House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (26 page)

There was a silence then, in which neither of them moved. It was Woolf who finally broke it.

“The problem with your logic, Commander Ransom, is that there is no evidence to substantiate it. Or am I in error? Have you anything at all to support this
logical
edifice of cause and effect—other than
your
word?”

Alexand became aware of the sourceless constraint that had kept him nearly motionless all this time, that still bound him. He felt the appeal under those coldly pronounced words, and again the mask had slipped, if only slightly. Woolf was appealing for proof. But Alexand took no hope from that.

“No, I have nothing to support it. Only my word.” If that wasn’t enough, there
was
no hope.

Woolf hesitated, then turned to the door.

“You’ll have your opportunity to present your defense tomorrow morning when the Directorate meets.”

“Tomorrow morning you will sign the order for my execution.”

Woolf stopped short. “What?”

“That decision will be arrived at by a majority vote of the Directors. You won’t oppose it.”

It was some time before Woolf replied to that, and it was short and curt, spoken as he strode out the door.

“Time will be the test of your clairvoyance. Goodbye, Commander.”

Alexand saw the shimmer of the shock screen go on in his wake, closed his eyes to listen to silence finally swallow up the thud of booted footsteps.

He whispered, “Goodbye . . . my lord.”

Woolf had to tell Captain Edmin twice to be quiet before they reached the landing roof entrance, the second time with no hint of courtesy. Finally, as he crossed the roof to his ’car, the Conpol escort was left behind; only the two House guards accompanied him. He didn’t even notice the second Faetonlimo waiting near his. Not until a shadowy figure emerged from it and approached him. He was only vaguely irritated; he didn’t at first recognize the man.

Master Bruno Hawkwood.

Woolf felt his guards draw closer behind him, as if Hawkwood’s very presence constituted a menace to him.

At two meters’ distance, Hawkwood stopped and bowed.

“My lord, the Lord Selasis sent me. He begs a few minutes of your time in private conference at his Estate.”

Woolf said brusquely, “Orin knows I haven’t time to confer with him at his Estate. Tell him I’ll be at the Hall.” He started to go on to his ’car, but Hawkwood, with only a confidential lowering of his voice, stopped him.

“Lord Selasis fully understands the value of your time, my lord, but he asked me to convey to you the importance of this meeting.”

One of the guards behind Woolf shifted nervously, and Hawkwood’s tawny eyes moved, fixed briefly on him, then slid back to Woolf’s face.

“Lord Selasis has already spoken with some of the other Directors. The Lords Shang, Fallor, and Omer. They seem quite disturbed about the . . . identity of Commander Ransom.”

Nicely put, Woolf thought bitterly. Shang, Fallor, and Omer, the traditional fence riders. They were disturbed, and that meant Selasis could depend on their votes, which left Woolf with only two possible allies on the Directorate: Honoria Ivanoi and Trevor Robek. They’d be fools to remain allies at those odds.

You’ll have no choice but to come to terms with Selasis
.

“Very well, Master Hawkwood. I’ll talk to Orin.”

Hawkwood inclined his head in polite acceptance, showing no hint of emotion, neither surprise nor contempt.

“Lord Selasis sent one of his ’cars for your convenience, my lord.”

Woolf was on the verge of balking at that, of insisting on traveling in his own ’car, but it seemed too small a point to be worth making. He turned to his guards.

“Captain Sier, come with me. Sargent, take my ’car to the Hall. Wait for me there.”

They hesitated, eyeing Hawkwood warily, until Woolf without another word struck off toward the Selasis ’car.

“The meeting lasted forty-five minutes.” Ben was at the ’spenser; he punched for coffee, but almost forgot to pick up the cup. “We don’t know what happened. We only got a monitor in Selasis’s private office once, and Hawkwood found it within two days.”

He remembered the cup and took it to Erica. She put it down on her desk, wondering why she’d asked for it; she was too exhausted for its mild stimulant to have any effect.

“Thanks, Ben.”

He nodded and sank into the chair to the right of the desk. His ulcers were bothering him. She knew the signs, just as she knew there was nothing she could do for him. She looked up at Jael, perched on the left side of the desk, outwardly at ease, but in his oblique eyes was the feline alertness that seemed to be for him a natural state.

Her office had become an informal conference room, perhaps out of deference to Lady Adrien, so she could be near the twins, asleep now in HS 1’s guest room. The doors were open; Adrien could hear them if they cried. Erica looked across at her, sitting in splendid calm, dark eyes like unruffled pools, reflecting light blindly and absorbing none, and an image shaped itself out of memory: Alex’s nerveless hand caressing the white petals of an orchid, while Erica told him the Lady Elise was dead, and why.

Adrien was looking at Ben, a direct, unblinking gaze he seemed uncomfortable with; he didn’t understand it.

She said, “You know what happened at that meeting, Ben. As Alexand said, Lord Woolf had no choice. Will Alex be . . . surrendered to the SSB when the execution order is signed?”

Erica flinched inwardly and reached for her coffee cup. She saw Ben’s glance of appeal, but avoided it.

He said dully, “Yes, my lady. Probably so.”

“I see. He’ll be stripped of the MT fixes if that happens, so if he’s to be rescued, it must be before he’s transferred from the Conpol DC to the SSB DC. Can it be done?”

Ben tried an offhand smile. “We’ve pulled people out of the Central DC plenty of times. We’ve got four agents in there, monitors and MT fixes on Alex, and time. Seven hours before the Directorate meets.”

Adrien listened, unmoved, and when he finished, repeated her question.

“Can it be done?”

Jael rose and propped his fists on his hips.

“She wants a straight say, Ben. It’s hers to ask.” Then to Adrien, “We don’t have the odds with us. You know about the shock screens in his room. The only way we can turn them off is to get at the central control board, and that’s sealed tight. We can’t even get near Alex; they cleared that corridor and sealed it up, too. We’re lucky we had a doctor inside, or Alex would still be in limbo.”

Her hands were folded in her lap. Erica saw them tighten, one on the other, but that was all.

“The doctor can’t do anything more?”

“He might be able to get into the room again if Alex ran a sick gim, but he can’t touch the shock screens, and that’s Alex’s only door.”

“The doctor couldn’t leave MT fixes somewhere outside Alex’s room so you could . . . trans more men in?”

Ben braced himself to answer that question.

“My lady, we thought about that. We could mount an armed invasion inside the DC, but the trouble is . . .” He needed a deep breath before he could go on. “His room is equipped with cyanide gas sprays. The standing orders are to kill him before taking a chance on letting him escape.”

Erica tensed, seeing Adrien turn even paler, but she didn’t give way; she looked up at Jael as he said, “We gave a long thought to snuffing old Cyclops. It might be a blessing for humankind, but even that wouldn’t turn a ’cord for Alex. In fact, we’d better send up a few prayers that Selasis doesn’t die a natural death in the next few hours. He could choke on a fish bone, and the Directors would lay it to the Phoenix.”

“And cry all the louder for Alexand’s blood.” Adrien nodded, shifting her blind gaze to Ben. “What else is left us?”

He spread his hands, palms up. “We can hope Galinin regains consciousness long enough to tell somebody what really happened, or we can hope Woolf . . .”

“Will have a change of heart?” she asked caustically. Then she frowned. “That would be more likely if he could be convinced of Orin’s vulnerability. Karlis; his golden eunuch.”

Ben nodded. “Woolf’s acting Chairman now—until Selasis makes his bid, and that probably won’t be before Galinin dies. As long as Woolf has the title, he can order a Board of Succession investigation.” His voice betrayed his skepticism, and no hope was kindled in Adrien’s eyes.

“Is there nothing else?”

“Taking Alex by force. If he’s moved to the SSB DC, we might have a chance during the transfer, unless they’re smart enough to use portable shock screens and keep a gun at his head.”

“They’re at least that intelligent, Ben.”

He shrugged wearily. “Well, then our last chance will be at the . . . the execution. With that many people around, shock screens won’t be practical. Besides, once they get him on that stand, they’ll probably depend on the fact that he’ll be surrounded by fifty Directorate guards.”

Adrien’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t they be justified in depending on that?”

“Not if enough of them happen to be Phoenix members.” Then, having finally said something that inspired some hope, he seemed to feel a perverse obligation to dampen it with qualification. “It’s a long chance. He’ll be exposed, and there’ll be plenty of authentic guards around him, all armed.”

She gave a short laugh, devoid of amusement. “Still, planning for that will be more productive than simply hoping for Galinin’s recovery or Woolf’s change of heart.”

Jael looked at his watch. “I’ll have to ex out now. I’m lifting off for Concordia in half an hour.”

Erica saw a tension in Adrien’s features that served as a warning. She rose, facing Jael.

“I’m going with you.”

At that, Ben came to his feet, too. “Uh . . . my lady, I don’t think . . . I mean, the Concordia chapter’s a double ident operation, and—”

“And I wouldn’t be
safe
?” The mordant meaninglessness of that word was evident. She turned to Erica, a gentle light shining fleetingly in her eyes. “I must leave Rich and Eric in your care, and I know it will be loving care.”

Erica managed a smile. “It will be, my lady. Always. Whatever happens, you may depend on that.”

“I do. And whatever happens . . .” She hesitated, then turned to Jael. “I’ll be ready to leave when you are.”

Alexandra stirred, but didn’t wake. Only dreaming.

04:10 TST. Phillip Woolf pushed back his sleeve to check his watch, then looked again into his daughter’s face, softly lit in the changing light of the lumensa; shimmering warm blues and greens for peaceful sleep. The music shaping the colors was so low it was nearly inaudible. An imp, Mathis called her, a young witch, and she had power to charm, even in sleep. She’d be a beauty one day; Olivet’s fair skin, and the black hair and clear blue eyes of DeKoven Woolf. One day.

But now, Alexandra, two years old, lay absorbed in dreams, dark hair curling against her cheek, and Woolf found himself looking not into the future, but into the past. It might have been Rich, this sleeping child; Rich at two, before . . .

Woolf turned and crossed to the smaller bed in another alcove where Justin lay asleep. So much Olivet’s child, golden haired, his eyes exactly the same deep, lavender blue as hers. It had seemed fitting that this, their first born son, should be so evidently her child.

Olivet Omer Woolf was the embodiment of a second life for him, one he never hoped for when the first ended; a second chance at happiness for himself, and for the House—

Survival.

The word was a black weight in his mind. In the end, was that all it came to?

He heard a whisper of sound and turned. Olivet was standing in the doorway, the brighter light behind her making a diaphanous glow of her robe, sheening the aureate sweep of her hair with silver.

Was survival so much to be scorned?

“Phillip . . .?”

He went to her and put his arm around her shoulders, waiting until they were in the sitting room before he spoke.

“You needn’t have waited up for me, Olivet.”

“I found sleep a little elusive tonight. Phillip, are you . . . are you all right?”

He knew what she meant, and he couldn’t answer the real questions any more than she could ask them.

“Yes, I’m all right. I’ve done what I could to restore order, so I thought I’d better get a few hours’ rest.”

He walked with her out onto the balcony adjoining the sitting room, a favorite personal place of theirs. It looked out over an informal garden scented with acacia and rock daphne and beyond to the lights of Concordia. But in the darkness before this dawn, the air was acrid with smoke, an oppressive layer of cloud containing and reflecting a sickly light.

For a time he stood at the railing, Olivet silent beside him, until at length she asked, “Any news of Mathis?”

“I stopped at his Estate on my way home. No change. Dr. Perris seems to consider that encouraging, but I don’t think Stel agrees.”

“Phillip, is . . . Alexand really alive?” Then, when he frowned questioningly, she added, “Father ’commed me. He’s worried about the succession; about Justin. As if Justin would even know the difference if he weren’t the first born.”

Woolf paused, struck by the beautiful naïveté of that.

“I doubt Sandro is concerned for Justin’s feelings.” He took a long breath, resenting the caustic smell of the air. “Yes, Olivet, Alexand’s alive. He calls himself Commander Alex Ransom. Of the Phoenix.”

She looked up into his face, then with a sigh turned away.

“Oh, it seems so . . . what a bitter thing, that such a miracle should be turned into a tragedy.”

“A miracle?” The word didn’t seem to make sense.

“Alexand. To have someone you loved and thought dead restored to you. That
should
be a miracle. Phillip, I’m sorry.”

He nodded numbly. “I know. Thank you.”

“Do you think he really tried to kill Mathis?”

For a moment, Woolf considered the question, seeking within himself for his inner convictions.
Alexand
could not have raised a hand against Mathis, but Commander Alex Ransom . . .