that blade–it was curved. He was coming in low for a thrust and an upsweep. . ."
She stared at him in horror.
"Under the armor?"
"Yes," he said, and had recourse to his glass.
"But you –"
"I," he said with irony, "was a child wearing a baker's smock. I doubt he saw me, and if he did, he judged me no threat."
"And he would have been correct," Grand-père said, slapping his knee, "had you not learned that disarm so well, my friend! You make our House proud that you are one of our students."
Serana considered him carefully.
"Mathilde acknowledges this?"
"At first, she was inclined otherwise," Grand-père said airly. "She may have had hard words to say about bakers and civilians –" He bent a sympathetic eye upon Don Eyr. "You must not regard her, my friend; it was merely a release of her feelings, in order to free adequate room for thought."
"I understand," Don Eyr murmured. "And truly, it was an education."
Serana winced. The House Commander had a strong vocabulary, indeed. The rumor was that each commander logged every curse word in a massive book, kept under lock and key, and that adding to this book had been the sacred duty of Benoit Commanders for centuries.
"When it was put to her that having a half-trained citizen with a strong aversion to having his head stove in walking the street unsupervised was more of a danger to the City than producing a full-trained citizen, Mathilde did indeed rise to the occasion. A file was made, and a certificate produced. My friend here holds the rank of scholar-soldier in House Benoit."
"Scholar-soldier?" Serana repeated.
"There is such a rank," Don Eyr said beside her. "Sergeant Vauclelin would have me know that the last time it was awarded was nearly one hundred local years ago. But the rank was never removed from the lists."
"Indeed. And that rank will keep my young friend well, for the short time he remains on Lutetia. For yourself, Serana. . ."
"For myself," she said, tired now, despite the wine; "I must leave the City and establish myself elsewhere."
"That. . .was unavoidable," said Grand-père, sadness in his eyes. "It seems that I am doomed to lose you, child. And I would rather miss you than mourn you."
She stared at him for a moment before she recalled herself, and produced a grin which felt oddly tenuous on her mouth.
"I will miss you so very much, Grand-père."
He smiled at her.
"I know, child, but only think–you will never need mourn me, either."
It is true, thought Serana; I will never see him dead; he will therefore live forever.
"It would please me," Don Eyr said softly, "if you would consent to travel with me. Such a course would be all to my benefit, since I am insufficiently suspicious." He gave her a solemn look. "As has been pointed out."
She placed her hand on his knee and met his eyes.
"Little one, I would gladly come with you, but I will not be a burden to you. I have been turned out, with prejudice. To be crass, I have no money, and will have to make my way from the start. . ."
"As to that," said Grand-père, putting his glass aside and reaching into his vest. "I have been charged by the commander with a sum of money, which I am to give to my grandchild Serana. It is quite a considerable sum, which surprised me. I had privately considered Watch Captain Benoit something of a spendthrift. It pleases me to have been proved wrong."
He brought forth a fat wallet, and held it out to her.
Serana stared, first at the wallet, then into his eyes.
"Mathilde agrees to this?" she demanded.
"My child, Mathilde proposed this," Grand-père corrected, and smiled his particular, crooked smile. "She's coming along well, I think."
"So you see," said Don Eyr; "you need not be a burden, and, as you are well-funded, you may take your own decision, and not be. . .beholden to me."
She looked down into his eyes. His were grave.
"Serana, I would like you to come with me."
She took a breath.
"And I would like to do so," she said. "Do you think there is any possibility that I will be able to buy a berth on the ship you will be traveling on?"
"There is no need," Don Eyr said comfortably. "I hired a stateroom; there is room for both of us."
She blinked.
"You did this–when?"
"When I made my original reservations. All you need do is buy your passage."
Grand-père laughed, and rubbed his hands together.
"I like him, Serena! A man who knows what he wants, and pursues it, though others call him mad! I will miss both of you, in truth. And, now –"
The House bell rang–evening muster, that would be, thought Serana.
"Now," she said; "I must go."
"I fear so," said Grand-père. "Take the wallet, child. You will find a pack at the service gate–your clothes and other personal belongings. Take that, as well."
"Yes," she said, and rose, Don Eyr beside her.
She slipped the wallet into an inner pocket; bent and kissed the old man's cheek.
"Farewell, Grand-père; I will never forget you."
He patted her cheek, wordless for once. Serana stepped back–and Don Eyr went forward, bending to kiss the withered cheek in his turn.
"Farewell, Grand-père;" he said softly. "Thank you."
"Ah, child, would that we had longer, you and I! Take care of my Serana." A soft touch to the cheek, and a small shove against his shoulder.
"Go, now, both of you."
#
She fitted herself handily into his modest rooms, his quiet life. His associates in the school had long since become used to her occasional presence, and gave no sign that they noticed she was about more frequently these few last days.
She had some idea that she might assist him with his preparations, but there was not much to pack, and only a few things to give away. There was also a study-at-home kit that he dragged out of the bottom of the armoire, and stood for a moment, considering it ruefully.
"What is it?" Serana asked him.
"The Liaden Code of Proper Conduct," he answered, his eyes still on the kit. "My clan required that I make a study of it while I was being schooled here, as I would have done if I had remained at home."
"And did you study it?" she asked, eyeing the kit with new interest.
"Oh, yes; I learned and passed every level. Then I put it away, and I fear that I have forgotten everything that I had Learned. There was no one to discuss it with, and I saw no need to continue after I had mastered the basics."
He threw a grin over his shoulder at her.
"Nor any need to make a review. My manner, I fear, cannot but offend."
"You have beautiful manners," Serana said, faintly shocked to hear this estimation. "And your presentation is pleasing."
"Thank you," he said, giving the box one last stare, and turning to face her.
"Will you bring it with you?" she asked, she having taken charge of such packing as there was to do.
"It is a resource, I suppose. Ezhel'ti is a composite world–Liaden and Terran. Were I Terran, I expect my ignorance would be excused. As I am Liaden, I fear I will be held to a higher standard." He sighed suddenly. "I will spend time on the journey, Learning Liaden. I have been speaking and thinking in Lutetian for twelve Standards, and I fear I've forgotten the modes entirely."
"We will practice together," said Serana; "I have ordered in a study pack for my own use, and a bundle of what purport to be genuine melant'i plays. Between it and your Code, we will be very busy. And here I had dreamed of a voyage spent almost entirely in bed. . ."
He laughed.
"We might study in bed, after all."
"Yes," she agreed, with a slow smile, "so we might."
It was pleasant, living thus; and the best part of the day occurred in the dark hours just before dawn, when he rose to start the day's baking.
She asked if she might accompany him–and succeeded in surprising him.
"There is nothing to see; only me, working."
"But I have never seen you, baking," Serana said, having discovered a desire in herself to observe him at every daily action. "I will be quiet and stand out of the way."
He was silent for so long that she knew the answer would be no when he spoke. But he in turn surprised her.
"There are stools, and tea," he told her, and added, perhaps to be clear, "Yes, you may come."
#
It was a pleasure like none Serana had ever known, to sit quietly, and sip her tea, watching him at his work. He was calm, he was competent; he was unhurried and utterly concentrated. The universe held still and respectful while Dan Eyr worked, and during this sacred time, no ill was permitted to intrude upon Lutetia.
She watched him for hours, and never once grew bored. It seemed to her that she might watch him for years, and be nothing other than content.
At the end of it, the sun up, and the kitchen nearly too warm, he would surrender his creations to the over-manager, and Serana would slip out to await him in the hall. They would go up to his rooms together, hand-in-hand, to make and eat their breakfast. Often, they would not care to break the silence, and she felt no lack for it.
This morning, however, the pattern varied.
An envelope had been shoved under the door while they were away. Don Eyr bent to retrieve it, and carried it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table as they put together a simple meal.
It was not until they were seated, tea poured and bread buttered, that he noticed it again–she saw him read the envelope–start–and read it again, more closely.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing more than unusual," he said, picking the envelope up. "I have a letter from–from my delm."
The old man who hated the fact of him, who had sent him among strangers, careless of whether he might fail or thrive; more surely an orphan than she had ever been.
"Has he never written you before?"
"No, never," Don Eyr said, apparently finding nothing strange in this. "Mr. dea'Bon writes, and once, after I had first come here, Mrs. ban'Teli wrote. No one else."
If he found nothing strange, at least he found nothing dreadful, either. Serana lifted the teapot and refilled his cup.
Don Eyr slit the envelope open with a butter knife, and removed a single sheet of paper.
He stared at it, frowning, and she recalled his concern that he had forgotten his native tongue, having had so little use for it. . .
"I am–called home," Don Eyr said, sounding, for the first time in their acquaintance, uncertain. He looked up to meet her eyes. "Back to Liad, that is. I am to come immediately."
"Why such haste?"
"He does not say, merely to come at once; the clan has need of–oh."
She saw the blush mount his cheeks as his mouth tightened, and he raised his head again to meet her eyes.
"Oh?" she asked.
"Yes. I think I see. He has arranged a marriage for me–I can think of nothing else he might mean by of use to the clan."
"He has arranged a marriage?" Serana repeated. Her stomach ached, as if she had taken a punch. "But–would he not at least write you the name of your wife?"
"Not necessarily. In fact, it would be very like him to think it no concern of mine." He glanced back at the letter, mouth tight, folded it, slid it into the envelope, and put the envelope on the table, address down.
He picked up his tea cup.
Serana carefully released the breath she had been holding. He was going to ignore this peremptory and rude summoning. Well, of course he was! What hold had the old man over him, now?
"I think," Don Eyr said slowly, "that we must change our plans, somewhat. You will go to Ezhel'ti, if you would, and see the house put to order, perhaps look about for a proper location for the boulangerie."
"Will I?" she said, watching him. "And where will you go, little one?"
He blinked at her.
"I? I will go to Liad, as my delm has ordered, and be of use to the clan. When the marriage is finished, I will join you on Ezhel'ti."
He said it so calmly, as if it made perfect sense. As if the scheming old man was his patron, and must, therefore, be obeyed!
"When do you expect that the marriage will be finished?" she asked, calm in her turn.
He moved his shoulders.
"If I recall my Code correctly, which is not very likely; a contract marriage lasts a Liaden year, on average. It ends when the child is born, and has been accepted into the receiving clan."
He sent her a shrewd glance.
"It is an alliance the delm wants. An alliance that would be good for the clan, else he would not pursue it, but not. . .grand enough to marry out the na'delm."
He was so certain about this marriage, she thought, as if there were no possibility of it going wrong. Well, she had promised to be suspicious for him, had she not?
"I will go with you," she said, nodding at the letter.
Don Eyr blinked at her.
"Serana, I do not think that you would. . .like. . ." he began, and she leaned forward to lay a finger across his lips.
"I would not like that you were bedding another woman? You are correct. However, we have not promised each other monogamy, and if you must marry to seal a good alliance for your clan; I believe I may accommodate that. It will be far better if I am with you, little one. You have lost the way of the homeworld, and will need someone on your off-side."
His lips bent into an ironic smile.
"I have undoubtedly forgotten much. But Serana, I have forgotten things you have never known!"
"Ah, but I do not need to know! I am a barbarian, as anyone can see by looking at me. In fact, I am your bodyguard, such being the custom of Lutetia."
She leaned forward, and put her hand over his, holding his eyes with hers.
"Don Eyr. Petit. Can you not ignore this. . .summons?"
He drew a breath.
"I think not–no."
"So, you will go to Liad, and accomplish this duty your delm demands of you?"
"Yes," he said, though not with any eagerness.
"Very well. If that is what you will do, then I will come with you."
Silence.
Serana took a deep, quiet breath.
"If you do not want me, only say so, little one."
His free hand came to rest atop hers.
"But I cannot say so, Serana," he said. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers.
"Come, then," he murmured; "I want you."