House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (30 page)

“Oh.” He sat down at the console, where a middle-aged woman looked out from a screen. He remembered her now. “What’s wrong, Ferra?”

“Sir, it’s Lady Adrien. She’s . . . gone.”

For a moment, he could only stare at the woman blankly.

“She’s
what
? How could—never mind. Just say it out.”

She did, haltingly. A few minutes ago Adrien had asked to be transed up to the apartment. She wanted to be in a room with windows. Everyone on the staff knew who she was and what Alex was to her; it was no surprise she pulled the gim so easy. Uplevel, in the Lamodo apartment, Ferra Lamodo, in motherly style, made her comfortable by a windowall overlooking a park court, then offered refreshment. No surprise that the Lady smiled gratefully and asked for a cup of tea. And, when Ferra Lamodo went to the kitchen to prepare it, the Lady Adrien walked out the front door.

“Damn her.
Damn
her.”

Dana Lamodo’s mouth sagged open. “I . . . I’m sorry, sir.”

“Well, don’t worry. We’ll . . .” What? Find her? Before the SSB or Selasis did? “Was she carrying anything?”

“I’m not really sure. She was wearing a cape, and I suppose she might’ve had something hidden—”

“A cape?”

“Yes. An ordinary woman’s style. She said she was . . . cold. Oh, Jael, she looked like a lost child, but with never a tear. It didn’t occur to me . . .”

“I know, Ferra. You were gimmed by an expert. Don’t let it hackle you.” He signaled to the tech. “Get me Daly. He’s at the Directorate Hall.”

And that’s where Adrien would be as soon as she could reach it. Perhaps she could. She probably had a cover disguise under the cape; there were no locks on the doors here, and she’d had plenty of time to locate the costume and disguise ident room. She had sense on her side; she’d step light. And she had will, the kind that looked at death as no more than an impediment to her purpose.

Jael knew her purpose, and whatever it might mean to the Phoenix, to the Concord, to history, he couldn’t find it in him to wish failure on her.

The Lady Adrien Eliseer Woolf didn’t intend to let her husband die unavenged.

Within the great shaft dominating the Hall of the Directorate was a circular well thirty meters in diameter extending from the first level to the twentieth, the topmost, where it was capped with a dome of red-amber glass. It was encircled at every level with balconies, their balustrades and supports forming an interlocked pattern of arching lines and faceted planes, white marlite and polished steel washed in the rubescent light, so that to stand on the lower balconies and look up to the distant source of light was like standing within the magnified heart of a crystal lattice.

Adrien Eliseer Woolf stood thus on the second level, hands locked on the railing, and she seemed to feel a vibration in her palms, as if the whole of the lambent lattice sang with some silent music of its own making. She looked up into its carnelian heights through the blue haze of the veil of her Sisters of Faith habit.

It had seemed fitting when she found this habit in the Phoenix HQ disguise ident room. She had her choice of Orders, in fact; there were habits for six Orders among the costumes and uniforms. She also had her choice of ident cards, including those suitable for the various Orders.

And her choice of weapons.

But she had only brought some stun darts with her into this building. She chose the nun’s habit in part because she knew it would allay suspicion on the part of the Directorate guards— and it did; they had been consistently solicitous and accommodating—but their attitude would have changed abruptly if the metal detectors had discovered a gun under the habit.

Still, she must have one, and soon.

She pushed her sleeve back to look at her watch. One of the entrance guards had frowned over that, but he wasn’t sure enough of the Order’s restrictions to venture a comment.

19:10. She had been in the Hall nearly an hour.

And from one of the windowalls overlooking the Plaza, she had watched the Bond workcrew setting up the execution stand, seen the Plaza in the waning light of the afternoon filling with a restless, waiting crowd, and she had thought of Concord Day, of the many times she had sat with her family on those tiers of steps among the Concord’s glittering Elite, looking down into the Plaza brimming with tens of thousands of Fesh and Bonds gathered for the celebration.

And this year they gathered to celebrate Concord Day belatedly, and not with spectacular fireworks, but with—

Alexand—oh, my Promised, my husband. . .
.

She clung to the railing, body bent with palpable pain; her skin crawled with chill, her forehead seemed locked in a constricting band.

She knew what he was going through at this moment as she had every moment of the last ten hours. Sometimes she could hear screams. They were born in her own mind, she knew, yet again and again, as she waited in the close-walled confines of the Phoenix HQ, she had looked around her to find the source of those terrible cries.

Sharing only doubles the pain, and yet it makes it easier to bear. A paradox, that
.

He had spoken those words on the night she became his Promised. But the paradox failed when pain passed a certain level of intensity. And who would share with her the pain of grief when he was dead?

I can’t survive this twice.

But neither would Orin Selasis survive it.

And Phillip Woolf?

She straightened, pulling her shoulders back, looking up into the red-gold crystal well. Trembling still; every smallest muscle in her body trembling.

She looked up through the haze of her veil and saw the adamantine face of Phillip Woolf.

“How
can
I believe you? How can I believe him? Don’t call him my son! My son lies sleeping there in the nursery—my
only
son!”

Had Woolf any right to survive Alexand?

She heard voices, low and tense, as all the voices seemed to be in this Hall today. She turned. Three Concord Fesh: clerks or techs. They glanced indifferently at her as they passed and walked away down one of the radial corridors.

“. . . if I could get off duty, I’d sure as hell be out there, too. . . .”

Why? she wondered. To see justice done? Or simply to see death done?

She started down another corridor. It didn’t matter. Orin Selasis would see justice done. Nothing else mattered now.

Still, the three Fesh reminded her that she must keep up her guard. She had encountered few people once she left the front windowalls where the curious gathered to look down on the Plaza. But there would be Phoenix agents in this building searching for her. That was one reason she had stayed toward the front of the Hall, stayed with the crowds. And one reason why she had spoken to no one—not even to answer the most casual courtesies—except the entrance guards. The Phoenix agents sent to find her would have recognition conditioning for her voice.

Jael, forgive me for burdening you with more anxiety, but I have no choice. Save him if you can, and if you can’t . . .

Jael would understand.

Now she hurried down the halls, and she was herself searching. She must find a guard; she had to arm herself if justice were to be done.

There were few guards in the Hall; most of them were out in the Plaza. That made it more difficult to find one in an advantageous situation, but it also meant that where there would normally be two posted, she would find only one now, and at length, after she had walked what seemed kilometers of white corridors, she found one stationed at an emergency-use lift on a narrow, less frequented hallway, and he was alone.

One of the stun darts was hidden in her right hand. She’d had no instruction in its use, but the mechanism seemed obvious enough: hold the narrow end, where the needle was sheathed, against the victim’s skin, and press the flange at the other end that fit so comfortably under her thumb.

The guard was a young man with fair coloring; he reminded her of her brothers. She approached him slowly, her steps faltering, and when he looked around at her, pressed her left hand to her heart. He started toward her, frowning.

“Sister? Is something wrong?”

A few more stumbling steps; she was gasping for breath.

“Is there—a doctor . . . an infirmary or . . . ?”

“Yes, Sister, on Level 5. Let me help you.” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them. “
Sister
!” He was close enough now to reach out and catch her when, with a choked cry, she stumbled and fell.

She clung to him, still gasping, while he eased her down to the floor. He didn’t even seem to notice the prick of the needle in his arm, and for a moment she was chilled with fear that the stunner hadn’t worked, that she had picked the wrong type, or hadn’t used it properly.

Until his mouth sagged open and he stared at her with suddenly glazed eyes full of startled reproach, then she was in turn easing him down to the floor.

She crouched over him, looking up and down the hall, holding her breath to listen. Nothing; no one approaching. Then she turned him on his back and unsnapped his holster and took out the X
²
. Her hands were shaking, but she couldn’t control it. She dragged him to the lift. Only a few meters, but the effort left her panting. The up lift. It was empty; that was assured by its emergency-use designation. She pushed him out into the void of the shaft where he floated, supine, rocking gently on nothingness. She held on to the lift wall while she reached out and gave him an upward push. He began drifting leisurely toward the next level.

She didn’t know how long he’d remain unconscious or how soon it would be before he was discovered. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t need much time.

She stripped off the blue habit, thrusting the gun into the waistband of the slacsuit she wore under it. She still wore the cape, too; it would hide the gun. Finally, she tossed the habit and koyf into the lift where they billowed, cloudlike, seeming more alive than the unfortunate guard.

Then she turned and struck off down the corridor. 19:40. She must find a public lift to take her up to Level 3. The Chamber of the Directorate was on that level.

And Orin Selasis would be there, and Phillip Woolf.

Alexand, I won’t survive this grief, but neither will they
.

Above all, Orin Selasis won’t survive it.

My sons, Richard and Eric, forgive me. Forgive your mother her frailty.

You will be loved, and perhaps one day you’ll understand that your mother loved you, but could not survive the grief of another love. Not twice.

. . . I take this vow for life and unto death. . . .

“Marton?”

Dr. Stel had fallen asleep in the armchair he’d drawn up by the bed. At the sound of his name, he roused with a start.

“Is it time?”

Dr. Perris was standing on the other side of the bed; it was his voice that had wakened him. Perris frowned at the question, and Stel realized it wouldn’t make sense to him. He looked at his watch: 19:44.

“I . . . must’ve been dreaming, James,” he said, but that was a lie. He was waiting for 20:00 TST. Perris might understand, but Stel didn’t try to explain.

At 20:00 the man who had done this, who had destroyed one of the finest human beings, the greatest leaders, the Concord had ever known, would die. It wasn’t enough, but it was all that could be exacted of him as retribution.

At the foot of the bed, the High Bishop, the Revered Eparch Simonidis knelt praying. He hadn’t said the Last Rites yet, but he would before this day ended.

“Marton, I think . . . look at the brainwaves.”

Stel came fully alert, staring at the biomonitor screen in amazement. Lord Galinin was fighting his way toward consciousness.

“Holy God, James, I’d never have thought it possible.”

Perris was bending over Galinin now; he only nodded. The Bishop’s murmur of prayers stopped; he rose slowly, and for what seemed a long time, the three of them waited, listening to the quickening signals of life, watching the burgeoning of a faint flush in Galinin’s face.

“The respirator mask,” Perris whispered. “I’d better get it off.”

Stel helped him ease it off, waiting anxiously to see if Galinin’s lungs would take up their function adequately. A few irregular gasps, then his breathing settled into a steady rhythm; shallow, perhaps, a little too fast. Then, as if he himself had been waiting to be sure of his breathing, Galinin opened his eyes.

Stel thought fleetingly that he should notify Woolf, but he was afraid to leave Galinin even for that short a time. He wasn’t deceived by this resurgence of strength. The phenomenon was too often a precursor of death.

“James? Is that . . .?” Galinin’s voice was a rough whisper.

Stel offered him some water from a spouted vaccup while Perris replied, “Yes, my lord. Just relax, now, and try to—”

“Ah, the counsel of . . . old men. Dr. Stel . . . thank you. Dry. Little dry.” Then he peered for a time toward the end of the bed. “Simonidis? Come to . . . pray me out?”

The Bishop bowed, pinched mouth drawn down.

“Yes, my lord. I’ve come to ask the blessings of the Holy Mezion and the All-God on this their faithful—”

“Wait till . . . I’m ready to meet them. Where . . . where’s Emil?”

Perris answered, “Your lord brother is in the anteroom with Lord Rodrik. Do you wish to speak to them?”

His eyes closed on a frown. “No, not . . . not now. First I must see . . . Escondo. And hurry. Not much time.”

Perris glanced meaningfully at Stel, and both recognized Galinin’s purpose. A death testament of some sort. Lamet Escondo was Galinin’s personal barrister-counsel.

Perris started for the door. “I’ll call Master Escondo, my lord. He’s in the anteroom, too.”

“Good. And tell Emil . . . I put him off not . . . not for lack of love. Only lack of . . . time.”

“I will, my lord.”

Simonidis remained standing but resumed his prayers, and, after a minute or two of that, Galinin opened his eyes and rasped irritably, “For the God’s sake, Frer . . . at least for
my
sake, stop . . . stop all that mumbling.”