Sword of the Lamb (13 page)

That chair was occupied.

The Elder Shepherd Hezaki, tall, lean to the verge of emaciation, attired in a long black-and-scarlet robe and white skullcap; a shock of white hair and a long white beard; dark eyes looking out of age-creased sockets with penetrating directness.

“Father, there’s someone to see you,” the acolyte said.

Hezaki’s eyes shifted to Alexand, still standing outside the door in the shadows.

“Show him in, Micah.” Then, when the acolyte stepped aside for Alexand to pass, Hezaki, realizing his visitor wasn’t Bond, rose and bowed respectfully.

The Shepherd asked, “Sirra, may I be of service?”

“I’d like to speak with you privately, Hezaki.”

“Of course. Micah . . .” A single glance was sufficient. The acolyte bowed, to Alexand first, then to Hezaki, and slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

Alexand said, “I hope Micah hasn’t a tendency to curiosity.”

The Shepherd smiled. “He wouldn’t listen at the door, sirra, if that’s what you mean. I’m Elder Shepherd to these people, and they hold me in some respect.”

Alexand accepted that as an undeniable and understandable truth. He pushed back the hood of his cloak and reached under the collar for the thin, metallic ring circling his neck. When the face-screen went off, he asked, “Hezaki, do you know me?”

He didn’t—not at first. Then his eyes narrowed, and what Alexand thought to be fear, he recognized after a moment as concern. There was no hint of surprise or shock. He folded his hands and bowed from the waist.

“You are Ser Alexand, the Lord Woolf’s first born.” Alexand went to one of the chairs in front of the table and sank into it. He kept his cloak fastened, the sling hidden.

“Be seated, Hezaki.” He waited until the Shepherd resumed his chair. “I’ve come here to ask your help. Do you know a Bond named Quin Selm?”

“Yes, I know Quin.”

“Do you know where he might be now?”

“Well, perhaps . . .” He paused. “Ser, may I ask what you want of Quin?”

“I want to talk to him alone, to ask him some questions. I could have had him brought to me rather than attempt to come to him, but that would mean involving other people, and this is a personal matter.”

The Shepherd was bewildered at that. “A personal matter between you and—and
Quin
, Ser?”

Alexand gave him a purposely direct scrutiny. “You’re an inquisitive man, Hezaki.”

He stiffened slightly at that pointed reminder, but still met Alexand’s gaze resolutely.

“Perhaps, Ser, but Quin is one of my flock.”

“He’ll come to no harm through me unless it’s in the form of just punishment. You have my word.”

Hezaki nodded, apparently satisfied. “I think Quin is in the chapel now, Ser. At least, I saw him there a few minutes ago, and that surprised me. He must’ve come straight from his work shift without stopping for his supper, and Quin isn’t a man to miss a meal. Excuse me a moment.” He went to the door and called softly into the chapel, “Micah, is Quin Selm still here?”

A short pause, then, “Yes, Father, there he is in the corner at the altar of Saint Kahma.”

“Tell him I want to talk to him.”

Alexand wondered what significance Saint Kahma had for a man who had almost committed murder, a man who gave up his evening meal to come to this chapel.

The Shepherd returned to his chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds, his lips moving silently. He found solace in his prayer and new resolve; that was evident in his face when he looked up at Alexand.

“Ser, may I ask a boon of you?”

“You may ask, certainly.”

“You said you want to talk to Quin alone, but perhaps you’d . . . let me stay. I swear by the Holy Word nothing I hear will go further.”

Alexand hesitated. He hadn’t wanted a witness, yet he found the idea attractive. Selm might feel more free to talk in the Shepherd’s presence. He might also feel
less
free to make another attempt on Ser Alexand’s life.

“Yes, Hezaki, I’d be grateful if you’d stay.” He paused, then, “Tell me, what kind of man is Quin Selm?”

Hezaki considered the question, then shrugged. “Why, Ser, he’s a good man. His word is always proof, and it’s said he’s a hard worker and kind to his wife and children. Yes, Micah?” That was in response to a knock on the door; then, as the door opened, “Ah, Quin—come in, please. Thank you. Micah.” Alexand switched on his face-screen, turning as the door closed behind the acolyte, and at first he thought Micah had made a mistake; this was the wrong man. But there was no mistake. This face Alexand would never forget, but now, although his presence put some anxiety in it, neither hatred nor fear altered its contours.

Alexand indicated the vacant chair. “Sit down, Selm.”

The Bond glanced uncertainly at Hezaki, then went to the chair and sat gingerly at the edge.

“It isn’t Hezaki who wishes to speak to you.” Alexand switched off his face-screen. “He called you at my command.”

Selm went white, then slid out of the chair to his knees, rough hands raised in supplication.

“Oh—oh, Ser . .
. please
! Mercy! Before the God, I never meant—I didn’t—”

“Quin, get off your knees!”

Selm flinched at his sharp tone, then obediently pulled himself up and backed into his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and Alexand sighed. It was hard to remember that this frightened man—a good man, if Hezaki judged him well—had only hours ago been so clearly intent on his murder.

“Quin, I’ve come here for some answers. If I’m satisfied, I promise you, no harm will come to you, but I must understand what happened today. I must know, Quin—why did you try to kill me?”

He heard Hezaki’s quick intake of breath at that. Selm only moaned wretchedly, hands locked together, mouth working, but emitting no sounds recognizable as words.

Alexand leaned forward, carefully restraining any impatience in his voice as he said, “Please, Quin, I have very little time. Don’t you understand? If someone you’d never even seen before tried to kill
you
, wouldn’t you want to know why?”

Still no coherent response. Alexand tried again. “I backed you up this afternoon when you said it was an accident. Did you think I was so befuddled I actually believed that? I know you intended to kill me, but I let your lie stand. I let you live.”

Rather than taking hope from that, Selm loosed a thin, despairing wail, his head sagged forward exactly as it had this afternoon under Phillip Woolf’s cold scrutiny, and it came to Alexand that he had the same power over this man.

But he didn’t want that; there were no answers in that.

“Quin, I let you live because at the last second you turned the loader. If you hadn’t, I’d be dead. I couldn’t believe you were an entirely evil man in the face of that, so I let your lie stand, and I came here to find out what kind of man you are, what made you decide to kill me in the first place, and why you didn’t after all.”

He waited in hope of an answer, but Selm only stared at the floor, whimpering like a wounded animal, and Alexand recognized defeat. So many barriers overcome to get this close to the truth, but this, the barrier of fear, baffled him.

“Ser Alexand, perhaps if I could . . . well, it might be easier for him to answer your questions, if . . . if
I
asked them.”

Alexand looked at the Shepherd and nodded. “I hope so. Go ahead, Hezaki. Please.”

Hezaki leaned toward Selm, brows drawn. “If you’ve done wrong, you must answer the Ser’s questions for your
soul’s
sake. Now, tell me, Quin—for your soul—what happened this afternoon?”

For what seemed a long time, Selm gazed at Hezaki with a childlike mixture of faith and guilty reluctance, then he burst out, “Oh, Father, I
did
do wrong! The holy saints forgive me, I did
wrong
! It—it come over me like a dark spirit. It was . . . maybe it
was
a . . . dark spirit.”

“Perhaps it was,” Hezaki assured him. “Go on. Tell me what happened.”

Selm kept his eyes fixed on Hezaki, avoiding Alexand except for one flashing, fearful glance.

“I was driving a load to the blue shelves. Nobody was around, except . . . well, then I seen the Ser there all alone looking down at the assembly lines. He—he was standing in the aisle I had to go down to get to the blue shelves.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Not . . . right at first. I . . .” He hesitated, his features inexplicably wrenched. “Ah, Father, I thought it was Jeron! I thought it was a Beyond Soul, standing all alone, waiting for me. I thought it was
Jeron
. . . .” He began to weep, coughing sobs that racked his body.

Alexand stared at him, bewildered, and in some indefinable sense frightened. He turned to the Shepherd.

“Who is Jeron?”

Hezaki’s lined face was drawn, reflecting Selm’s agony.

“Jeron was Quin’s younger brother, Ser. He . . . died.”

Selm was trying to get himself under control, but Alexand didn’t press him. He was thinking of Rich, and he understood that agony now; he recognized it.

“When did Jeron die, Hezaki?”

“It was a week ago today, Ser.”

Alexand closed his eyes. Only a week. A short span of days.

After a moment, he asked, “Did Jeron resemble me?”

“Why, yes, in some ways. He was older, but dark like you, and a handsome boy.”

Selm was wiping his eyes with his big hands, the sobbing stopped now. “Pardon, Ser, I—I never used to cry like . . . like a little childer.”

“Grief is nothing to be ashamed of, Quin. I’m sorry about your brother.”

The Bond gazed at him in unabashed amazement, and Alexand hesitated. Selm had at least reached the point where he was capable of addressing him directly; he was reluctant to jeopardize that tenuous rapport, but there was one question that more than any other must be answered now. He wasn’t sure why; only a sensed conviction that it was a key.

“I don’t want to open old wounds, Quin, but I must know. How did your brother die?”

Briefly, there was a hint of that brute hatred in the man’s eyes again. Then he turned away abruptly.

“I—I can’t tell you, Ser.”

“You . . .
can’t
tell me?”

“I can’t!
Please
, Ser, I can’t! He’d kill me, too, if—” He stopped, horrified at his own words, his eyes, filled with dread, moving slowly to Alexand’s face.

“
Who
would kill you?”

He turned away again. “No! I can’t—”

“Who, Quin?” He put an authoritative edge in that.

“I . . . the—the workgang . . . foreman. . . .”

Alexand was jarred again with rage. Another trusted steward. But he masked the anger, keeping his tone level. “Did this foreman kill your brother?”

The only answer was a choked groan. Selm’s hands curled into fists on his knees; he stared blindly at the floor, candlelight caught in the beaded sweat on his forehead, and Alexand realized he was again met with the barrier of fear.

But he had an ally against it now. Hezaki needed only a look and a nod; he resumed his gentle interrogation.

“Tell me, Quin; tell your Shepherd. How did Jeron die?”

At first Selm seemed physically incapable of answering that, even for Hezaki, and when at length he did speak, it was as if he were in a drugged trance.

“The . . . foreman gets black spells. Sometimes he—the dark spirits come over him, and he lets out with the charged lash. That day, Jeron . . . he was
sick
. He never should’ve made his shift that day, but he—he was saving up his free days. Remember, Father? He was . . . going to get married.”

He paused to control another threatened onslaught of weeping, and Alexand wouldn’t have interrupted the narrative, except that part of it didn’t seem to make sense.

“Quin, if he was sick . . . time taken out for illness isn’t counted against a Bond’s free days.”

Selm glanced up at him and immediately dissolved into confusion. Alexand turned to Hezaki.

“Why didn’t Jeron get a sick pass from the infirmary?”

But Hezaki seemed as confused as Selm. “I—I don’t think they give . . . anything like that.”

Alexand felt the anger surfacing again; more good management, no doubt.

“Did Jeron go to the infirmary, Quin, when he realized he was ill?”

Selm nodded, his gaze again fixed on the floor. “Yes, Ser. He come to Father Hezaki first, and he said he’d best go to the ’firmary. He saw Ferra Sang. She’s always kindly. But she said there wasn’t nothing she could do. She told him to stay off his shift, but he was . . . saving up his . . . free days.”

“What was wrong with him? Do you know?”

“I—I think it was . . . the lung fever.”

“What’s that?”

Again, Selm was reduced to confusion. Hezaki said, “Ser, I think you’d call it . . . new . . . newman? I’m sorry, I’m not sure of the word.”

“Pneumonia?” Even as he said it, he expected Hezaki to shake his head. That couldn’t be it.

“Yes, Ser, that’s what I’ve heard it called.”

“But that’s impossible!”

Hezaki seemed embarrassed, hands fluttering in a palms-up gesture. “I . . . probably didn’t . . . hear it right, Ser.”

“No—no, that’s not what I meant. Forgive me.” Alexand took a deep breath; his shoulder was aching miserably. “You heard very clearly, Hezaki.”

Pneumonia. An anachronism; a disease so easily controlled, it had nearly ceased to exist except in association with acute degenerative conditions.

Why was there nothing the kindly Ferra Sang could do for Jeron Selm when he went to the infirmary? Was it because the medicine to treat his illness wasn’t available? Because the money allotted to the purchase of medical supplies had been diverted to someone’s pocket?

Selm had again sunk into that trance-like state, and Alexand felt an overwhelming reluctance at the necessity of forcing him to continue his bitter narrative.

“Hezaki, I must have the whole story of Jeron’s death.”

The Shepherd nodded and turned to Selm. “Quin? You were telling me about the day Jeron died. You said he took his work shift even though he was sick. What happened then?”

Selm managed, finally, to respond, the words coming in painful spates.