Sword of the Lamb (33 page)

Alexand was beginning to understand now, and perhaps he had recognized the true character of the light consuming this frail husk when the word
holy
came to mind.

Galinin asked, “How can you exert any influence over the Bonds by offering yourself up for execution?”

“Partly by providing an example of submission and acceptance, but it goes deeper. In order to understand it, you must know something of Bond religion.”

“Well, then—” Galinin smiled faintly. “—inform me.”

Rich smiled in response, and a subtle rapport seemed to exist between them: Galinin skeptical with the bitter wisdom of his years, but listening, still listening; Rich transcendently calm, in his voice the patience of raindrops against the armored flanks of mountains. Alexand gazed fixedly at his pallid face, almost disembodied in the shimmering light.

Rich began, “First, you must recognize the efficacy of direct verbal communication, not only from one person to another, but from one generation to another. In personal communication, the Bonds aren’t at all inconvenienced by their technical disadvantages. Many of them are quite mobile in their assigned tasks, and they act as couriers. It’s slower than vidicom, but any news of importance to them makes the rounds eventually. You must also understand that Bond religious and social structures cannot be separated. Religion is all they have; the source and means of enforcement of their social and moral codes. It was a wise decision to leave them that. The survival of the Concord to this point is probably chiefly attributable to the Galinin Rule and the wisdom of your forebear, Grandser. And I’m not deceived by your show of ignorance about Bond religion.”

Galinin shrugged. “Still, you’re the expert here.”

“My one redeeming virtue. At any rate, the efficacy of direct verbal communication across
time
is what I’m leading up to. And the Holy Words. The Holy Words is far more than a verbal equivalent of our Holy Writ; it’s an incredibly voluminous body of ritual, myth, magic, parable, poetry, and moral dogma, and it’s transmitted entirely by verbal communication from one generation to the next through the Shepherds. They’re phenomenal; walking memfiles. We depend so much on mechanical mnemonic devices, we have no concept of the quantity of information the human mind is capable of storing unaided. Some of their sources predate the Disasters, and generally very little is lost in transmission. I once went to some trouble to track down one passage quoted by a Shepherd. It was an exact quote from an ancient translation of the Pre-Disasters Judeo-Christian
Bible
. Parts of it are incorporated into our Holy Writ, but not this passage. There are five surviving copies of the old paper-page form of that book, and that’s where I found the passage, locked in the vaults of the Archives where it hasn’t been accessible to Bonds, even if they could read, for centuries.”

Galinin raised an eyebrow. “Yet this Shepherd gave you a verbatim quote?”

“Yes.” Rich glanced at Woolf, noting his growing restiveness. “I offer this example of the Shepherds’ ability to retain and transmit information accurately over long periods because it’s extremely important. The Shepherds are moral references. In case of doubt, a Bond has only to ask a Shepherd, and he’ll dredge up a quote from the Words to dictate the proper mode of behavior under any given set of circumstances. The Bonds depend entirely on the Shepherds for moral guidance, and they in turn depend on the Holy Words. For instance, family disputes are discouraged because Saint Catarin of Lima laid the dictum, ‘The ties of blood are sacred to the Holy Mezion; who raises his hand against his kindred, raises his hand against the Mezion and shall be so doomed.’ Saint Catarin is three centuries in her grave, but her words still set limits to behavior. The power in the dictum is implicit in the last part: ‘. . . shall be so
doomed
.’ The Bonds have a very concrete vision of life after death; it’s perhaps more real to them than this life, which is typical of a subject people. The dead go to the Realm Beyond the Farthest Star, where the Mezion and the myriad saints reside. The good live like Lords, of course. Evildoers are confined to Nether Dark, which is comparable to a compound detention center. Sometimes these ‘Dark Souls’ escape to infest the living.” He paused, smiling. “That’s how they explain Orin Selasis, the ‘Dark Lord.’ ”

Galinin laughed. “That’s as good an explanation as I’ve heard.”

“It’s a highly functional philosophy. But my point is that the threat of punishment in the afterlife is very tangible to them. They accept communication between this life and the next as casually as we accept SynchCom transmissions, and they think the saints are out there constantly
watching
them, and any moral deviation is duly noted and ultimately punished. This puts a great deal of leverage behind the words of long-dead seers and saints.”

“I think, Rich,” Galinin said slowly, “I’m beginning to understand your purpose.”

Woolf, standing with his feet slightly apart, every line of his body bespeaking reined tension, said, “It’s becoming quite clear, Mathis, and I find my fears not in the least allayed by this scholarly dissertation.”

Fears. Alexand almost laughed. Always back to that. He stared into the fire, into the flickering images of disaster, of nightmare, while Rich replied levelly, “The possibilities
are
frightening, Father. I’m surprised no one has taken advantage of them before, and I’m deeply concerned that someone will.”

“Why? You’d like to retain that privilege for the Phoenix?”

Alexand felt his muscles tighten. His father
was
listening, but he heard only what he wanted to hear.

Galinin’s brows drew down; he sent Woolf a penetrating look, but addressed himself to Rich.

“You’ve convinced me that Bond religion offers a potentially powerful tool. How do you intend to use it?”

“I intend to become a saint.” Rich glanced at Alexand and smiled. “There’s irony enough in that—a slightly cynical agnostic like me with ambitions for sainthood.” Then he turned again to Galinin. “But sainthood
is
within my grasp. When I first began studying the Bonds, I used to memorize various philosophical passages before I went to the chapels and recite them to encourage the Shepherds to open their memfile memories. By the time I began the more intensive studies I carried out for the Phoenix, I’d acquired a name for erudition and wisdom comparable to the Shepherds themselves. They call me a holy man. Of course, my . . . affliction made it easier to gain their trust from the beginning. They regard it as a divine sign. A year ago, I began to realize I might be able to make use of this hard-earned reputation. For my purposes their religious tendencies are ideal: very conservative, with a rigid moral code reinforced by fear of punishment meted out by an omniscient pantheon of saints, and this I haven’t touched on yet—extremely fatalistic. In spite of the increasing number of uprisings, Bonds are far more inclined to accept rather than react. How else would you keep seventy percent of the population in a state of virtual slavery?” He shook his head, sighing. “And how else would they explain their slavery, except by a deeply ingrained fatalism. ‘What is, is a Rightness: the will of the Mezion is hidden to mortal eyes.’ ”

He paused, as if to gather his flagging strength, or perhaps to steel himself against the pain.

“So, I began my campaign. In the last year I’ve visited nearly three thousand Elder Shepherds throughout the Two Systems. No small task. I’ve been preparing them for my Testing. My martyrdom. I’ve warned them that it’s coming, and I’ve laid my dictums. I scavenged the Holy Writ, the Word, the literature of all history, for sources. I even invented dictums of my own: ’Wrath mothers blood; submission mothers peace.’ ‘Dark Souls feed on anger; humility withers them.’ ‘The Mezion will Test you to know your soul; lift your hand against His tools and you are doomed, for they are the instruments of His will.’ ‘The way of the Blessed is peace. As all people are children of the All-God, they are all brothers. Who lifts his hand in wrath against any person, lifts his hand against his brother and reaps the harvest of doom.’ ” He hesitated, then, “Do you understand now, Grandser, what I hope to accomplish with my sainthood? They don’t know I have a terminal illness. All I want them to know is that I went to my death with absolute submission. Then these words and the years I’ve spent with these people—studying them, guiding them, even loving some of them—then all this will bear fruit. Nothing I’ve said will be forgotten. It will be incorporated into the Holy Words and locked in those memfile memories to be called up when the occasion demands, and that will be at the beginning of the reactive cycle,
before
the chain reaction of violence starts. They’ll think I’m out in the Beyond waiting to toss them into Nether Dark if they defy my dictums, and the gist of all the words I’ve poured into their memories is this: violence and resistance are sins, submission and humility virtues; the Fesh, Confleet, Conpol, etc., are instruments of the Mezion—or brothers—and violence against them is a mortal sin.” Rich was leaning forward, his burning eyes fixed on Galinin. “Grandser, do you understand?”

Galinin rested his white-bearded chin on his folded hands. “Yes, I understand what you hope to accomplish.”

Rich didn’t move except for the whisper of a smile that touched his lips.

“But you have reservations.”

“Of course. Not about the feasibility of your plan. I don’t doubt that it would serve to inhibit the Bonds in future encounters with Fesh.”

“Then you have reservations about me?”

“I haven’t entirely dismissed the possibility that you may be lying to me, but I find it highly unlikely.” He paused. “No, my reservations are for the Phoenix, of course. However, those doubts can be resolved—on this particular issue, at least—with a single question.” His eyes narrowed, probing. “Rich, what I must know is this: Have you ever told the Bonds that you’re a member of the Phoenix?”

The answer came without hesitation, firm and decisive.

“Definitely not. And for a very pragmatic reason: it would destroy their faith in me. They regard me as a Beyond Soul with no identity with any class, group, or organization in this world. The few who have even heard of the Phoenix identify it with the Outsiders, whom they distrust and fear. I’ve never once mentioned the Phoenix or suggested that I was associated with
any
kind of organization.”

“But they’ll find out if you’re executed as an agent of the Phoenix.”

Rich shrugged. “The charge will be meaningless. My execution will be a Testing, Grandser, and it will make no difference to them what brings me to it. You could charge me with anything, even murder, and they wouldn’t believe it.”

Galinin nodded acceptance. “And you’re quite sure they have no inkling of your connection with the Phoenix?”

“Quite sure.”

Woolf demanded incredulously, “Mathis, don’t tell me you
believe
that? For the God’s sake, it doesn’t make
sense
that they wouldn’t identify him with the Phoenix!”

Alexand asked, “Why not, Father?”

Woolf hesitated, as if seeking the source of a new attack. “
Why not
? What good will their damned martyr do them if the Bonds don’t know his
cause? He
won’t be available to sound the call to arms himself. The Bonds
must
know!”

Alexand stared at his father, at this man who had become a stranger to him. the man who had sired him in an act of love, and who had in love sired Rich, the son whose death, whose future nonexistence, he dismissed so callously with that impersonal phrase,
he won’t be available
.

He asked. “Do they, Father? Do the Bonds have to know?” He expected the question to emerge as a shout, but it was quiet, almost toneless.

Woolf retorted. “Of course they do! How will the Phoenix take advantage of their noble martyr unless the Bonds know who to answer to—the
Phoenix
!”

Galinin rose, a monolithic shape looming through an inexplicable haze.

“Phillip, you’re making a serious error.”

Woolf faced him defiantly. “Mathis, if you’re fool enough to believe him—” he seemed incapable of pronouncing Rich’s name, “—I’m not! If you let him go through with this, you’ll give the Phoenix a weapon to blow the Concord apart. You know the inevitable results of this execution, and yet—”

“No. I do not
know
the results, and I don’t accept the inevitability of a bloodbath arising from his execution. I’m considering the risks to our Houses if he’s denied this . . . martyrdom. I’m weighing those risks against the possibility that his death
will
serve a positive purpose.”

Alexand was dimly aware of a pale shape floating in some ambivalent space. His mother’s face. She was looking directly at him, her eyes wide with unmasked fear.

“You believe him!” Woolf took two strides toward Galinin, coming between Alexand and his mother. “You believe all that—”

“I believe,” Galinin said firmly, “that Rich may be correct in his assessment of the results of his decision. I believe that it’s within our power to counteract any use the Phoenix might make of his martyrdom; we are, at least, forewarned. Or have you some alternative to offer that would magically negate the risks involved in trying to stop him?”

“I have the only obvious alternative. If Richard Lamb’s arrest can’t be prevented, so be it. He
will
be arrested—but there will be
no
execution.”

“Holy God, are you suggesting that Rich simply be kept under detention for an indefinite period of time?”

“Yes! That execution must not take place!”

“Phillip, even
I
can’t keep this quiet indefinitely without attracting attention, and we can’t risk that.”

“Not indefinitely. Only—only until . . .” And he finally faltered; silence closed in.

Rich’s voice came softly into its void. Alexand turned to look into that luminescent, mystically beautiful face, and he saw something there he recognized as dread.

“Grandser, he means,
only until I die
—of my illness.”