Even its most ardent detractors admitted the leap-shift’s few moments of discomfort were adequate recompense for traveling untold light-years in the frame of a thought. Even so, only the gravest of matters could have induced Morpath to endure a Zurd leap-cubicle. As Chief Procurer of House Mondragon, he could have used the services of a legion of competent lower rankings under his command. Yet this mission had been too important, and it’s substance too clandestine to entrust to an underling.
He shifted restlessly in his recliner and gazed out the viewport of the cubicle. It floated in space well beyond the gravitational pull of either Earth or her lunar satellite. The sight caused the corners of his mouth to twist in wry humor. For every achievement, no matter how miraculous, there was always a limitation. Even the awesome ability of the Zurd to shift matter was rendered ineffectual when near any sizable planetary body.
He watched the star-etched emptiness and struggled with his impatience. There was as yet no sign of the tug, though a few cubicles had materialized since his. This was Earth. At the hub of the empire, traffic was heavy at the best of times. At any rate, there was no one to whom he could complain at the moment. The prominence of his rank ensured he was the sole passenger of this particular leap-cube.
After a protracted delay, the automated voice of the cabin warder signaled the all clear. The process of materialization was complete.
He rose and collected his travel case. Even though the companionway to the tug docking bay beckoned, he paused, extracting the slim container from beneath his robe. With delicate precision, his long fingers pulled the tapered wand from the hidden pocket of his sleeve and keyed open the magna-locks. With trembling hands, he lifted the tiny vial from the cushioned interior. He sighed—an exhalation of relief. It had survived the journey intact.
The liquid within barely moved against the crystalloid wall of the vial. It possessed the sluggishness of thickened honey, with an identical amber hue. Yet there the similarity ended. The average plebe of the salariat could not have possessed the tiniest drop of this substance, even though he offered his entire earnings from a life of drudging servitude. Even the rich and influential—be they of a Royal House or not—were forbidden its pleasure. It had long been banned by the Judicata as being too addictive for any human to long sustain. And yet, as with any lock, it took only the right key to open it. And sometimes, as in this case, it took a little greasing of palms.
Like Tiswin, it was a distillate of the burin-gita plant of Reamur, though of the more powerful sap exudate rather than the leaf. The resin rose only for the briefest period and but once every cycle. It had been named the Tincture of Aurora after the great love-goddess of the Grimman-Seth—the namesake of their home planet. She was alleged to have been the essence of beauty. Whether this was true or not, the Tincture was the most powerful aphrodisiac known to exist anywhere within the empire.
When he thought of whose body it would adorn, Morpath felt a sudden surge of lust. An accompanying hardness in his groin threatened to overpower him. He beckoned his will, and his mind echoed to the litany he had created for himself.
Stronger than shield-glow. More powerful even than the sword.
His mind steadied and he felt his control returning.
Patience…patience. Soon, my beauty, you will be mine.
With trembling hands, he checked his disruptor. It nestled beneath his armpit and the Crystal was full. He had more powerful weapons at his disposal but he could not use them here. Not yet. It was possible that the Grimman-Seth would try to regain possession of the drug through the use of a third party. It was a common practice and easily done. What merchant could resist doubling his profit? They were no better than thieves, after all. Although this one had been the Grimman-Seth overlord of Reamur: Kundas Jaff, brother to the broodmaster himself.
It was likely over-caution on his part to suspect foul play. Even an unscrupulous scoundrel like Jaff would hesitate to try anything against the Mondragons, especially on their home ground. He would be satisfied with having raped them financially. Two hundred tarks, by the Rim! The baroness would be furious, even though he was certain she would have given more if need be.
Satisfied, he replaced the vial in its hidden niche and moved into the corridor. To reach the exit port, he must pass the leap chamber…and the Zurd. His sudden abhorrence almost reached the level of fear, yet he felt no shame. The aversion had been ingrained in him since birth.
Zurd—the drinkers of blood. He could not see through the shaded screen enclosing the booth, but he could feel their presence. They were undoubtedly already in dreamsleep. It was their normal condition until awakened for the necessity of the leap…or the feeding.
It did not help to realize on a purely intellectual level that they were a necessity. Indeed, they were the cornerstone of the empire, linking its vast boundaries in a way no conventional means ever could. The waterworlds and the desert worlds. The cold, the hot, the windy, and the gaseous. The barren and the lush…all the myriad realms constituting the Pentarchy of Solarian. Neither the techno-wizardry of the Rudd nor the Grimman-Seth had managed it half so well. Yet to him they would always remain a plague…a disease for which there was no cure.
As he neared the exit, he could see the approaching lights of the transport tug. Some turn—neither sooner nor later, but inevitably—this would change. Some technik or engineer would invent a mechanical device or alter a particular Zurd gene and the empire would suddenly be gifted with short-range, intragravity matter transmission. It would make conventional transports like the tug obsolete.
His passage to the surface was stately. Traffic was horrendous, even more congested than usual. This made Morpath wonder if something more interesting than normal happenstance had occurred during his absence.
They traveled past the former Observatory of pre-Cloister—a derelict and shadowed tribute to the once-vaunted achievements of the Old Ones. The council had ordered it left undisturbed and enshrined on the personal wish of the archduke.
After the discomfort of leap and the company of Zurd, the process of deceleration was brief and the tug made its landing. His ID bore the red dragon of House Mondragon and ensured him priority clearance. The port officers waved him through entry without a search, as he had known they would.
He immediately spied the dark robes of the Adept awaiting him: Aidan, the personal bodyguard of Georgina Raven, Baroness of Brigantia. As the daughter of the Lady Niobe and niece of the archduke, she stood Fourth in House and was under royal protection.
He had expected the meeting since the baroness would be anxious to hold her prize. He found himself wondering if the Adept realized what he was carrying. Not that it would matter to one of the Swordkind. The foibles of lesser mortals were beyond their notice.
Morpath approached him and bowed. “The lady awaits?”
The Adept nodded without speaking.
This particular Adept was even more reticent than most of his kind. Morpath suspected his duty as bodyguard was not entirely to his liking. That would not stop him from safeguarding the baroness’ person against any danger, even though it might mean sacrificing his life.
The procurer began to move toward the chute entry but the Adept blocked his way with a raised arm, followed by a quick gesture in another direction. “The personal Flitter of the baroness lies that way. It is nearby.”
Morpath altered his course without comment. They made their way through the milling throng of the spaceport like a ship cleaving the waters of a calm sea. All persons made way before the advancing form of the Adept. It was as though they feared to touch the aura of his shield-glow, a dim gleam that encircled him in scarlet.
They reached the exit ramp in conjunction with another party, which had traveled past security with equal speed. Morpath recognized the leader. His magnificent robe bore the gold braid of a Guild Proctor: Fenton Drak of the Guild of Rubicans. This arm of the Guild was entrusted with all matters dealing with the Radian Crystals, also known as power stones. As the second-highest ranking member of the Rubicans, he was one of the most influential men in the Pentarchy.
The guildsman saw Morpath and nodded in recognition. His pace slackened as though he might be inclined to chat. The procurer also slowed his step to match, in spite of the look of annoyance that crossed Aidan’s face. Drak was a noted socialite and usually possessed all the latest gossip of the city. There was a good chance he could explain the increase in traffic.
“Greetings, Proctor Drak. You are looking hale and hearty.”
Drak smiled his pleasure at the compliment. He was a short, rotund man with a pudgy face that might have been mistaken for cherubic until one looked into his eyes. They were small and close-set, embedded in flesh like a pig’s, and exhibiting every bit of the animal’s voracity.
“Ah...Morpath, my compliments to you.” The guildsman glanced at the Adept and his eyes narrowed. “You have been away on the baroness' service?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Morpath replied.
“How so?”
“A private matter,” Morpath said, glancing aside. “You understand.”
Drak’s look was even more intense as he smiled through thinned lips. “You have missed the goings on, then. Quite interesting things have been happening on the old planet in your absence.”
“I suspected something as I was descending from the cube,” Morpath said, trying not to sound too interested. “Is it a secret?”
“Huh!” Drak grunted. “Not quite a secret, though I suspect there are details being withheld. The holomen are fairly slavering in their search.” He went on to describe the events in the Royal Warren of Shaka and the present state of affairs.
“You say this…this barbarian actually attacked a Sword Thane, then took his sword and bested him outright?” There was a note of disbelief in Morpath’s voice meant to draw out and not insult.
“That is the gist of it,” Drak replied with pouting lips. “And not just any Sword Thane, but Mendiko, Prince of Sid. All was witnessed by the Lord Marshal of the Gardai, and by Roland, brother of the wenlord, Shaka. Unimpeachable sources.”
“Grave tidings, indeed,” Morpath declared, frowning. “The council sits?”
“There is some dispute. Argus feels this is a matter for the Swordkind alone since it involves the matter of Code-breaker. It is the first time in history…”
“This is neither the proper place nor a fitting time for such talk.”
The voice of Aidan was without inflection, yet the expression on his dark face was, at the very least, unpleasant. Displeasure for an Adept equaled rage to the ordinary man.
Drak’s face went livid at the interruption. He sputtered for a few seconds longer and then became silent as he noted the Adept's mood.
“You are correct, Lord Aidan.” Morpath brushed the shoulder of Drak and gently pushed him into motion. “I have no doubt we shall be speaking again and soon, but at a more opportune time. Until then, dearest Fenton...”
Drak hurried away without a backward glance, his retainers in tow. His speed—evidenced by the great jiggling of his buttocks—reflected gladness at the opportunity of escape.
Aidan spun on his heel without further comment and Morpath followed. A frown once again lined his brow as his mind spun its dark thoughts.
***
“What is your name, girl?”
“Zoria, mistress.”
“You will address me as Baroness or my lady, understood?”
The girl named Zoria tensed. Her delicate head on its gracefully columned neck could only answer with a series of jerky nods. “Yes…Baroness.”
Georgina Raven, Baroness of Brigantia, Fourth in the House of Mondragon smiled in satisfaction. Respect and obedience—the first lessons. But you will learn others…many others.
The girl was new, purchased that very morning from the auction block of Ravel. Georgina had not yet tasted the moment of first pleasure. She leaned back against the cushioned marble of the pool and the movement caused small ripples to spread out over the perfumed water. Above her right shoulder sat a girl-in-waiting. At her gesture, the girl handed down a slim glass filled with dark liquid—wine, tinged with a hint of Tiswin. Her tongue flicked out cat-like then returned to moisten her full lips.
“Remove your gown, Zoria.”
The girl wore a gown of diaphanous material. It was little more than a wish, yet clothing still. She hesitated for the briefest of seconds. With head lowered, she began to untie the silken drawstring that threaded beneath her breasts.
“Look at me!”
The girl reacted like a startled bird at the shouted command. Her arms flew up and she staggered backward a half step before regaining her balance. A brief exclamation of surprise had escaped her lips.
“Do not take your eyes from mine,” Georgina ordered.
With trembling fingers, the girl resumed her task. The gown floated across her body and dropped with a whisper to the tiled floor. Thick eyelashes fluttered, yet her gaze never wavered.
You are exquisite, Georgina thought, the lust hot and tingling in her center. Worth every quintal that tharfi of a broker forced me to pay. She turned her head and her voice was rough with command.
“Leave us!”
The serving girl set her tray on the tiles and left in a scurry of bare feet.
Georgina lifted her glass once more. She had already supped more than normal, but anticipation kept her senses heightened. She resumed her scrutiny. Zoria was a Kumite from Huna, a level three, Earth-class planet under the dominion of the Rudd. The Rudd were water-breathers, the race of first contact so many cycles past. They were now one of the five ruling races of the Pentarchy.
Like humankind, the Kumites—the dominant species of Huna—varied in stature, yet they were swarthy of complexion, with coal-black hair and eyes. Zoria was an exception. There was little doubt of her mixed blood. A product of some wandering merchant’s seed was Georgina’s guess, though there had been no indication in her bill of lading. Her kind was known as ‘Shabin’ in the tongue of the Kumites, meaning albino or without color.
This was not true of Zoria. Hers was not the bloodless-white pigmentation of the Zurd but the rich, milky hue of almond cream. Her eyes were hazel, yet lightened as though covered with a transparent film, and flecked with golden motes that gave them a feline quality. The hair was platinum, like Kryll, the most precious blend of the Metals—yet soft and wispy as corn silk.
“Descend the steps into the pool…pause at the last one,” Georgina ordered. She would savor the moment a while longer.
The girl moved as if she feared the steps might be slippery. Even so, her movements showed natural grace. Yet there remained a timidity the baroness did not find attractive. Zoria paused as commanded on the last step. Without being told, she lifted her head and looked straight at Georgina.
Good. Intelligence and some training, even if only from gazing at the holos.
“Display yourself.”
Zoria drew her shoulders back and her full breasts thrust out, the nipples distended. Her left leg was held forward, whether by design or to achieve the proper balance was uncertain, but it was provocative. Her waist was narrow and blended into flaring hips. The muscle tone was excellent: notable yet not overdeveloped.
“Turn.”
A complete revolution revealed flawless skin and a shapely posterior.
Georgina rose slowly from the water’s warmth. Reaching up, she unpinned the large mass of her coiled hair. It tumbled thick and lustrous, reaching below her waist. She moved forward and the water dropped to her thigh, then lower as she reached the shallows near the girl. The sudden coolness of the air did nothing to detract from her heat.
“Step down.”
There was little room for the girl as she descended the final way and stood in front of the baroness. Georgina felt the electricity of nearness as their bodies touched.
“You have offered yourself in contract of your own free will for a period of one cycle. I have paid the agreed asking price. The transaction has been recorded before the Judicata. Do you understand the significance of this?” She waited silently for the response. She could feel the gentle tug of the other girl’s breath on her shoulder.
“Perhaps…not fully, my lady.” Zoria’s smile was sweet and trusting. The motes danced along with reflected lights from the pool. Her hair shone like moon-silver.
“It is very simple,” Georgina smiled in answer. “Your body, your mind...your very being now belong to me utterly for the next cycle. You will obey my every wish precisely and without pause or argument. Failure to do so will engender punishments both swift and harsh.” She reached forward and placed her finger on the girl’s lips. She felt the instant trembling. “Yet obedience will be rewarded in kind, equally swift and much more pleasing than you can imagine. So much you may wish to renew.”
The custom of the contract was as old as the empire. Agents working for brokerages or Noble Houses scoured the known worlds for quality. Young plebes for the most part, those with little or no future on their homeworlds, yet possessed of some skill or refinement. This might be beauty, adeptness in the arts, or a more practical form. It did not matter. The only criterion was that it be desirable to others of wealth and power who were more than willing to pay the asking price for a termed possession. Sometimes the arrangement worked out well, with lasting affections by both parties. Other times it was the opposite, a misery never to be repeated. The contract was binding in either case.
Georgina knew she would tire of this girl in spite of the exceptional beauty she possessed—as she had with all the others. And well before the contract ended. She might sell the remaining period for this was allowed. Or she might trade the girl to a friend or acquaintance for the promise of a future favor. Yet in these first hours and turns, there was only a heady excitement, the ultimate conquest more powerful and thrilling than any hunt imaginable.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“I see my lady.”
Georgina’s laugh was rich. “Describe me.”
“My lady is tall…much taller than I, and…” Zoria paused, searching for the right word, “…full bodied?”
“Voluptuous,” Georgina supplied the correction and smiled.
The girl answered her smile. It was a game now and she was less afraid.
Georgina towered over the other girl by a head yet her symmetry was even closer to perfection. “And my skin. How would you picture it?”
“It is the color of shickry, the fire-clay of Delusia, yet supple and smooth.”
“How do you know it is supple and smooth?”
“How?” For the first time, Zoria´s eyes showed confusion. Her eyelashes fluttered.
“Touch it to know,” Georgina breathed.
The girl stretched upward, reaching out to touch the shoulder of the taller woman…
“No!” Georgina grabbed her wrist. As the girl instinctively tried to pull away, she held her easily, letting her feel her strength. She guided the trembling hand to her breast. “Here is better. Now caress my skin.” She waited until the trembling subsided, then let her hand drop away. Zoria’s fingers remained on the large mount of her breast and began to move, grazing the nipple until it hardened to a peak.
“Like the cloth of the Lutian spinworm.” Zoria´s voice was a single drawn-out breath. Her eyes were almost closed.
“And my hair?”
Without being told, the Kumite reached forward, her hand clutching and filling with the dark thickness of Georgina´s hair. Her ribs expanded and contracted, showing plainly as excitement increased her breath in volume and speed. Gently, she brought it toward her face until it touched her lips. “This too is soft and alive with scent.”
There was a husk to her voice now. Georgina smiled, as she had smiled so many times before. Sweet little Kumite…you do not even know the depths of your sensuality. I suspect the well is almost bottomless and as yet unplumbed. But we shall find it, never fear.
She allowed the girl to guide her to a raised platform at the near end of the pool. There she laid herself down, stretching out upon the soft cushions. She dipped her hand beneath her and came up with a floating sponge of aqua-blue. It was from Kali, another of the water worlds under the Rudd dominion. It possessed an intrinsic cleansing agent exuding a subtle aroma of natural perfume. She handed it to the girl. “Bathe me. Leave nothing untouched. Discover all the hidden places.”
Georgina relaxed, letting go of her stress as the sponge and the soft hands of the girl stroked her flesh. For the moment, she was happy to let the waves of her lust recede and entertain her thoughts instead.
Rumors abounded throughout the city. Strange, incredible happenings even were they partially true. A stranger had invaded the warren of Shaka, unarmed and wandering the wastes. He had been wounded by a tharfi, yet not killed. Then he had attacked a Sword Thane and defeated him with his own weapon, even to the point of summoning the Flame. All had been witnessed by Adepts of the First Rank, their testimony unassailable.
That very evening representatives would assemble in the Star Chamber for an emergency session of council. They would gather from the five points of the empire.
The Grimman-Seth were the bird race and the most warlike of all, hot-blooded and temperamental, ever ready to battle over the least imaginable slight.
And the Rudd, the water-breathers, originating from the vast seas of Rudan, their homeworld. They had been the first to offer mankind the hand of kinship and acceptance as brother race. They were the most technologically advanced of all, lovers of peace and tranquility for the most part. And yet if forced to the brink of war, they would fight as readily as the Grimman-Seth, their ancient enemy now turned ally.
Then there was the enigmatic D’ia Mor, the original possessors of the Metals, Ryl and Kirlin. Their mysterious arrival a millennium before had wrought the greatest impact in the Pentarchy’s history, and the most far-reaching changes to its structure.
Faerwyn-Joss was the Earth-twin, beloved of the Rudd and therefore friendly rivals from the beginning. They were human kindred and likewise blessed with the Gift of the Swordkind.
And last, but certainly not least, was Earth, the most powerful of the Solarian Pentarchy and led by House Mondragon. They alone possessed the Serum of Longevity and the secret of Zurd.
The matter was grave enough it was being kept from the public. Even the holomen were not privy to the details in their entirety. Secrets, no matter how closely guarded, must eventually filter through the thick walls of Castle Mondragon. Yet there had been little more than a whisper so far.
Who was this stranger? What was he like? Few matters had upset the Pentarchy the way this man had, even in these times of growing instability and tension. Was it a forecast…dire, ill-omened, and therefore enticing?
Without a doubt, this gave promise of being a cycle full of momentous happenings. There would be the long-awaited celebration of the millennium. The one-thousandth year of post-Cloister was also the time of the Great Moot, when Adepts of the Swordkind gathered to test their skill in the Korda. It was bound to be more eventful than normal. During this moot, Zel, son of the primus would contest for the title of Riark for the fifth and final time. Victory would ensure him the Kryll, a matter of only singular happenstance since the inception of the Sword Brotherhood.
Thoughts of Zel brought his picture to mind: tall and handsome, yet with a growing shadow to his character she found strangely alluring. Dearest Zel, you alone are my match, even though forbidden to me by the laws of blood-kin.
And the most momentous occasion of all, greater even than the moot, was the impending union of two Noble Houses: Zel of the Mondragons and Ashara Sid, fairest flower of Faerwyn-Joss. Fairest flower of the five realms if the wordmasters were to be believed. Yet they were a fickle lot and mercurial in their praise. Often in the past they had they described the baroness in similar fashion. Yet the girl’s beauty was undeniable, the sweetness of untouched youth coupled with the promise of passion. Why then did Zel spend so much time on Triton, the adopted homeworld of the D’ia Mor? Had the focus of his passion changed so much all else was dimmed by the sword?
A soft murmur of pleasure escaped her lips as Zoria’s fingers repeatedly brushed her nipples. With gentle pressure, she was turned over onto her belly. The girl’s hands were much emboldened as they stroked the taut mounds of her buttocks, the sponge all but forgotten. Georgina turned her head and her eyes spoke a wordless command.
The sponge dropped and the questing fingers began to stroke the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, teasingly moving in and away from the outer folds of her womanhood.
Georgina cried out as she felt the stroking move further inward, gently and rhythmically pushing. Waves of wild heat flooded her brain. She squirmed, rolling onto her left side, moving her right leg forward. As the girl lowered her head, she could see the full mouth wet and glinting, the wide eyes now locked on hers. The climax began. Behind her closed lids, she saw a high tower that she mounted, clawing her way upward. There at last lay the summit…seen but not quite reached…
“My lady…”
The voice was a needled assault upon her mind and the focus of her passion was brutally ripped away.
“My lady…”
“Be gone!”
The scream tore from her throat but it was too late; she would not be able to take back the feeling. She knew this beyond doubt. She could feel it slipping away…like a jewel falling into the water…lost…
“My lady did command me to inform her of the appointed time.”
She recognized the voice now and rage caused her to drag herself up from the cushions. She fell clumsily as she entered the water but struggled to her knees. She began crawling up the steps. Her eyes, still half-blinded by passion were now narrowed with hate. A face loomed above her, weathered with age yet maddeningly serene, the expression mocking.
“Suna! You dare to violate my privacy?”
“The Guardian Adept and Procurer Morpath await you in the anteroom,” Suna replied. “The procurer bears something of import.” The woman’s azure eyes were still bright, though encased in wrinkled folds as they flicked toward Zoria. Her gaunt lips thinned even further. “Perhaps the baroness does not remember her instructions to me?”
“I remember!” Georgina sprang up as she spoke. Her outstretched hand caught hold of Suna’s ankle and yanked viciously. The older woman fell to the tiled floor, emitting a grunt of pain. Georgina reached the summit and stood over her as she tried to regain her feet.
“Ugly hag…this will be the last time you interfere.” Her anger was cold rather than hot, infinitely more dangerous. Spurious offspring of the archduke this woman was without a doubt, and also her kin however thin the blood might be. Still, her continued insolence could no longer be overlooked. She grasped Suna’s hair and dragged her to her feet. She slapped her hard enough to draw blood. The woman staggered back, almost falling a second time.
She had been a beauty once and a favorite of Georgina for many cycles, with a body as slender and fragile as a burin-gita stem. But that had been long ago. Her noble birth had not been confirmed and the Serum had been denied. The once beautiful face and form were now ravaged by the remorseless onset of time.
“Send my body slave with a suitable gown. Then bid them come.”
“The Adept will not enter here,” Suna answered, her voice still sullen.
Georgina stepped quickly forward and hit her again. This time there was enough force to drop the woman to her knees. She was prevented from slumping to the floor when the baroness gripped her hair and pulled her face close. “Beware, Suna! You will push me too far…and it will be your ending, one way or the other.” Blood trickled from the older woman’s lip as the two eyed each other, anger mirrored by hate.
Despite her threat, Georgina knew she could never enforce it—even for gross disobedience. It was the archduke who had put the woman in her service long ago, unknowing of the hate that would develop between the two.
There were plenty of other illegitimates born to royal blood who had not been recognized, and therefore not granted the Serum. That was the law and the archduke upheld it. Yet he was not so cold he would permit his daughter to suffer any lethal punishment, no matter what her indiscretions. Not even a transfer to a lesser House. Yet this stricture would not stop Georgina from administering the lash when she had the time.
She moved forward, a naked and menacing animal. The well-develo