Sword of the Lamb (12 page)

Woolf didn’t speak; he only looked at the man, eyes unyielding as stone, and that chill scrutiny silenced him, reducing him second by second to dumb paralysis; his head sank forward by degrees as if the muscles were giving way under the weight of his unspoken sentence. Alexand watched him numbly, and the irrational conviction grew in him that if his father spoke the word, “Die,” as a command, the Bond
would
die on the moment.

Finally, Woolf turned to his son. “Alex, what happened?”

He didn’t look at his father as he replied, but at the Bond. “It
was
an accident, Father, and I must admit it was my fault. If he hadn’t turned the loader in time, I’d be dead.”

Quin Seim. He must remember that name.

The Bond’s head jerked up, eyes glazed, uncomprehending.

“You’re . . . quite sure?” Woolf asked softly.

Alexand nodded. “Yes. Quite sure.”

Woolf frowned briefly. Alexand’s pallor hadn’t escaped him, nor the careful rhythm of his breathing, nor the tense set of his shoulders.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that.” His hand went out to rest on his son’s shoulder in an apparently casual gesture, went unerringly to the
right
shoulder.

Alexand flinched; only a momentary flicker in his firmly controlled features, a jerking intake of breath.

Woolf turned away. “Fer Jenson, have you had any trouble with this man before?”

The warehouse foreman hesitated, frowning at Selm. “No, my lord, not to my knowledge.”

“Again, I’m relieved. Kelmet—” He looked around and found Kelmet Woolf eyeing Jenson doubtfully. “Alexand and I have had a long day. We’ll continue the tour tomorrow. Master Camden? Have my ’car brought to the landing roof.”

Camden relayed the order to a lesser official, then, hands clasped anxiously, “My Lord, I deeply regret this terrible incident. I’m only grateful Ser Alexand wasn’t hurt.”

“Yes. Now, tomorrow morning I want to discuss the assembly system for the new SynchCom transmitter. Have your techs available at 09:00.” He went to Alexand’s left side, every movement artfully casual, even when he leaned close, speaking in a low tone only he could hear.

“Can you walk?”

Alexand controlled his surprise, managing a quick nod, and Woolf turned to Camden and the waiting officials.

“I’ve noted some problems today which I’ll discuss with the various department heads later, but on the whole I’m pleased with what I’ve seen. You may all take pride in your work as the House takes pride in you.”

That called up a murmur of grateful comment and a flutter of bows, and Woolf started to move away, but Master Camden stopped him.

“My lord? Uh . . . the Bond. What shall we do with him?”

Quin Selm found himself the focal point of two pairs of DeKoven Woolf eyes and began trembling anew.

Woolf said tersely, “Nothing. It was an accident, and my son accepted full responsibility.”

The Bond stared blankly, and it was only after two attempts that he managed to get any coherent words out.

“M-my lord, the Holy Mezion bless you! And—and you, Ser . . .” He gazed at Alexand with even less comprehension, and there met only a cool stare.

Quin Selm hadn’t seen the last of him, but now Alexand turned to face the seemingly hopeless task of reaching the landing roof without giving way to the pain that sapped his strength and spread an icy chill over his skin.

Nulgrav lifts, corridors, pedways—an endless distance. He refused to surrender. And all the while, his father was at his side, a ready presence. More farewells at the landing roof; interminable pleasantries, and somehow Woolf got rid of Kelmet. Finally, Hilding at the open door of the ’car, and once inside, Alexand heard his father’s voice, blurred against the ringing in his ears.

“Hilding, get us to the estate as quickly as possible! And ’com ahead to Dr. Dall. I want her waiting in Alexand’s suite when we arrive.”

Generators whined, sudden acceleration pressed him back into the cushioned seat, and finally he could give in, could take his father’s hand and hold on, squeezing hard against the pain.

The sun had long ago set; the windowall to his left was dark, spangled with distant lights hazed in snow.

The door slid open and Alexand turned his head on the pillow to watch the soft-treaded approach of Dr. Hariet Dall, gray-haired, wearing an antiseptically white tunic with the red Conmed caduceus on her allegiance badge. She came around to the left side of the bed, eyes moving in a quick visual assessment.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s 19:10, Ser. Have you been awake long?”

“A while. I don’t know how long.” His watch, along with the rest of his clothing, had been removed. He lay quiet, enjoying the warmth of the thermblanket. His right shoulder was bandaged, his arm immobilized in a sling; there was some pain, but it was bearable.

“Well, let’s see how you’re progressing.” She strapped a biomonitor cuff on his left wrist, paused to study the readings, then removed it with a brief nod of satisfaction. “Your physical readings are good. How do you feel?”

“All right. What’s your diagnosis?”

“Oh, aside from assorted bumps and bruises, you broke your collarbone. Rather a bad break, too, but I doubt there’ll be any permanent impairment to the use of your arm.”

That possibility hadn’t occurred to him, and he felt a momentary alarm even as she assuaged it.

“Ser, your lord father is waiting anxiously for news of you. Do you feel well enough to see him now?”

“What? Oh—yes, ’com him, please. He’ll be worried.”

And, he added to himself, angry. Alexand had broken one of his father’s cardinal rules:
Never go among Bonds, or into a Bond area alone
.

Dr. Dall politely retreated into the adjoining salon when Phillip Woolf arrived. He was dressed in formal regalia, shades of blue with silver brocade, dress boots of a blue so dark as to seem black. He sat on the bed beside Alexand, his frown of disapproval leavened with concern.

“Alexand, I won’t lecture you on wandering into Bond areas without a guard. That shoulder should provide enough of a lesson. Are you comfortable?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I caused so much trouble, and the lesson is quite clear.” Then he frowned, noting his father’s formal attire. “ ’Zion, I forgot—the dinner at the Fallor Estate.”

“Yes. I’ve prepared myself for it, but I’m not sure I should leave you tonight.”

“Father, you know I’m in good hands with Dr. Dall, and I feel very well, really. Besides, you have the lease negotiations to consider.”

“Unfortunately. At any rate,
you’ll
be delivered from the evening’s festivities. No doubt Serra Julia will be quite disappointed.” His expression was carefully noncommittal, but there was nothing gratuitous about that casual reference to Julia.

“Well, that might be one way to solve the lease problem in the future,” Alexand said flatly, as much aware of the coolness of his own tone as he was of his father’s probing gaze. “And Fallor is a habitual fence rider on the Directorate. An alliance by marriage should put him more consistently in the Galinin-Woolf camp.”

After a moment, Woolf said, “You’ve never told me what you really think of Julia.”

“I don’t really know her. Anyway, she’s only thirteen—and don’t laugh because I’m only fifteen.” Woolf managed to restrain his amusement while Alexand added, “At any rate, my feelings for Julia at the moment have no bearing on the future.”

“At the moment, no. But remember this, Alex—as I do—an Elite marriage is an irrevocable covenant, and no House can withstand the stresses of a bad marriage without suffering from it.”

Alexand only nodded, and his father’s next question caught him entirely off guard.

“Tell me, what did you think of Serra Adrien Eliseer?”

Alexand felt his cheeks go hot, but that he couldn’t control.

“I . . . I enjoyed talking with her very much.”

Woolf studied him, smiling almost imperceptibly, then, “She’s a very bright girl, so Elise tells me.”

Alexand said tightly, “Yes, she is.”

“And blessed with the Shang features. In fact, your mother assures me she’ll be a swan one day.”

A swan. A black swan. The currents of passage fan out in intermeshing waves endlessly. . . .

He cleared his throat and looked for his watch, forgetting it wasn’t on his wrist.

“Father, it’s getting late. I mustn’t keep you.”

Woolf hesitated, then with a nod came to his feet. “I won’t stay long, but I suppose I must put in an appearance.” He switched on the intercom by the bed. “Dr. Dall, come in, please.” Then he turned to Alexand with a black, arched brow raised. “I’ll convey your regrets to the Fallor as convincingly as possible.”

Alexand smiled. “Well, there had to be some recompense for this shoulder.”

“No doubt.” Then, as the door opened, “Dr. Dall, my son tells me he’s feeling very well. At least he assures me he’s in good hands with you. I’ll go on to the Fallor Estate. You can reach me there.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about, my lord.” She reached into a pocket and took out a small pill case, then filled a plasex cup with water from the dispenser on the bedside table. “Ser, I’m going to give you a sedative. It’s very important now that you get plenty of rest.”

Alexand tensed at that. He had an abiding distrust of sedatives and, beyond that, personal and compelling reasons not to let himself be sedated now. He watched helplessly as Dr. Dall uncapped the case and extended it toward him, ready to tap a capsule into his hand.

She said firmly, “Come, Ser, get this down. Your lord father won’t be so worried if he knows you’re resting.”

Alexand glanced at his father, then held out his hand for the capsule and quickly brought it to his mouth. Dr. Dall had the water ready, but after the first swallow, he began to cough, grimacing—with no pretense—at the cutting pain in his shoulder.

“Lean back, Ser. A deep breath . . . slowly now . . . there, that’s better.”

The spasm disappeared, and with it the capsule—under the covers. He took a long, careful breath, searching for any awareness of his deceit in the doctor’s eyes. There was none, nor any in his father’s anxious gaze.

“Alex, you’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“Yes, of course, Father. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll try not to. Dr. Dall, you have an open ’com line to me. Don’t hesitate to use it.” Then he pressed his son’s hand briefly. “Rest well, Alex.”

“I will. Good night.”

He closed his eyes, listening to his father’s fading footsteps, the snap of the closing door. Dr. Dall didn’t leave. She would when she thought him well asleep. He’d simply have to wait.

Alexand had anticipated some of the problems he would encounter on entering the compound and forearmed himself. His suite was as a matter of course furnished with a comconsole equipped with House memfile inputs, which were open to him with the computer’s identification of his voice print. Thus he knew there were six compounds, each housing ten thousand Bonds, and that a Bond named Quin Selm was registered to Compound A, Block SE-15-FU322, and that the work shift to which Selm was assigned ended at 20:00. From that he guessed the airshuttles would arrive at the four compound gates at about 20:30.

The memfiles, however, could not tell him exactly where in Compound A Quin Selm might be at this particular time, and he was well aware that finding one Bond in this small city would be difficult, if not impossible, since he couldn’t ask any of the guards or overseers for information. If they recognized him, which was likely, they’d feel obliged to inform Lord Woolf that his son was wandering about a Bond compound unescorted. But he had in mind a solution to the problem of locating that one Bond.

He was also aware that he was breaking his father’s rule again, going alone among Bonds, but there was no alternative to that. He
would
have some answers.

There were other problems, however, that he hadn’t foreseen. The cold, for one. The cold that seemed to numb every part of his body except his injured shoulder, and there the frigid, snow-bearing wind served to intensify the ache.

The other unforeseen factor was fear.

Alexand had little experience with fear, and it didn’t occur to him to expect it. He’d never ventured into a Bond compound like this, incognito and without guards, and he found himself in alien territory. A paradox, that. He would one day be Lord of these Bonds, the compounds would belong to him. Yet he didn’t belong in the compounds.

He had also forearmed himself—literally—with a light X laser in a spring sleeve sheath, but now as he rode an elevated pedway, anonymous in an equally anonymous crowd, the gun offered no assurance. The Bonds riding the ’way with him gave him a little space along with wary stares, yet he felt short of breath, hemmed in by voices, accents, odors, unfamiliar to him, and the sedate movement of the ’way seemed maddeningly slow.

But what he had anticipated as the worst hurdle was behind him. The gate. That had been surprisingly easy.

He had waited in the estate ’car near the north gate until the ’shuttles disgorged their loads of off-shift workers. His cloak was blue-gray, unadorned, typical Fesh attire, and he was tall enough not to seem obviously under age. A Fesh clerk or Grade I tech entering the compound on some minor errand. His face-screen was off, but the hood of his cloak was up, shadowing his face. Not unusual in view of the weather; most of the Bonds were similarly hooded.

He didn’t offer to show an ident card; he couldn’t, of course, but he wasn’t sure whether it was expected of a Fesh. Apparently not, or perhaps the guards were too distracted by the influx of Bonds, who
were
expected to present their cards for the register comp. The guards let him pass without a second glance.

But here inside the compound his face-screen was on. He wasn’t so concerned about being recognized by the Bonds, who had no access to vidicom newscasts and only occasional access to the House comsystem, but there were a few Fesh in the compound, mostly the ubiquitous guards, and they weren’t conveniently distracted like the gate guards.

He looked ahead and saw a junction of ’ways, and felt the double thuds of his heartbeat against his ribs. Here was another unforeseen problem: the possibility of getting lost. He didn’t have time to wander aimlessly around the compound. His father wouldn’t be gone more than two hours, and Alexand intended to be back in his bed at the estate well before he returned.

A moment’s consideration put the panic down. He must stay on this ’way. It was one of the main radials leading to the center of the compound, and that was his destination.

And in fact, getting lost was the least of his concerns. He had only to stay with the crowds. The central plaza was also their destination; the dining hall was there. Beyond that, all DeKoven Woolf compounds built in the last three generations were constructed on the same circular, wedge-sectioned plan, including those in Concordia; a simple, efficient design adopted by nearly every House.

But not all of them.

Alexand looked out at the dormitories as he passed, solid blocks of buildings rising from the ground two levels below, looming another two levels above him, with veins of smaller ’ways connecting them with this moving artery. He was remembering a conversation between his father and Lord Lazar Hamid of Pollux overheard at a dinner at the Home Estate.

“Really, Phillip, you’re begging trouble. Those huge dining halls, and
parks
, for the God’s sake. You give them too many places to
gather
.”

Woolf had politely refrained from pointing out that D’Ord Hamid had suffered ten times as many Bond uprisings as DeKoven Woolf, but had noted that the cost of maintaining the centralized compounds was appreciably lower, and that, if necessary, the plaza areas could be isolated with shock screens at a moment’s notice.

The pedway sloped gradually downward, and Alexand felt an anticipatory tension in the people around him. Still, their voices were oddly subdued. Perhaps it was his presence. Ahead, the buildings gave way to a wide clearing, the plaza park; he could barely see it for veils of snow, and the trees were only smudges of gray. His destination would be on the far side. The chapel.

There were nine more chapels in the compound, he knew—Bond religion apparently resisted centralization—but the plaza chapel was always the domain of the
Elder
Shepherd. That adjective implied veneration won by wisdom and long years of service, and every Bond in the compound was considered part of the Elder Shepherd’s flock.

And the Elder Shepherd was the one person in this compound who would be likely to know where to find a Bond named Quin Selm at this particular time; not only to find him, but to bring him to Alexand without arousing his suspicions.

He pulled in a deep breath, letting it out in a brief white cloud. Shivering; he couldn’t seem to stop it. The ’way moved him inexorably past lighted windows casting glowing shafts at monotonously regular intervals. The plasment walls were tinted different colors, but they melded into a bleak gray. The artificial lights, perhaps, or the snow.

The snow
.

His breath caught as shock tightened every muscle and sent spasms of pain down his arm and back. He’d been so preoccupied with himself, his purpose, his fears, that he hadn’t given the incredible fact of snow inside this compound a thought even while he shivered with the cold that fostered it.

The atmobubbles should be activated.

A mechanical failure. That must be it.

He looked down over the railing. The ’way was only one level above ground now. The snow was piled nearly a meter deep against the walls. No mechanical failure would take as long to repair as it took that snow to accumulate to that depth.

He closed his eyes. Dizzy. He waited until he was sure of his equilibrium, wishing desperately he could get off the pedway, could stop moving. Finally, he looked at his watch. Half an hour. He’d left the estate half an hour ago, yet it seemed half a day—half a night.

The ’way angled down between single-level buildings built in long arcs to conform with the circular shape of the plaza. He could see the bottom of the ’way, the Bonds moving left to the dining hall. None of them chose to cross the paved lane circumscribing the park; their evening meals awaited them in the hall.

He didn’t pause at the end of the ’way, but crossed the paving, finding it treacherously slick where the snow was packed by footsteps. When he reached the park, he stopped under a frost-rimed elm and looked back. Against the glow of the hall windowalls the Bonds were dark silhouettes, spacing themselves under the prodding of the guards into slow-moving lines at the entrance.

He found anger as much a part of his awareness as cold now; it was a product of the cold. Why weren’t the ’bubbles on?

The snow was unseasonable, so he and his father had been told, but, even if it were true, there was no conceivable excuse for letting these people suffer from this cold.

Kelmet Woolf. Only he could be responsible for this.

Fesh peculation was so common it had to be accepted as a fact of business. The rule of thumb was that for every ’cord of profit to the House, ten ’cords were lost along the way and channeled into various Fesh pockets. But subverting the ’bubble system was too large an undertaking to be carried out successfully by Fesh. It could only be done with the approval—or, rather, at the behest—of the highest ranking authority, in this case the resident VisLord. Did Kelmet think Phillip Woolf would fail to notice such blatant fraud?

But the compounds weren’t included on the scheduled tour of inspection. Alexand had questioned his father about that. His time was short, the Fallor lease negotiations were his primary concern, and, although he had never liked Kelmet personally, he trusted him; he was a good manager.

A better manager than Woolf realized, apparently.

Alexand turned and set off down the path that bisected the park. His boots made a soft crunching in the white-and-gray solitude, his cloak flapped in the keening wind, and only the angry clenching of his teeth kept them from chattering. And with every step the light was dimmer. He thought at first it was because of the trees over the path until he passed a helion stanchion and saw that the light wasn’t on. Before he reached the center of the park, he determined that three-quarters of the helions were dark. More good management.

He walked on in numb anger, wondering what other forms of good management Kelmet was indulging in to his own profit. He had hoped to keep this foray secret from his father, but he must be told; he must know how his trusted steward repaid his faith.

Alexand was near the hub of the park now, an open expanse of white sparkling in the light of a single helion mounted above a frozen pond that should have sported a tumbling fountain. The wind had a longer sweep here, and he pulled his hood around his face, his pace quickening. But when he reached the pond, he stopped short.

Something was lying in the snow near the path. Small and dark. He might have overlooked it if the light hadn’t caught in a brief reflection in its eye.

He stood paralyzed not by cold, but by horror that was irrational in view of the size of the creature. Not as big as a cat. It was some time before he realized it wasn’t even alive. Frozen; the snow was slowly burying it in white.

Alexand had never seen a rat, but he recognized this beast and understood his horror at it. A product and carrier of filth and disease, its presence here, so close to where people ate and slept, in this park meant for their pleasure, was incomprehensible.

His stomach cramped with nausea; he began running, past the frozen pond, across the white waste beyond. It was only when he reached the trees that pain finally stopped him. He leaned against a black trunk, panting, every breath tangible in a puff of vapor, until finally he had the pain and himself under control.

The chapel. He must find the Elder Shepherd.

He’d come here for answers and no doubt he’d already found some of them, but he wanted Quin Selm’s answers.

The chapel would accommodate five hundred people, but there were no more than thirty here now, scattered among the pews, kneeling with arms crossed, hands resting on opposite shoulders in the attitude of prayer peculiar to the Bonds. Alexand paused inside the door, his shivering muscles relaxing in the welcome warmth that made his hands and face tingle with the rush of blood.

The only light was that of candles, a soft, amber light that didn’t reach the curved vault of the ceiling. Along the side walls between narrow, arched windows in deep niches, were small altars, each banked with votive candles and surmounted by a crudely painted ikon of a saint. The main altar was set into an arched recess six meters in height and consisted of a raised dais with a long, high table against the wall; on the table was a row of tall tapers arranged in three groups of three. Enclosed in the arch above the altar, painted in the same primitive style as the saints on the side walls, was the image of Yesu Kristus, Avatar of the All-God, the Holy Mezion.

Alexand stared transfixed at it. The Orthodox Church of the Fesh and Elite never employed visual images so realistic, instead relegating the Mezion to an abstract plane. There was power in this grim, unblinking figure, drawn within a radiant
mandorla
, zigzags of drapery folds delineating the form, large, black-outlined eyes staring out of an implacable face, both hands raised in blessing. This immutable image was paradoxically comforting; stern, demanding, omniscient, but still, and above all, just. This was, Alexand thought, the Mezion that Bishop Colona would have seen in his desert visions seven centuries ago.

A Bond wearing the gold-colored skullcap of a chapel acolyte was finishing the lighting of the altar candles. Alexand walked down the center aisle, treading lightly in the intimidating quiet. When he reached the altar dais, the acolyte turned, then bowed, eyeing him a little warily.

“Sirra? May I be of service?”

Alexand kept his voice low, as the acolyte had. “Where will I find the Elder Shepherd?”

He hesitated only briefly. “Father Hezaki is in his visitation room, sirra. This way.”

He bowed to the image of the Mezion, then led Alexand to a door opening to the right of the altar. His knock was answered by an unquestioning invitation to enter, and the door slid open to reveal a small, candle-smoked room. One wall was solid with shelves of jars and bottles filled with leaves, seeds, roots, and powders. The Shepherd was, apparently, like so many of his fellows, a practitioner of herbal medicine. On the far wall under a painted ikon was a miniature altar decked with candles, and in the center of the room, a narrow table empty except for a battered relic of a tea brew. In front of the table were two straight-backed chairs, and behind it another.