House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (25 page)

The Lord Phillip DeKoven Woolf strode into the room, flanked by two scarlet-uniformed House guards and a perspiring Conpol captain. The doctor stared with sagging jaw, then scrambled to his feet, bowed jerkily, and dropped the roll of gauze; it unfurled silently and spent itself at Woolf’s feet.

The captain snapped, “Cambry! I thought you’d be finished by now!”

While the doctor nervously made excuses and tried to collect the gauze. Alexand waited silently, looking up into his father’s face.

It was a mask, perfectly controlled, expressionless, unreadable. Only when he first entered and his eye chanced on Alexand’s arm, still exposed below the elbow, was there a hint of reaction, but it was too fleeting to be interpreted.

The mask was enough.

No frown of rage, no glare of chagrin, no accusing stare was necessary. Alexand knew the mask from childhood.

You’re as much a traitor as your brother
.

He heard the words echoing down the long corridors of memory, while Woolf said quietly to the captain, “Let the doctor finish. I’ll wait.”

Within a minute, Cambry was back in his chair hurriedly finishing the bandage, the House guards were waiting in the hall, the captain had been sent back to wherever he came from, and the Conpol guard was back in his position at Alexand’s left, rigidly at attention. Woolf was sitting by the table, adding nothing to the silence in the room.

At length, Cambry completed his task, mumbled vaguely about an oral analgesic as he put a pill bottle on the bedside table, then stuffed his equipment into his case, and fled to the door, bowing repeatedly to Woolf. The guard, at Woolf’s gesture of dismissal, followed him.

By no stretch of the imagination could they be considered alone. The guards waited outside the open door, and the room was crowded with mechanical eyes and ears. Yet again Alexand felt that profound sense of isolation, the heritage of the Cliff. He rose, and it seemed an overwhelming effort, found his shirt and pulled it on, leaving it unfastened, then put on the glove; it hid the bandages. He wondered if Woolf would speak at all if he didn’t initiate it. He still hadn’t moved, his eyes were still fixed on him.

Alexand asked, “Is Lord Galinin alive?” The ears behind the monitors would wonder if he didn’t ask that.

“Yes. He’s alive.”

Alexand’s relief wasn’t feigned; only a delayed response.

“Thank the God.”

“Indeed, Commander Ransom,” Woolf said coolly. “Certainly the thanks for his survival aren’t due you.”

Commander Ransom. Alexand nodded and went to the window to look out at Concordia palled in disaster.

“Then Lord Galinin is still unconscious.”

“Is that a question or a guess?” Or a known fact to which he shouldn’t have access; Woolf didn’t voice that alternative.

“It’s a deduction based on the fact that I’m imprisoned here and obviously convicted beyond a doubt in your mind of the attempted assassination of the Chairman.” He turned, leaning back against the window frame. “Why are you here?”

For a long time Woolf only stared at him, his weariness evident in the shadows under his eyes, the white line around his mouth.

“I suppose I had to . . . to see you with my own eyes.” The mask slipped then, revealing bewilderment and pain, and behind that true recognition; he was for this moment looking at the son whom he had sired, nurtured, loved, and grieved.

He said dully, “I was called to Mathis’s office and found him lying unconscious in his own blood, and I was told . . . I was told that my son is alive. Alexand is
alive
.” He laughed, a hollow, despairing sound, and Alexand closed his eyes wearily.

“Father, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for you to learn of my living so . . . brutally.”

“How could it have been anything
less
than brutal when the next thing I was told was that my son—my resurrected son— was responsible for Mathis’s . . .” His jaw clamped tight and he shook his head dazedly. “I thought it had to be an error in identification. Even later when I was given proof from the VP ident taken here, I still couldn’t believe it. I had to . . . see you.”

Alexand took a step toward him. “And can you believe I’m guilty of trying to kill Grandser? Isn’t there any doubt in your mind about that?”

Woolf rose abruptly. “How
can
there be?”

“How can there
not
be? Father, you . . .” He started to say,
You know me; I’m your son
. But the mask was in place again, and what he read in his father’s eyes made those words meaningless.

“Commander Ransom, the man who tried to kill Mathis Galinin is not my son.”

Alexand turned away, toward the window, and finally he nodded.

“No . . . my lord. He isn’t.” Then he heard a movement behind him; Woolf starting for the door. “In the God’s name, at least let me—”

“Defend yourself? You’ll have an opportunity for that—”

“When my case comes to trial? You aren’t so naive. At least consider the fact that Galinin instructed Selig to draw up a decree recognizing me as an envoy.”

“And under what duress?”

“You know Mathis Galinin better. What kind of duress could I possibly use to induce him to do anything he considered a betrayal of the Concord?”

“What kind of duress? No doubt that would come under the general heading of what you call ‘conditioning.’ ”

“My lord, you are, naturally enough, ill informed on that subject. Mathis Galinin is highly resistant; I doubt he could be conditioned at all, except in consent. But you still haven’t suggested an explanation for my trying to kill him
before
he
signed
the decree, or, in fact, why I’d detonate a bomb while I was still in the same room.”

At that, Woolf only shrugged. “I’m quite sure you didn’t
intend
to detonate it at that time, but accidents and errors do occur. You can’t deny the fact that when that bomb went off, you were alone with Mathis in a locked room to which no one else had access.”

“Have you forgotten the private entrance? Did you question the guard? You know the guards at that entrance always carry lectrikeys in case of emergency.”

“I didn’t question him personally. I’ve had other more pressing matters to occupy me—like riots in every major city, and the Centauri System in shambles.”

“Still, I’d advise you to talk to the guard, because the bomb
did
come through the private entrance. I saw it.”

Woolf eyed him impatiently, but after a short pause folded his arms across his chest and asked mockingly, “You
saw
it? Well, Commander, how did it enter? By balloon, no doubt?”

“Nothing so colorful, my lord. It was thrown into the room by a human hand. Lord Galinin and I were sitting by the windowall. He suggested that. But whoever tossed that bomb into the room expected him to be at his desk, and I should’ve been there, too. The door is directly behind his chair, which has a very high back. The would-be assassin couldn’t see that the chair was unoccupied. But I had a better vantage point; I saw the door open, and I saw the bomb tossed over the back of the chair and onto the desk. It went off within a second of impact.”

Woolf wasn’t convinced, but Alexand didn’t expect him to be; that explanation was more for Ben Venturi than for Woolf.

“All right, Commander, who threw the bomb into the room? The guard, perhaps?”

“All I saw was an arm and hand. It wasn’t the guard, unless he bothered to take off his uniform. The sleeve was dark. Black, I think. No—it was brown.”

“Brown. Well, I must immediately order Conpol to seek out all brown-sleeved men—or perhaps it was a woman?”

Alexand replied in the same cool tone, but without the sarcasm, “My lord, you’ll give no orders to seek out anyone. Why should you? You have the culprit already, delivered by some very convenient twist of fate. You’ll play out this little charade exactly as scripted; you’ll dance like a puppet until you find out who’s pulling the strings, but it’ll be too late then. Scapegoating is a dangerous practice.” He wondered if Woolf would remember those words from Rich’s lips on that last night, the night at the nexus of their lives. “It too often lets the real culprit escape unnoticed and unpunished.”

“Am I supposed to regard you as another—sacrificial . . .” He hesitated over the word. “. . . lamb being led helplessly to the slaughter?”

“That’s exactly what’s happening, only I won’t be the only one led to this slaughter. There are factors involved in this you aren’t even aware of, and they can destroy you and ultimately the Concord, as well as me and the Phoenix.”

“In other words, you intend to have your revenge if—”

“
Revenge
? After five years, you
still
don’t understand?” Alexand brought himself up short, feeling the tension-induced ache in his arm radiating across his shoulder. “I beg of you— don’t dismiss so lightly the possibility that I’m being made a scapegoat. I’m well aware of the highly emotional responses aroused in this situation, and equally aware that they’re being expertly used. You haven’t been given time to consider the events of the last few hours rationally or logically.”

Woolf raised an arched brow. “I suppose you intend to enlighten me—rationally and logically?”

“I’d at least like to point out that to accuse me and the Phoenix of trying to kill Mathis Galinin is a logical absurdity. First, consider the assassination attempt itself. If it were our intention to kill Galinin—and it certainly is not—it wouldn’t be necessary for any Phoenix member to enter the Hall of the Directorate, much less the Chairman’s office. We have the matter transmitter. You know that. We could trans a bomb into his office—or into the Directorate Chamber, for that matter— at any time, and none of us would have to be within a thousand kilometers of the Hall. And even if it
were
necessary for a Phoenix member to enter the Chairman’s office, consider the absurdity of sending
me
on that high-risk mission. It must be obvious that by an accident of birth, I am of some value to the Phoenix.”

Woolf’s nostrils flared briefly, but otherwise the mask was well under control now.

“In view of the unprovoked attack on Centauri, I’m not sure I understand your definition of absurdity.”

“There was nothing absurd about that. Its purpose was to force the Concord to recognize the Phoenix as an enemy power.” Then with a faint, oblique smile, “The Concord doesn’t bargain with thieves and pirates, does it, my lord? But it
will
bargain with an enemy, and I think you’ll concede that a small power must, when putting itself at odds with a megapower like the Concord, depend ultimately on achieving its ends through negotiation.”

Woolf remained silent, conceding nothing. But he was still listening, and Alexand accepted that small favor with bitter gratitude as he continued, “Consider our position, facing negotiations with the Directorate, negotiations vital to us. Would we have any conceivable reason for killing Galinin—for removing him from the negotiation process—when the alternative to Galinin will inevitably be Orin Selasis? Bargaining with the Directorate under Galinin’s leadership will be difficult enough, but under Lord Orin’s leadership, negotiations won’t even take place.
That’s
why I say it’s absurd to accuse me or the Phoenix of trying to do away with Galinin. We have everything to lose by his death, and nothing to gain!”

Woolf had stiffened, and now he said curtly, “May I remind you, Commander, that
I
am Chairman Designate—
not
Orin Selasis.”

Alexand studied him, recognizing that as a reflex defense mechanism. Unfair, unjust, cruel beyond expression, that any human being should be subjected to this sanity-shattering combination of stress, shock, and grief.

“My lord, you may be Chairman Designate, but if Galinin dies, the balance of power on the Directorate will shift in Selasis’s favor, and you’ll never be Chairman, especially not when Selasis can use my identity against you. If you even hope to survive, for your House to survive, you’ll have no choice but to come to terms with Selasis.”

“Never!” The word was a rasping whisper of contempt. “That would be a betrayal of everything I believe in, a betrayal of Mathis Galinin.”

“ ‘Never’ is asking fate, my lord. Now I ask you to consider something else. Who is it who has everything to gain by Galinin’s death, and everything to lose if he lives? The answer will be obvious if you understand two things. For one, Galinin planned to order a Board of Succession investigation of Karlis’s capacity to sire heirs, and that—’’

“Karlis’s capacity . . . Commander, I’d advise you not to toss out innuendoes on a Lord’s virility with such incredible abandon.”

Again, reflex. Alexand could only laugh, because he found it so bitterly sad. He turned to the window, watching a Conpol patrol, bristling with warning lights, pass in V formation a few levels below.

“Karlis’s virility—or lack of it—isn’t at issue here except as a threat to Selasis. The Chairman can order a Board inquiry without offering evidence. So can the Chairman Designate.” He looked around at his father, and that possibility might not have existed for any interest he displayed in it. “Another threat to Selasis is the second item you must understand. One of the offerings the Phoenix intended to make at the bargaining table was the matter transmitter. As an extraplanetary commercial transport system, the MT will be far more efficient—and less costly—than the Selasid InterPlan System.” He paused, noting the narrowing of eyes that was Woolf’s only outward recognition of the implications in that.

“There was a stipulation to this offer. The MT would only be surrendered to the Concord as a whole, to be controlled by a Concord agency. It would
not
be allowed to fall under the control of any single House. So you see, my lord,
Selasis
is the one man who has everything to gain by Galinin’s death. If Galinin lives, Orin faces public revelation of Karlis’s sterility, and in all probability, the loss of his First Lordship. And if negotiations with the Phoenix proceed, the House faces ultimate bankruptcy with the development of the MT as a commercial transport system. But if Galinin dies, Selasis will realize his lifelong ambitions—the destruction of the Houses of Galinin and Woolf, and above all, his ascendancy to the Chairmanship.”